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knew what it was, but I don’t have any idea.”
    â€œYou ever see the guy?”
    â€œHell no. I haven’t been to Rifle since I was a kid. And the Little Dick never goes to Junction. Brent always has to send someone. This guy probably has his own crew and has some pull if he’s the one who never has to drive, right?”
    â€œRight. We need to find the Crown.”
    â€œIt must be a place. Give me a second.” She pulled out her phone, swiped her finger against the screen for ten seconds and said, “Got it. Trailer park on the north side of town.”
    â€œHow’d you do that?” I asked, amazed. I’d been in the backwoods for too long; technology had obviously advanced while I was overseas and in prison.
    She explained the Google Maps thing, showed me a picture of the map, and yawned. Then she told me to wake her when we hit Rifle, that she’d had a long night.
    After that I stopped only once, in a two-horse town called De Beque to gas up and grab burgers and drinks. My mood was definitely improving. It felt good to have a destination. Maybe when we got to Rife I could pressure this Little Dick guy and learn where Jen was being held. I was actually humming to myself when I checked my rearview mirror and noticed two black SUVs that I’d seen following us prior to our stop in De Beque. No way it was just a coincidence that they were behind us again. The vehicles were close enough to ID them as Tahoes, but they were keeping a set distance. Whoever was driving them seemed content to trail behind us and see where we took them.
    I wondered where that would be.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    S andy escarpments rose up on the left and forested mesas hugged the right until we dropped off a hill and headed into the Rifle valley. The river was wider here, with waves shimmering white in the sun. What were once hay fields in the flat floodplains were now natural gas pads, pipe yards, compressor stations, and gas plants. One of the latter spewed a flame sixty feet into the air. Closer to town, the cattle pastures I’d known as a kid were buried forever under asphalt and pavement, with houses and apartment complexes built on top.
    I jerked the truck off I-70 and into west Rifle. The Tahoes followed.
    â€œWho are they?” Allie asked. She was awake now and looking in the side mirror. Her question was clinical, her face deadpan.
    â€œDon’t know,” I said, reaching for the binoculars under my seat. I handed them to Allie. “What’s on the license plate?”
    She turned and steadied her elbows on the back of the bench. “US government. J dash four two seven.”
    â€œGreat,” I said. “It’s not just the dealers who’re looking for Lance. Only J plates I’ve seen have been DEA, ATF, or FBI.”
    Allie’s eyes widened as she turned back in her seat and buckled in. “How do you know that?”
    â€œZebras don’t like spots,” I said, navigating the narrow two-lane through an industrial section of town.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNever mind. They’ve been following us for a while.”
    She continued looking at the Tahoes in the side mirror, then dug into the bag of burgers I’d picked up earlier. “You want yours now?” she asked.
    I shook my head. “I’ll have mine later. Right now I want to see if we can shake these government boys. You pack a coat in that bag?”
    She gave me a quizzical look. “Barr, does that backpack look like it could fit a heavy coat?”
    â€œA sweatshirt, then? Something warm?”
    â€œYeah, but—”
    â€œI’ll explain later,” I said, steering the truck north through downtown Rifle. It wasn’t more than a few blocks long, but contained all of the elements of civilization: library, fast food joints, car washes, bars, pawnshops, and yes, even marijuana dispensaries. When had pot become a staple of modern life?
    Allie looked at the Feds again