Taken ec-13

by Robert Crais

  “Take it easy. We’re here to talk.”

  Pike entered and moved to the right. I drifted left, and pointed my gun at the ceiling. Then I let it fall free on my index finger to hang upside down, telling him he had nothing to fear.

  “We owe you three guns. We brought them back.”

  Pike placed the three guns on a small wicker love seat.

  Sang Ki Park watched him, then glanced at my pistol. I put it under my shirt and showed my empty hands.

  “Okay?”

  His rage had turned to suspicion, leaving him watchful, but curious.

  “Why you here?”

  “You lost two hundred thousand dollars to the Sinaloa cartel.”

  He stared, but said nothing.

  “The Sanchez brothers don’t have it, so you can’t get it from them. The Sinaloas have it, but you’ll have to fight them for it.”

  “Yes.”

  “They will probably negotiate a settlement with you, go in halves, but you still won’t have your money or your people. I think you want your people.”

  Park nodded once, such a small nod his head barely moved, so I went on.

  “A man named Ghazi al-Diri has them. He is demanding a ransom.”

  “We will not pay.”

  “They will die.”

  “We do not pay.”

  He was hard and immutable, which was good.

  “Just as well. He will milk you until the money stops, then kill them. That is what he does. He will not free them.”

  His left eye flickered, which was the first sign of strain to escape from his fortress. He wanted his people. He needed them more than he needed the money, and I wondered if some among them were closer than hired staff.

  “He has someone I want, too. I want to show you something. I’m going to reach into my pocket, okay?”

  The nod.

  I took the picture of Krista Morales from my pocket. He studied it for a long moment, then looked up.

  “Is this your woman?”

  I put away the picture without answering.

  “The Syrian has her and a boy. I’m going to get them back.”

  “Not pay?”

  “Not pay. There is no paying. I’m going to take them.”

  “Where are they?”

  “With the Syrian. He has them in what we call a drop house. Prisoners. How many people were you bringing in?”

  He thought for a moment, probably figuring out how to say it in English.

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Your people will be there, too.”

  “Where is this house?”

  “Don’t know, but I will.”

  “How you do this?”

  “With your help, the Syrian will take me to your people, and mine, and you and I will have what we want. I can do this, but I need your help.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a way to contact the Syrian, but he doesn’t know me. He’s not going to take me to see a house filled with kidnap victims just because I offer to buy them. He will check me out. He will need to believe he can trust me, and I am who I say I am. This is where we need the Sinaloas. If they believe I am a legitimate buyer, he will believe I’m a legitimate buyer. I need you to deliver the Sinaloas.”

  He nodded again, but he wasn’t looking at me, and wasn’t nodding at me.

  “I will discuss this with my uncle.”

  “I understand.”

  “No, you not understand. One of people we bring is my cousin. My uncle’s youngest grandson.”

  “Now I understand.”

  “Yes. Now you understand better.”

  Sang Ki Park took a step back, and spoke softly to the woman. She immediately stood, and moved to the far side of the room. He gestured at the chair where the woman had been sitting.

  “Sit here now. We will talk.”

  I sat.

  We talked.

  We worked out an offer for the Syrian and a game plan for the cartel, and then he made the calls. I was now in business with a Korean gang known for extortion, brutality, and violence, and about to put my trust into a drug cartel known for torture and mass murder. I told myself it was worth it. I told myself I had no choice. I lied to myself, and knew I was lying, but chose to believe the lies.

  23

  Park spoke with his uncle first, then Winston Ramos, who controlled the transportation of drugs and human cargo north across the Sinaloa-controlled portions of the border from Tijuana to the Arizona state line. It was Ramos who had accepted the two hundred thousand dollars from Sang Ki Park to transport his people into the United States, and it was Ramos who would be targeted for death if their money and people were lost. This probably was not lost on the man.

  Ramos immediately offered a settlement in the matter of the two hundred thousand, but Park explained that a second inbound group was about to arrive in Acapulco, and asked Ramos to discuss their transport into the United States with the trafficker who was bringing them. If all went well, Park suggested he might be willing to negotiate on the matter of the two hundred K. Winston Ramos agreed. The trafficker in this scenario was me.

  Three hours later, the Coachella winds were up, carrying sand from the desert to scratch at the glass like sun-baked shrapnel. Sanchez amp; Sons tow yard was still. Rudy had sent their employees home, and he and his two brothers had left. Sang Ki Park and I sat in the office, waiting until Ramos and two other men pulled through the gate in a green Chevy Impala bearing a California license plate. We went outside to meet him.

  Winston Ramos was short and flabby, with a round head and round body. His tan short-sleeve shirt drooped over his gut like a tent, and his chinos were baggy. First thing he did when he got out of his car was hitch up his belt.

  The other two men were about his age. The heavier man wore cowboy boots, and the thinner man looked like a UFC lightweight retired from an unsuccessful career. The cowboy carried a short black wand a little longer and thicker than a TV remote.

  Ramos didn’t bother with pleasantries. He glanced at me, but spoke to Park.

  “This your transporter?”

  I put out my hand.

  “Harlan Green.”

  He waved the cowboy toward me without shaking.

  “He’s going to check you. You know what to do?”

  “I know.”

  I stood with my feet apart and arms out.

  The wand looked like the wands used by TSA screeners, but this one did not screen for metal. He passed it over my chest, back, arms, and legs, searching for the RF and IR signals emitted by transmitters, recorders, and listening devices. I must have passed, because the cowboy nodded at Ramos.

  “Okay, now this one.”

  When the cowboy went to Park, Park slapped the wand away with a quick roll of his left hand, and punched him once in the solar plexus and twice in the face with his right fist. The cowboy staggered back and dropped to his knees. By the time he was down, Park was calmly staring at Ramos.

  “If you want search me, search me yourself.”

  The UFC fighter was two seconds behind the curve, then clawed under his shirt and flashed a garish little Llama. 380.

  Neither Park nor I moved to stop him, but by the time the gun was out, Ramos saw Park’s men coming from behind the trucks. A dozen Double Dragon hitters in dark glasses and great suits.

  I said, “These guys know how to dress, don’t they?”

  Ramos glanced at me, then told the UFC fighter to put away his gun and get the cowboy on his feet. He didn’t look scared.

  “I came to do business, and you’re starting this shit?”

  Park touched his arm.

  “Come. We speak elsewhere.”

  “Fuck that. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He shook off Park’s hand, but Park gripped him again.

  “You are not here to die. I am not here to threaten. Walk here. Away from our men, so no one hear.”

  Park steered him across the lot to a sleeping flatbed. I followed along with them. Park’s men flo
ated into new positions without being told, securing the area and isolating Ramos’s thugs to give us privacy. Telepathy. Or maybe they were good at their jobs.

  We were in the sun, and hot, but alone between the big trucks with their men out of earshot. Ramos shook off Park’s hand again, and squirmed like he thought someone might stab him.

  “What the fuck are you doing, bringing your guns? You think you can scare me into returning your money?”

  I said, “I can give you the Syrian.”

  Just like that. In his face.

  It caught him off guard, and took him a moment to catch up. He glanced at Park, then looked over both shoulders as if he expected federal agents to climb out of the trucks.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ghazi al-Diri. The bajadore you call the Syrian. The guy who’s been killing your crews and stealing your pollos.”

  “I know who he is. Who are you?”

  “I told you. Harlan Green.”

  “Bullshit. Are you a cop?”

  He glared at Park.

  “Did you flip to the Federales?”

  “You owe Mr. Park two hundred thousand dollars.”

  He was still speaking to Park.

  “I told you, we’ll work out something with the money.”

  I said, “This guy is stealing your goods and killing your crews, and you haven’t been able to stop him.”

  He finally turned back to me.

  “What’s this to you?”

  Park calmly re-entered the conversation.

  “This man has way to Ghazi al-Diri. Will you listen, or will you leave?”

  Park held his hand toward Ramos’s car as if showing him the way.

  “Listen, leave. Choose, but this man offers way all three may benefit.”

  Ramos pooched his lips. He was suspicious that Park was giving him the option to leave. He was trying to figure the trick, but he wanted the Syrian, so he studied me again.

  “Harlan Green.”

  “I supply unskilled labor to corporations, agribusiness, and small and large businesses here and abroad. I was expecting thirty field workers from Indonesia, but ICE bagged them in San Diego when their boat went down. I’m stuck, my grower is already talking to someone else, and I need a replacement crew as fast as possible.”

  He studied me a moment longer, then shook his head.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You don’t have to. You just have to convince the Syrian.”

  I went through the steps, just as I had with Park.

  “Mr. Park wants his people. The Syrian has someone I want, too, so Mr. Park and I are in the same boat. You have the two hundred thousand he paid, and you want to keep it, but you probably want the Syrian more than the money. All three of us have these things we want, but the Syrian wants something, too.”

  “What?”

  “Money. He wants money for the people he’s taken.”

  “Park won’t pay.”

  “Not Park. Me. I can make an offer that might interest him.”

  “Offer to what?”

  “To buy them. Park isn’t paying. I will offer to take them off his hands. A flat fee. A purchase.”

  Now Ramos wet his lips. He was listening, and hearing me for the first time.

  “How can you reach him?”

  “A confirmed connection with someone who works for him. Confirmed. If I float an offer, it will reach the Syrian.”

  “He ain’t gonna talk to you, man. He don’t know you, why should he talk? You might be a federal agent. You’re nobody.”

  “Not if Sinaloa tells him I’m somebody.”

  Park said, “This is why we speak. You make him somebody.”

  Ramos shook his head, but I could tell he was trying to make it work.

  “Long shot.”

  “Yes. It’s a long shot.”

  “He’s not going to let you get close. There’s no fucking way. How can I help you with that?”

  “I’m an unknown. But if he’s tempted by the offer, he will check me out. He’ll ask.”

  “He knows I want his head on a plate. You think he’s going to call, ask me what’s up with you?”

  “He’ll ask the people he used to work with before you ran him out of business. He will ask, but they haven’t heard of me, either, so they’ll check around, and eventually they’ll ask someone who’s in with Sinaloa.”

  Ramos studied me carefully.

  “Harlan Green.”

  “Harlan Green.”

  He looked at Park.

  “You will let the money matter go?”

  “If I recover my people, your contract is fulfilled.”

  Ramos nodded, then glanced back at me. His eyes were the hard, bright eyes of a feral desert dog smelling blood.

  “Harlan Green.”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, Mr. Green. You give me the Syrian, you and I will be friends, I think.”

  I stared without responding. After a beat, he motioned to his men, and the three of them returned to his car.

  Park said, “You have much balls.”

  I went directly to my car, and left.

  24

  Joe Pike

  Pike watched Cole with Park and Ramos by the cab of the long flatbed. Jon Stone was beside him, watching Park’s soldiers, but Pike kept watch over Cole.

  They were across the street in a storage room above the transmission shop next door to the taco stand. Close, in case it went south.

  Stone eyeballed the scene from a perch on an old desk with an M4 across his legs. Pike was stretched on the neighboring desk, standing sentry through a Zeiss telescopic sighting system mounted to a Remington 700 mountain rifle chambered in 7mm Magnum. Using this scope and rifle, Pike could hit cantaloupes at eight hundred meters.

  Next to him, Stone’s voice.

  “This is fucked-up shit.”

  Pike did not move his eye from the sight picture. Cole, Ramos, Park. The Zeiss was fitted with a laser range finder displaying the range in tiny red numerals in the upper right quadrant of the sight picture. Elvis Cole was forty-two meters away. Overkill.

  Stone said, “You know I’m right. He’s going to hang his ass over the edge with these two shitbirds? If I’m lying, I’m dying. I sure as hell wouldn’t.”

  Ramos walked away.

  “Two.”

  “Got him.”

  Pike stayed with Cole and Park, letting Stone pick up Ramos. They had designated Park as Target One and Ramos as Target Two. Jon was on Two. If the meet went bad, Jon would drop Ramos and Pike would drop Park. They would then lay down suppressing fire so Cole could escape. If Cole was killed or wounded, they would terminate everyone in the tow yard.

  “What I’m saying is, I know time is of the essence an’ all that, but trusting these people to get him inside and keep their pieholes shut is what we in the trade call ‘dubious.’ Two and his boys mounting up. Hasta luego, shitbirds.”

  “Rog.”

  “Out the gate. Gone.”

  “Rog.”

  Park and Cole finished their conversation, and separated. Pike stayed with Park.

  “One.”

  “On it. Cole’s going to his car. One’s joining up with his men.”

  Pike saw it as Stone said it. Park met two of his men, spoke briefly, then moved with them to his black Beemer. If Jon gave the word, Pike could and would drop all three in less than two seconds.

  “What I’m saying is-are you listening? This Syrian asshole got his inside information about that truck from somewhere, which means someone inside Ramos’s crew or Park’s crew is selling them out. Shit, for all we know, people in both these turds’ crews are selling them out. That fuckin’ Syrian might be swimming in information. Have you thought of that?”

  Park’s Beemer drove away. Pike swung his rifle, and picked up Cole getting into his yellow Corvette. It needed a wash.

  Pike lowered his rifle, and stood.

  “Yes. I don’t like this either.”
r />   They packed their gear, and hustled down to follow.

  Jack and Krista: six days after they were taken

  25

  Jack was slouched against the wall with his arm around Krista when the man’s muffled scream cut through the walls. Krista shut her eyes and covered her ears. Kwan jerked awake, blinking sleep from his eyes as he sat up. Two of the Korean women were crying and a teenage boy from El Salvador was praying, but they heard the man scream, too, high and sharp, until it abruptly chopped off.

  Kwan stomped to the door. He was lumpy with purple bruises, but pounded the door in a livid rage. The guards didn’t answer.

  Rojas and Medina had opened the door only a few minutes earlier. Rojas referred to something in his ledger, then pointed out a middle-aged Korean man huddled with the two women. He was paunchy, with an overbite and broken, wire-rimmed glasses. Medina took him away to make a call. Three minutes later, the man screamed, louder than any of them had screamed, and many had screamed in the recent days.

  Jack held Krista into his shoulder as Kwan spent his fury, and felt for the knife beneath the edge of the carpet. Touching it made him feel safer. Jack had been afraid the guards would notice if he carried the knife in his jeans, so he pulled the ratty carpet loose from the baseboard in their spot beneath the window to create a hiding space. Jack had shown the knife to Krista, but not Kwan.

  Jack was afraid of Kwan, though they had been friendly since Kwan dumped the bucket. The guards had beaten Kwan badly, but he took their beating as if it were a reward. And after, he did not act cowed or afraid. He met their eyes as if daring them to give him more. Jack decided Kwan was either fearless or crazy, but also insanely tough.

  Shirtless, Kwan’s hard muscles danced as he pounded the door. Smudged bruises mottled his skin along with snake-bite burn marks left by the shock prods, but Jack wondered most at the man’s scars. Kwan’s belly and back showed three or four long puckered lines that might have been wounds, and a large knobby dimple Jack believed was left by a gunshot wound. And his broad upper back held an amazing tattoo of two fierce dragons facing each other as if to do battle.