The year is 1976, and the first shots are being fired in the narcotics and human-trafficking war. Colt Freeman and his partner, Snyder, want only to preserve their small piece of the marijuana trade. Like a modern-day Butch Cassidy and Sundance Kid, they do their work with proficiency and stealth and, when necessary, deadly force.
It is said that bad things come in threes. If there’s any truth to that, the first two were sure as hell about to show up at my front door. I hadn’t been home long, maybe a half hour or so spent watching the lingering remnants of the Kona sunset leach from the sky while I tipped a cold bottle of Asahi to my lips. I had skipped my regular visit to Snyder’s bar, and had dropped in at Lola’s instead, in order to catch a little face time with Lani, who bartended there.
The year is 1973, and the last of America's soldiers are returning home from Vietnam, often shouted down and spat upon by protesters, while the first toxic cracks of public mistrust have begun to appear at the highest levels of government. The American Indian Movement has entered into a bloody occupation of Wounded Knee, gas shortages have pushed the economy into deep recession, and violent civil unrest is captured in living color and televised nightly on the evening news.