It was dark by the time Rios, Johnson, and Winslow bounced along in Rios’ car down the dirt road leading to the Confederate Thunder’s stash house. The scraping of branches along the side of her car left Rios worried she was going to need a new paint job. A K9 unit squad car followed behind them.
“You sure we shouldn’t have called SWAT in on this?” asked Winslow from the backseat.
“My informant said the place wasn’t guarded,” Rios replied, hoping Shea was right.
“Then how come we’re wearing vests?”
“In case my informant was wrong.”
The road widened into a clearing. Rios pulled straight in, illuminating the small wooden structure with her high beams. A heavyset man with a long white beard wearing a Confederate Thunder cut sat on a lawn chair in front of the cabin, a Remington hunting ri
