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