Instead of flying into the small resort town’s airport, Gaucho’s uncle had them land at a hasty landing strip away from the coast, its runway lined with upturned LED flashlights set in little tin buckets. From what Cal could see, the place looked like a perfect smuggling hub: remote and perfectly hidden in a shallow valley. Improvements were minimal, but someone was definitely taking care of the dirt runway. He imagined some old guy out there every day, picking up pebbles and smoothing out rough edges. Not a bad gig for an old-timer, if you didn’t mind living in the desert. From what he’d seen of Ruiz, the guy probably paid pretty well, too. They were thirty men strong. While Ruiz said he would love to take an army north, even he had limitations. Even at thirty, keeping concealed would be close to impossible, but everyone agreed that the extra firepower was needed. “Here come the vans,” Daniel said, pointing into the darkness. Everyone turned that way.It was a short hop into town, maybe twenty minutes.
