Cedar Tree Hollow Farm.
I park right outside the main farm house just as a tall, burly-looking man steps out of the rustic structure. He’s wearing mud-stained blue jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, and a grey shirt that probably used to be white in its heyday.
“Hola,” he greets cautiously.
“Are you Guillermo?” I ask.
He nods and spits in the red dirt.
“I was told you had a range of exclusive products for special buyers.”
“Are you a special buyer?” he asks. His tone is guarded, neutral. A tough man if ever there was one. Life out here cannot be easy.
“I think I might be.”
He nods and spits again. Then, without another word, he turns and leads me through his farm to a small shed about thirty yards from the main barn.
He unlocks the door and ushers me inside.
The moment we’re in, he closes the door, enshrouding us in partial darkness. The only light coming through is from the single square window on the other side of the shed.
I’m on guard. Out of habit, if nothing else.
The man thumps around and over to a long, narrow shelf space mounted on the wall, separated by a series of locked compartments.
“Cuál quieres?” Guillermo asks, clicking his teeth as though there is something stuck between them.
Esme and I have been practicing Spanish whenever I return from treks into town. I’ve gotten better, although she still says I sound Russian when I try to get my accent right.
“Something to shoot bears,” I lie. “And plenty of ammunition.”
“Bears?”
I nod. “Bears.” I don’t offer anything more than that.
He gives me a curious sideways glance. Then he shrugs and pops opens the first compartment. Inside are a pair of Colt 1911 pistols. They look old and worn.
“I have only this now. Next month, I get more.”
“I won’t be here next month,” I tell him. “I need a rifle now.”
He nods. Spits. Shuffles over to the next box and opens that one.
Inside is a scratched-up rifle that looks like it hasn’t been fired since Texas was its own country.
I grimace, but what choice do I have?
I look up at Guillermo, who hasn’t taken his eyes off my face. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, either.
“You’ve got ammunition?”
“Sí,” he says. He taps a wooden crate with the toe of his boot. The bullets inside rattle and clink.
I’m used to bigger, more powerful guns, but these will have to work. I might even be able to teach Esme how to use it.
But the moment the thought crosses my mind, I reject it. Esme won’t want to learn. Not after what happened with Mischa. She still wakes up in the night sometimes, sweating and muttering, “No, no, no.”
“Okay,” I agree. “I’ll take it. I was told you had burner phones, too?”
He nods. Not a man of many words, this Guillermo. But there is a cunning kind of intelligence behind his eyes.
We haggle over the price for a few minutes, mostly with grunts and nods. His price is higher than I would normally pay, but since I don’t have a lot of options, I settle with him quickly, grab my new gun and ammo along with the cell phone, and head back towards my car.
Guillermo falls into step beside me. “You just passing through?” he asks.
“That’s right.”
“Heard you come down to the village every other day,” he tells me. His English is suddenly much more fluid than it was when I first arrived. “Where exactly are you staying?”
“In a motel a few miles from town,” I lie smoothly.
“Ah,” Guillermo replies, his eyes growing more and more curious.
I pick up the pace and get to my car before he can ask any more questions. He stands at the mouth of the driveway, hands crossed over his pudgy belly, watching me the whole way I go.
On my way back, I stop in town and pick up fresh groceries, including a few bars of chocolate for Esme.
Then I go next door to the used bookstore that Esme stops by every time she comes down here with me.
I look through the shelves and pick out a crime thriller. The woman behind the counter squints at me through her round glasses.
“Back again,” she comments.
I nod, unwilling to engage in more needless conversation.
“Cómo es Esme?”
I flinch, not happy about the fact that this stranger knows my wife’s name.
“She’s fine,” I mutter. Guillermo’s intrusive questions have left me in a foul mood.
The woman’s eyes go wide when she sees my dark expression. She keeps her mouth shut after that.
She rings up my purchase and hands it over to me without a word. Once I’m inside, I pick up the new burner phones and dial in Cillian’s number.
He picks up almost immediately.
“Hello?”
“Cillian,” I say.
I hear an audible sigh of relief. “You good, brother?”
“How are you?” I ask, ignoring his question. I can hear the stress in his tone.
Cillian has stayed close to L.A. so that he can keep an eye on Budimir and his dealings. Apparently, there has been a lot of movement lately, though little information has been leaked.
It isn’t the most encouraging start. I’m hoping Cillian will have something new for me this time.
“I’m fine,” Cillian says dismissively. “I did manage to get some new intel.”
“Spit.”
“Budimir’s causing waves,” Cillian says. “He’s broken the treaty with the Diegos.”
I hiss. “They’ve been our fucking allies for two decades.”
“Is it any surprise that loyalty means fuck-all to Budimir?”
I grit my teeth together, my hands itching to wrap themselves around Budimir’s thick, veined neck.
“That’s not all, either,” Cillian continues. “He’s reached out to some… other people.”
“Fuck,” I growl. I have a bad feeling about what is coming next.
“He’s trying to get into some bad shit,” Cillian tells me. “Moving prostitutes. Slaves. Human trafficking, that kind of thing. The shit Stanislav swore we’d never do.”
A dull ache throbs in the pit of my stomach.
“He’s been gunning for that for years now,” I say. “I should have fucking seen this coming.”
“You
