The Trade
Matt Lowell never set out to be a hero…but he wasn't given a choice.As a wildfire rages in the canyons around Malibu, Matt Lowell races along the edge of the surf in a desperate attempt to reach his house and save his dog, Barney. But as he runs he stumbles upon a horror that stops him in his tracks: a newborn baby abandoned in the sand. And before he can get her to safety, the baby dies in his arms.When the police find the baby's teenage mother dead on the side of the canyon road, her body covered with wildflowers, Matt can't ignore the unexpected sense of duty he feels for these innocent victims. And so he decides to get involved, a decision that will set in motion irreversible consequences–and lead him straight into the midst of an unspeakable crime ring of greed, slavery and murder.Matt Lowell is about to find out that doing the right thing could be the last thing he ever does…
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PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF LOS ANGELES TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR SHIRLEY PALMER
“A first-rate, nailbiting hardcover-debut thriller…
Admirably paced and plotted, with the kind of guns-a-popping denouement that begs for transfer to the big screen.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Danger Zone
“With its taut plot, [Palmer’s] African thriller makes a suspenseful follow-up to her previous book,
A Veiled Journey.”
—Publishers Weekly on Lioness
“This romantic thriller…explores the complexities of culture as well as those of the human heart.”
—Publishers Weekly on A Veiled Journey
“…a suspense thriller…[with a] frenetic tempo and myriad plot twists.”
—Publishers Weekly on Danger Zone
Also by SHIRLEY PALMER
DANGER ZONE
LIONESS
A VEILED JOURNEY
This book is dedicated to those who suffer from this most heinous of crimes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks go first to editors Dianne Moggy and Amy Moore-Benson for their patience and continued support during the past year. Thanks, too, to Ken Atchity at AEI; to Andrea McKeown for her invaluable input; to Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department homicide detective Sergeant Ray Verdugo, ret.; and to Hae Jung Cho, former director of the Coalition Against Slavery and Trafficking in Los Angeles.
Finally, this book could not have been written without researcher/editor Mignon McCarthy, who not only contributed the facts upon which the entire structure rests, but gave unstintingly of her time, her literary expertise, her enthusiasm and her words. It gives me much pleasure to acknowledge the work she has done.
All errors, of course, are entirely mine.
This is a work of fiction.
The events described did not happen.
No such club exists in Malibu, nor has there ever been a breath of rumor to indicate otherwise.
To serve the story being told, the author has taken some liberty with the topography of this small, treasured Southern California town.
For this she begs indulgence.
In the perception of the smallest is the secret of clear vision;In the guarding of the weakest is the secret of all strength.—Lao Tse
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
A storm of wind-tossed embers burst through the smoke, crossed the Pacific Coast Highway, caught the dry grasses along the ocean side of the road. A stand of eucalyptus trees exploded into flame. Suddenly visibility was zero.
Matt Lowell forced himself not to jam his foot on the gas. Without the weight of the two horses, the empty trailer was already rocking dangerously. The wind slamming against it had to be gusting at eighty miles an hour.
At Trancas Canyon Road, the traffic lights were out, the Mobil station and the market both dark. On the other side of the intersection, the whirling blue and red light bars across the top of sheriff’s black and whites became visible through the murk. A police barricade stretched across the highway, blocking all lanes, north and south.
A deputy sheriff waved Matt down, his sharp arm movements directing him left into the Trancas Market parking lot. Matt recognized Bobby Eckhart. They’d been at preschool together, gone through Webster Elementary and Cub Scouts, surfed the coast from Rincon to Baja. Raised some hell.
Matt pulled over to the median and lowered the window. The acrid stink of disaster caught in his throat—chaparral burning on the hillsides, houses, furniture, lives going up in flames.
“Bobby,” he shouted. “I’ve got to get through.”
The deputy looked to see who was shouting, then jogged over to the pickup. “Hey, Matt.” Eckhart looked like hell, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, his usually immaculate tan uniform charred on one sleeve, and streaked with ash. “The PCH is closed, but we’re getting a convoy out over Kanan Dume while it’s still open. We can sure use your trailer. Take it over to the creek area, and start loading some of those animals.”
Matt shot a glance at the parking lot. Another uniformed deputy was trying to bring some order into the chaos of vehicles loaded with a crazy assortment of household goods; anxious adults riding herd on kids holding onto family pets: dogs, cats, bird and hamster cages. A makeshift corral held a small flock of black sheep, a couple of potbellied pigs, some goats. Horse trailers, rocking under the nervous movements of their occupants, lined the edge of the parched creek. In October when the Santa Ana’s roar straight out of the desert, water is a distant memory of spring.
“My horses are down in Ramirez. I’ve got to get them out.”
“Margie Little brought a couple of trailers out of there an hour ago. They’re over at the shelter in Agoura.”
“Did you see my two?”
Eckhart shook his head. “But you can’t get down there, Matt, not now. It’s been evacuated, everyone’s out.” His words ended in a fit of coughing.
Matt put his head out of the window, peered into the blanket of smoke shrouding the highway. “Where the hell are the fire crews?”
