Page 88 of Deep Tide

“We think we IDed the cowboy.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Greg Tillman. He has a black dually pickup truck and owns the cattle ranch where you were last night.” Moore leaned back against the counter. “He keeps a small herd, but all his money is in oil and gas.”

“Okay.”

“At least until recently. He may have started a side business running guns into Mexico.”

“To Saledo?”

“Maybe.”

“Where’d we get this?”

“ATF.”

Sean crossed his arms. It was the first involvement he’d heard from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Sean could only assume this meant that they knew about Operation Virgil.

“Also, we got a bead on that shipment, and we think it’s coming in soon. It could be on the island as early as this week. Maybe even Tuesday. The big question is where.”

Moore walked over to the coffee table and grabbed a cardboard tube, along with a half-empty bottle of beer. Sean watched as he unrolled an aerial map of the island. He used the bottle to weigh down one of the corners and Sean grabbed some coasters to weigh down the other three. Then he stared at the map. He’d spent a lot of time studying a version of it on his computer.

“All depends whether it’s coming by yacht, speedboat, fishing boat,” Moore said. “It’s a small island, so that limits the options.”

“Not as much as you’d think,” Sean said. Having been here more than a week, he’d seen all sorts of possibilities for a person wanting to smuggle goods here under the radar.

“We’ve got eyes on the marina,” Moore said, tapping the bayside location where Gagnon kept his thirty-two-foot Boston Whaler. “They’re taking a close look at any unfamiliar boats coming in.”

“What about the airport?” Sean pointed to the private airstrip that Gagnon used for his Cessna.

“We’re set up there, too. But we don’t have the staff to cover both these locations, plus the house, twenty-fourseven. We need intel. We need to know where, and when, this is happening so we can focus our resources and get our cyber team in place to respond quickly.”

Moore looked up.

“I’m working on it,” Sean said.

“So are we. But so far, it’s mostly guesswork.”

Sean stared down at the map of the island that he’d scoured from top to bottom. He’d driven it, jogged it, walked through most of downtown. The place was wide open, with access points by car, boat, and plane. Lost Beach was only a stone’s throw from the border. The island’s tourism—plus the new airport—made it a smuggler’s dream, which was why the Saledos liked it and also probably why Gagnon had wanted a foothold here. The place was fast becoming a hot spot for criminals, and law enforcement hadn’t caught up yet.

An uneasy feeling settled in Sean’s stomach as he studied the map.

“What’s on your mind?”

He glanced up, and Moore was watching him intently.

“I was just thinking...” Sean shook his head.

“What?”

“There’s a chance we’re too late.”

His eyebrows arched. “Why do you say that?”

“I’ve been thinking about last night. You know, Gagnon’s midnight drive into the valley.”

“What about it?”

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