Run Pig Run

Agent Abby Kane is renowned for her knack for solving heinous crimes. So, when the Coast Guard is faced with the chilling homicide of a port official, she’s called in to assist.

Soon, the discovery of more bodies, each bearing equally gruesome deaths, reveals a disturbing pattern. It echoes the brutal executions by sicarios employed by Mexican cartels, begging the question: What is a sicario doing so far north?

As Abby delves deeper into her investigation, a startling theory emerges: the cartels are exploiting an alternate route for drug smuggling—one that snakes its way through the unsuspecting Bay Area. With each grisly murder, the cartels send an unmistakable message: fear us.

Abby is determined to catch the person responsible. But as the body count continues to rise, she starts to rethink whether the cartels are involved, leaving open the possibility that someone might be framing them.

The greenhorn hurried across the deck as the angry waves tossed the crabbing vessel from side to side. This was the start of Dungeness crab season, and Marco was still determining his duties.

“Move!” Reggie was the senior crabber aboard the boat. “We need to pull these pots up quick!” The crab pot puller had jammed, and the crabber needed a large wrench to dislodge it.

A nasty storm a few miles out at sea had picked up steam and was predicted to slam right into the coast. The captain of the Menehune had decided to pull the pots, as they had been dropped in shallow waters. If left, there was a good chance the pots would toss around on the seabed like in a washing machine. He had a choice: pull them up and head back in, or drop them in deeper waters where they could soak until the storm passed. He decided on the latter.

The greenhorn slipped and hit the deck hard as a giant wave crashed into the boat’s port side. The water crashed over the gunwale and flung the greenhorn across the deck until he slammed into the starboard side.

“Dammit, Marco. Get your ass over here now!” Reggie yelled.

The young man scrambled to his feet, slipping once more as he searched for the wrench that had been knocked loose from his grip. He spotted it sliding across the deck and chased after it.

Marco was about as green as they came. This was his inaugural trip aboard the commercial crabbing boat. The only other boat he’d been on was a paddleboat he’d rented to ride around Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park.

Reggie watched as the kid struggled with his footing. If there had ever been a bad time to bring a greenhorn on board, this was it. When Reggie told Marco he’d come out with them that day, he figured the boy might mess up a little. It was expected. But the unexpected storm had torpedoed any chance of a calm first outing. Reggie had no idea that storm would be the least of his problems.

Reggie had been crabbing the waters off the coast of California and Oregon for nearly twenty years. He’d experienced his fair share of rough waters and knew from the size of the waves that if the crabbers didn’t hurry, things would only get worse. Shortly after sundown, visibility diminished drastically due to the cloudy skies. It was pitch black roughly twenty yards out from the boat. The powerful LED lights that lit the deck while the men worked acted like spotlights and made it impossible to see any farther.

Marco handed the wrench to Reggie like a runner passing the baton. Reggie immediately laid into the machinery, whacking the puller over and over. Marco stood and watched as the winds howled and the boat continued to be tossed around by waves. From the look in his eyes, he appeared to be having second thoughts about the job. Reggie had given him the impression that the waters were always calm and that pulling up the pots was as easy as reeling in a perch.

A couple of weeks ago, over a cup of coffee, Reggie had given Marco an overview of his job and responsibilities and told him to study the material. Marco had thanked Reggie for the opportunity and told him he wouldn’t let him down.

Reggie was friends with Marco’s father and, as a favor, had agreed to train his son to be a crabber. Marco had had a few run-ins with the law and had difficulty finding his footing afterward. His father thought a job crabbing would instill discipline in his son and straighten the young man out.

The crew aboard the Menehune was small—four crabbers plus the captain. Marco made it a total of six. They’d been working together for years and were practically family. A new crabber hadn’t been tried out for over five years, so when Reggie brought up the idea of bringing on the kid, he’d gotten a little pushback from the captain.

“He’s your responsibility,” the captain had told Reggie. “Make sure he doesn’t cost us money. It’s a short season. We need every crab we can get.”

Reggie wasn’t worried; usually, the waters off the coast of Sonoma County were calm. Choppy, occasionally, but nothing to write home about. The boat wasn’t a death trap, like the ones crabbing in the Bering Sea. But that night, there would be death.

“We’ll need to pull the last pots by hand,” Reggie shouted to the crew.

They had three more pots to pull up. They’d done it by hand numerous times, but never before a storm like that night. To make matters worse, the pots were heavier because these were the larger square ones, six feet by six feet by three feet and weighing forty-five pounds empty.

Some pots were baited with clams, others with chicken necks, but in this last batch, they’d used frozen herring. The fishy oil was great at attracting crabs, but the bait was expensive.

The men grabbed the weighted rope and began pulling in sync. The pots hadn’t been soaking long, a couple of hours, but it was long enough that some traps were half-full of crabs. The first pot pulled over the boat’s gunwale was taken away by two crewmembers, who began emptying the crabs into the hold.

“Marco, keep pulling!” Reggie said. “Two more pots and we’re done.”

The next pot surfaced empty. Marco could see the disappointment in Reggie’s eyes.

“We got this,” Marco shouted as he grabbed the rope and pulled the next pot. “This one will be filled to the brim. I can feel it!”

Marco pulled up the trap as quickly as he could. One of the other crewmembers went to help, but Reggie told him to let Marco pull the pot in himself. Slowly, the pot made its way to the surface. It felt heavier to Marco than the others had.

“It’s heavy,” Marco said. “This one will be a winner.”

The steel trap surfaced, and Marco grunted as he pulled it over the gunwale. The trap hit the deck with a heavy thump. Marco had been right. It was filled to the brim with Dungeness crabs, only they weren’t feasting on frozen herring. They were dining on a human body.