1 GOOSE PEN
The cartel sentry strolled purposefully toward an enormous redwood tree standing sentinel at the edge of the vast cannabis farm. He zipped down the front of his pants and drained the final remains of last night’s twelve-pack against the tree’s dark bark.
If he hadn’t been preoccupied with pleasant visions of the sweet señorita who had, after some coaxing and good weed, shared his cot most of the night—and if he had peered around the side of the redwood’s broad trunk—he would have discovered that the ancient tree was hollow at its base and concealed an armed and dangerous man…a man who, with his elite skills, could have killed him in an instant.
* * *
Allan Carpenter watched the sentry head toward his tree. Unconcerned, he knew only his eyes were marginally visible to anyone who spotted the narrow opening, angled slightly away from the soldier’s approach. His camouflage clothing and blackened face would conceal his six-foot-five frame until the oncoming darkness provided the necessary cover to execute a bold and risky rescue—one that required stealth and cunning to sneak past the sentries, find the captive girl, and get them both out alive.
During his recon of the Machata cartel’s largest marijuana farm, and while silently sneaking up to the perimeter rows of towering cannabis plants, he had seen a dark opening at the base of this lone redwood. He recognized what it was. Settlers called these hollow redwood caverns goose-pens, derived from their practice of herding flocks of geese into them for safekeeping. Pretty damn cool. Perfect place to hide and wait.
The sentry finished his business and returned a dozen yards away to his post. Allan had spotted nine other bad guys like this one, sporting AK-47s and wearing serious scowls. Ten-to-one odds. Common sense and years of elite Navy SEAL training told him he could never take them all out. Save that bravado for Jason Statham movies, he mused.
He studied the ancient redwood’s blackened inner surface. Likely, lightning had struck the tree, igniting a smoldering fire that had burned long enough to leave behind a colossal cavern large enough to hold at least ten men his size. Tough old bird, he patted the charred wood and recalled a TV documentary featuring a guy who had built a three-story home in one of these burnt-out redwoods. Lived like the Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins.
Rubbing the scorched inner wall, his fingers sensed an immediate kinship. The redwood had survived centuries of harsh winters, powerful winds, torrential rains, violent spring runoffs, cycles of drought—and, obviously, the disemboweling lightning strike.
Wide-scale timber clear-cutting, proliferated by a greedy timber industry with no controls, had removed most of the tree’s nearby relatives. Fatefully, the loggers had rejected this particular tree because its gaping wound had spoiled its harvest value. Thus, it was saved from becoming just another stack of fence boards at some local lumber yard. He smiled as he thought, lucky for both of us.
Allan was no stranger to dangerous conflicts and deadly close encounters. He had served in various corners of a troubled world as a Navy SEAL. Man-versus-man in the never-ending battle between good and evil, he waxed philosophical. He’d survived about every hot spot on the globe. Somehow, he’d avoided sinister forces and completed every mission without a scratch.
Afghanistan, in particular, had been a rough region where his squad had saved lives and, unfortunately, lost a few. A bloody business; afterward, he’d sought to distance himself from hostile people and places.
* * *
Soon after leaving the elite service, he’d ended up in Northern California to chase his dream of becoming a fishing charter captain—a life he chose because the worst adversaries would be drunken clients, poor fishing, and surprise winter squalls. And hopefully, there would be no shootouts.
He flashed back to the frantic phone call yesterday that resulted in his being holed up here. He’d returned from a successful fishing trip, dropped off his clients, and hooked up to his mooring in Trinidad Bay. He’d driven back to his cottage on the bluff, cracked a beer, and closed his eyes—scratchy from hours of squinting into the sun.
Angie’s phone call blew away whatever idea he had about kicking back and replaying the fishing trip in his mind. Between sobs, his girlfriend told him that her sister, Hanna, had been abducted while working as a trimmer at a remote cartel marijuana farm.
“Say again?” he asked. He knew Hanna was a marijuana bud trimmer but didn’t know where. She explained, “This place is off Highway 101, in the wilderness, about eight miles beyond the redwoods north and east of Orick. The Machata Cartel runs the place out of Mexico. One of Hanna’s friends sent me a text. She’s worried the cartel plans to take Hanna to Mexico to become part of their sex trafficking trade.”
“Crap, Angie. No way we’re going to let that happen!” He exclaimed as he got up and moved swiftly toward the front door. He added, “That damn Hanna…barely twenty-one and so beautiful. She could easily attract vile intentions. She shouldn’t be risking her life at a cartel pot farm. I’m on my way to your place. We need a plan to get her out of there.”
