The hierarchy at the farm was preserved at dinnertime as strictly as if they were aboard the Titanic. Field hands ate in Bunkhouse B, the dormitory bunkhouse, while Brodie’s core team ate in the farmhouse. Tonight, with Craine at the farm, Brodie’s crew were eating on the porch; the meth cooks rarely left Bunkhouse A during a cook cycle.

Brodie shoved his plate of chicken aside—too fucking spicy, even without his ulcer. His crew was chatty tonight—they were always that way near a pay weekend. Bentas was cracking jokes, Smith was fake-laughing in response, and Tarver was whining.

Brodie hadn’t told them they were closing the operation down—they didn’t need to know yet. And not all of them would be going on to the next location.

His cell buzzed in his lap. Brodie pushed away from the table and went outside. The rain had eased; in the gloom, a low shroud of pale mist hung over the fields, floating out over the road and down past the shed to the water.

“You’re being raided. You’ve got maybe twenty, thirty minutes.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. Who is it? How many?”

“Locals, Port Fontaine law enforcement. Maybe six, seven, led by Bartley—you were right about him. They’ll be SWAT; they’ll be wearing body armor.”

“That’s not a problem,” Brodie said.

“Good. Blow what you can, then get out.”

“Okay.”

“If you can clean up and get out without engaging them, do it; but we don’t think you’ll have time. We figure Bartley will go for the money, and he’ll go after you—he can’t let you survive. He’s leading this—take him out first.”

“Of course.”

“Are you prepared for an assault? Our information is that the county doesn’t have a tactical vehicle.”

“We’re all set.”

“Good. Where are we with the cook-up?”

“Bad. We’d need another day at least.”

“Forget it. We’ve heard the feds are on their way, too. They’re mobilizing in Miami, so you have some time there. Just blow it and get out. No witnesses, no one gets taken, okay?”

“Okay.”

Brodie’s bags were packed, sitting in the trunk of his car. He had cash stashed in a storage locker in Port Fontaine, hidden in neatly packed cardboard boxes filled with books, the boxes marked LIBRARY in Magic Marker. He’d paid to have the boxes shipped to him in Costa Rica. He was clean and ready to go.

In front of the far bunkhouse, several field hands sat drinking beer. One had a guitar, and was singing a narcocorrido, a ballad about the life of the drug trafficker. Brodie grinned; this night would give musicians something to sing about for years.