Dutch shrugged his shoulders. “I guess it doesn’t matter if I tell you. We’ll be there in less than half an hour.”
Edge frowned. “Half an hour? You said the load was coming into Long Beach. I figured we were going somewhere in California.”
“We are. Sort of. The meet is at a Flying J truck stop in Primm. You know, the state line? More than sixty thousand vehicles a day go through there. God knows how many are eighteen-wheelers.”
“So we just blend in with everyone else passing through,” Edge said. “Like hiding in plain sight.”
“Yeah. Like that.”
Edge knew the area, a truckers’ paradise. Whiskey Pete’s casino. Buffalo Bill’s. The place was swarming with cars, big rigs, and tourists. Good for the bad guys. Not so good for the DEA. With that many folks around, people could get hurt.
He settled back in his seat. Less than an hour from now, the takedown would be over. He thought of Skye and knew she would be prepared for whatever went down tonight. She had her weapon. She had her smarts. And she had two good men set to go in after her.
But putting the operation together hadn’t been easy. The drug bust at the truck stop was supposed to coincide with the raid on Petrov’s house and the Russian’s subsequent arrest. Getting Skye out before the DEA descended like a swarm of locusts was the problem.
A single phone call. That was the deal he and Cross had made. After arguing and threatening to back out altogether, Edge had brokered a deal. Cross would phone Conn five minutes before the raid.
Five minutes.Conn and Trace would have that small window of time to get past the guards, go in and bring Skye out before the DEA swooped in for the arrests. Which could turn the place into a shooting gallery if Petrov resisted.
He thought of Skye for the hundredth time since he had left her with the Russian. Was she all right? Had Petrov hurt her in any way? If the guy had touched her, he was a dead man.
As the van rolled along, Edge forced his mind back to business. If his thoughts strayed to Skye, the whole thing could blow, and he could get both of them killed.
“We’re almost there,” Dutch said.
The glow of gigantic neon signs lit the night sky in the distance. The van took the exit toward Whiskey Pete’s and made a couple of turns as it wound across a sea of asphalt toward the area in the back where dozens of eighteen-wheelers were parked for the night.
If the plan was working, the GPS in the lining of his pocket would be leading Cross and his men to the exact spot where the exchange would be made. Riggins pulled the van up behind one of the big diesels along the row and turned off the engine.
Cold resolve slid through Edge’s blood. He shoved open the van door and jumped to the pavement with single-minded purpose. Bring Ivan Petrov down, and bring Skye Delaney home.
“Over here,” Dutch said, leading the way toward a big Peterbilt tractor-trailer with two men in the cab.
The driver’s door swung open, and a heavyset man with dirty-brown hair jumped down. He and the African American guy in the passenger seat walked to the back of the truck and opened the double doors. The driver climbed in, shoved aside a stack of boxes, then shined his flashlight on the cargo they were delivering.
“One hundred ten bags, twenty pounds each,” Dutch said, shining his own light into the back of the truck.A metric ton, the measure that would have been used in India.“Let’s make sure it’s all there.” The bags were made of heavy brown paper, each with a printed label.
ACKERMAN’S NUTRITION FOR HORSES
40 ESSENTIAL AND NON-ESSENTIAL NUTRIENTS
RELY ON ACKERMAN’S TO GET THE MOST OUT OF YOUR
HORSES’ TRAINING AND PERFORMANCE
Dutch climbed into the back of the truck, randomly selected one of the bags and jumped back down to the pavement. Pulling out his pocketknife, he sliced open the bag. Rough-textured white pills about half an inch long spilled through the opening. Dutch crumbled one of the pills in his palm, then licked his finger, stuck it into the lumpy powder, and tasted it.
He nodded. “All right, we’re good to go.” He tipped his head toward the little guy, Ketch, who handed a canvas satchel to the truck driver. The guy opened the satchel, looked at the money, and closed the bag.
Apparently satisfied, instead of returning to the truck, the two men disappeared into the shadows, while Riggins and Ketch headed for the truck and climbed into the cab.
Dutch turned to Edge. “You’re driving the van back,” Dutch said. The big rig engine fired up with Riggins behind the wheel and set up a steady rumble. Diesel smoke puffed out of the stacks, the gears ground, and the tires began to roll.
Edge glanced around. Nothing but rows of big rigs, one after another.
Where the hell were Cross and the DEA? A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. What was happening in Vegas?
What the hell was happening to Skye?
