Taken ec-13

by Robert Crais

  Two Latin men stood by an open door at the head of the garage, looking at us. One of the Latin guys was built burly and strong, and the other had a badly fixed cleft lip. I tried to sound jaded, as if I was so familiar with the world of human trafficking, this kind of thing was yesterday’s news.

  “Those people aren’t Syrian. Is the man here or not? If we’re not going to do business, fuckit.”

  “He’s here. You’re gonna meet him now.”

  The two men stepped aside to let us pass, then continued into the garage. They hooked up with the man who rode shotgun in the Explorer.

  My driver led me through a utility room and a kitchen, and then to a living room. The house smelled like a cross between sour cabbage and a bus station men’s room. Two guards eyed me from a hall, and another from a futon in the living room. Two futons, a couple of folding chairs, and three table lamps were the only furniture. One of the hall guards went down the hall.

  I said, “Nice digs.”

  Heavy plywood had been screwed over every window and outside door like armor plate. Even the front door and the sliders. So far as I could see, the only way in or out was through the garage. The house had been converted to a bunker.

  Ghazi al-Diri and another man emerged from the back of the house. Al-Diri was a tall, muscular man with dark skin, black eyes, and a frown line between his eyebrows. His black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. He wore stonewashed jeans, a lime-colored knit shirt, and three narrow gold rings on his left hand. The other man was shorter, with tiny eyes and a pocked face.

  Al-Diri smiled cordially, and offered his hand.

  “Welcome, Mr. Green. I am Ghazi. This is my associate, Vasco Medina.”

  Medina showed teeth that looked like a horror-film prop.

  “Harlan. I understand you may be able to help me out.”

  “This is true. Forgive me, I would offer a seat, but there are no seats to offer.”

  “No worries. Is the labor here for me to inspect?”

  My heart rate was up, but I tried to appear calm. If the Koreans were here, it was likely the people captured with them would also be here, but there was no certainty.

  I was all business and ready to get to it, but al-Diri wasn’t so anxious. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets, and ignored my question.

  “I am told you supply labor. Your interest is agribusiness?”

  I gave him the same bullshit I fed Winston Ramos.

  “I offer career opportunities to people from emerging nations by supplying low-cost labor to firms open to a workers with untested credentials.”

  Al-Diri frowned at me as if he didn’t know whether I was joking, so I pressed ahead.

  “Agribusiness. Yes. This is why I have to inspect these people. Age and health are important. Gender, not so much. Are we talking young studs or frail old men? I have to see them before I can give you a price.”

  Al-Diri finally nodded as if this made perfect sense, and gestured toward the hall.

  “The workers you wish to see are here.”

  “Perfect.”

  We made cordial conversation as if we weren’t in a drop house reeking of urine where people were tortured and murdered.

  He said, “I understand you will not work with the Sinaloas.”

  “We had a misunderstanding.”

  “They have misunderstandings with many people.”

  “Yourself?”

  He clapped me on the back.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Here, see what I have for you.”

  A guard standing post by a locked door unlocked it as we approached. Al-Diri opened the door, but Medina went inside first. The smell of urine, feces, and unwashed people rolled out of the room like an acid fog. My eyes watered, but al-Diri and Medina didn’t seem to notice.

  “We have twenty-three workers I wish to sell. Fourteen men, and nine are women. Three of the men are older, but healthy and still strong. Three speak Spanish, four have some English, but are not fluent. Most have only Korean. You want to touch them? Feel their strength. Some of the women are attractive.”

  The room was crowded with people sitting or lying on the floor, but none were Krista Morales or Jack Berman. Most were Asian, but several were Latin, and all of them watched me with sorrowful eyes. They were unwashed, soiled, and the men were unshaven. I tried not to breathe.

  I said, “We are speaking of the Koreans?”

  “Yes. Only the Koreans.”

  “There aren’t twenty-three.”

  “There are more in another room. I show you.”

  “I was told you had twenty-six.”

  Medina flashed the picket-fence teeth.

  “You always lose some. Shit happens.”

  When Medina opened the second door, Krista Morales and Jack Berman were the first people I saw. They were on the floor against the far wall, and Berman appeared to be sleeping. I saw them, and ignored them. I gave the room a cursory glance, then turned to Ghazi al-Diri.

  “I need thirty.”

  Al-Diri shook his head.

  “Only twenty-three are for sale.”

  “I understand, but I need thirty. I lost thirty farmers in San Diego. My buyer needs and expects thirty. These other pollos will do.”

  I drifted through the room as if I were assessing their suitability. I glanced at Krista and Jack, and realized Berman wasn’t sleeping. His eyes flagged, opened, rolled, and closed. A dark crust had built up around his ear.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Are you American? Can you help him? He’s hurt.”

  She was scared. She was so scared she sounded completely different than she had on the phone.

  I squatted as if I was looking more closely at Berman, but I looked at her instead and lowered my voice.

  “Don’t forget your accent. You’re playing a Mexican.”

  She stared as if I had slapped her, but I stood before she could respond and turned to al-Diri.

  “What the hell? Are these people injured and sick?”

  Medina said, “He ain’t sick. I kicked his ass. You have to do that sometime.”

  I stared at Medina, and smiled.

  “Yeah. Some people need their ass kicked.”

  I turned to al-Diri.

  “I deal with injuries all the time. You want me to take a look?”

  Al-Diri stepped into the hall, and motioned me to join him.

  “This is not important. We have business. Come.”

  I glanced back at Krista, and found her still staring at me. I wanted to tell her she was only minutes away from being out of this hell, but I joined al-Diri in the hall.

  The burly man from the garage and an Anglo with large hands were in the kitchen when we reached the entry. The burly man motioned Medina over. Al-Diri told me to wait in the living room, and joined their conversation. The four men spoke quietly, which left me feeling alone.

  After a while, Medina came over and stood nearby with his arms crossed.

  I said, “What’s going on?”

  “Fuckin’ Orlato always has some bullshit.”

  Orlato was the man with the stomach.

  Al-Diri followed Orlato into the kitchen, and the Anglo came over and stood behind me. I tried to watch him and ignore him at the same time.

  Thirty seconds later, al-Diri returned from the kitchen, and now a gun dangled alongside his leg.

  I said, “What’s the problem?”

  Al-Diri raised the gun.

  “You.”

  Then the Anglo took one step away, and he pointed a gun at me, too.

  Orlato came back from the kitchen with a smaller man who looked like a UFC fighter with a loser’s face. He was Winston Ramos’s bodyguard, and had been with us in Rudy Sanchez’s tow.

  The Syrian glanced at him, then waved his gun.

  “Is this the man?”

  “Thas him. He ain’t who he say he is. He’s friends with Ramos.”

  Vasco Medina showed me the teeth, then punched me in the face.
<
br />   36

  The Anglo shouted across the top of his pistol.

  “ Down. Get on the fuckin’ floor now.”

  Medina strapped my wrists with a plasticuff when I was down. He punched me in the back twice and once on the side of my neck, then the two men pulled me up until I was on my knees.

  Al-Diri walked over and put away his gun.

  “Who are you?”

  “Harlan Green. Jesus, what are you doing?”

  “I am thinking you are a federal agent.”

  I glared at the UFC fighter.

  “Are you crazy, listening to this turd? You checked me out. Why did you bring me here, if you didn’t check me out?”

  Al-Diri glanced at the UFC fighter, and said something in Spanish. Orlato took the UFC fighter’s arm and led him out through the kitchen. I wondered if Pike had seen him arrive, or would see him leave, and would realize something was wrong.

  Al-Diri turned back to me.

  “I know what I hear, but now I am told you are friends with my enemies by someone who should know. This makes me think I have not heard right things.”

  “You got ripped off. That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “He has never been wrong before.”

  “He’s sure as hell wrong now, and he’s costing you money.”

  I made my voice calm. Krista Morales and Jack Berman were twenty feet away, and needed me. Calm is good when you’re trying to appear as if you have more control than you do.

  “Your snitch saw me with Winston Ramos and Sang Ki Park of the Double Dragon gang. Winston Ramos is the prick who wants me dead. The Dragons came as my security, or did your snitch not mention Park knocked his buddy on his ass, and humiliated him in front of his boss?”

  The Syrian arched his eyebrows, surprised at my admission.

  “You met with a man who wishes you dead?”

  “Bet your ass. I don’t want a price on my head. I put together that tete-a-tete to patch up our differences. The Dragons signed on because they don’t like Ramos, either, thanks to you. These Koreans you have are Park’s people. Listening to Park and Ramos go on is where I got the idea to buy them from you. You’re not making any money off them. You let me have them cheap, we both make money.”

  Ghazi al-Diri stared at me. If he had spoken with people inside Sinaloa who knew why Ramos had met with Park, what he learned would give my version of events credibility.

  I said, “Do your homework. Find someone who knows what Ramos and I discussed at our meeting.”

  The Syrian ran his hand over his head and along the length of his ponytail. It revealed his anxiety, which meant he believed me enough to weigh his desire for profit against the quality of his informant.

  He said, “You would buy these workers if I sell?”

  “Thirty. I need thirty to keep my buyer happy. But after this bullshit, I’m only going to pay you half as much as I would have.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I have many buyers.”

  “So sell your pollos to them, and turn me the hell loose. I have to find thirty stiffs to lay off on my buyer.”

  The frown line between his eyes deepened, but then Orlato hurried back from the kitchen. Orlato was holding a phone, and looked even more frantic than before. They had a brief conversation in Spanish, but no one was speaking softly. Al-Diri spun around, and barked orders to Medina and his other men. They hurried away in different directions, shouting to each other.

  Al-Diri abruptly turned back to me.

  “I will look into this further, and decide whether you can be trusted. Now, we must leave. The pollos have to be moved.”

  “Fine. Call when you figure out what you want to do, but don’t wait too long.”

  The Syrian made a lizard’s smile.

  “There will be no call. You will be my guest until these matters are settled.”

  He snapped out a harsh string of commands to Medina, then swirled away. Medina and the big Anglo pulled me to my feet, shoved me toward the garage, and bagged my head again.

  Twenty-five minutes later, the bag came off, and they led me from a different garage into a different kitchen where a nervous Indian woman with a red bindi on her forehead stirred a pot of soup. It smelled of turnips.

  They put me on the floor in the living room, and Medina told a man with a badly fixed cleft lip the Syrian would come for me later. He told the man to take special care of me. He said the Syrian was looking forward to killing me.

  Then he showed the rancid teeth, and he and the Anglo left.

  The guards went about their business. None of them bothered me. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, the Indian woman brought a paper cup of water, and held it to my lips. Her eyes were large, and wet, and frightened.

  She whispered as I drank.

  “Only four of us are left. They are killing us.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She let me finish the water, then returned to the kitchen. Tears ran down my face, and I felt as if my heart was broken. I wanted to help her. I wanted to help all of them. I wanted to help myself, but feared all help was lost.

  Part 4

  Riverside County Jail

  Indio, California

  Hermano Pinetta

  37

  Two Riverside County Deputies led Hermano Pinetta from his cell to a small interview room in the Riverside County Jail. Hermano, who currently wore a blue Riverside County jumpsuit, was a forty-four-year-old two-strike felon looking at serious time if convicted of charges stemming from his most recent arrest.

  Hermano’s attorney was in the hall outside the door. Oscar Castaneda was a nervous middle-aged man with long hair he constantly pushed from his face, and eyes that flitted like nervous moths.

  Oscar glanced at the lead deputy as if he was embarrassed to make eye contact.

  “One second, please?”

  The guards stopped to let Oscar have his second, so Oscar stepped close and lowered his voice.

  “They gonna ask you about a car. You gonna get one chance here. You wanna go home in this life, you answer this lady’s questions.”

  “What lady? What you talkin’ about?”

  The deputy tugged Hermano’s arm before Oscar could answer, and pulled Hermano into the room. Hermano had been in this same interview room three times since his arrest, but never with more than a couple of local detectives he knew by their first names. Now, the little room was crowded with humorless men in suits who watched him with hungry eyes. The lone woman sat at the interview table with the men surrounding her like a chorus of angels. Her hands rested on a manila envelope, with her fingers laced.

  The deputies pushed Hermano down onto a chair opposite the woman, then hooked his handcuffs to a steel rod bolted to the table.

  She said, “Hermano Pinetta.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You were arrested and booked for running a chop shop and receiving stolen property, to wit, twenty-seven counts re various stolen autos and auto parts. These are state crimes. You are not currently charged with any federal crimes. Do you understand the difference?”

  Oscar leaned down, and whispered in Hermano’s ear.

  “Say yes.”

  Hermano said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The charges against you will be prosecuted by the Riverside County prosecutor’s office. These charges are what we call ‘wobblers,’ meaning Riverside has discretion to prosecute them as felonies, misdemeanors, or not at all. Do you understand what this means?”

  Oscar whispered again.

  “They ding you for a felony, that’s your third strike, and you on the farm the rest of your life. Tell her you understand.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My name is Nancie Stendahl. I’m an Assistant Deputy Director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. From Washington. Would you like my help with Riverside?”

  Hermano felt sick. He glanced
at Oscar, whose eyes danced and spiraled like dying fireflies.

  “Yes, ma’am. We would definitely appreciate your help.”

  The woman opened the envelope, took out a picture, and put it on the table so Hermano could see it. The picture showed a couple of skinny white kids standing beside a silver Mustang.

  “Parts of this vehicle were found at your place of business. Do you recognize this car?”

  “No.”

  The woman and everyone else in the room simply waited, and Oscar once more appeared in his ear.

  “Tell the truth, you stupid motherfucker.”

  Hermano cleared his throat.

  “Yeah, I seen that car. Sure.”

  The woman leaned forward.

  “Where did you get it?”

  Hermano hesitated, but Oscar’s voice floated in his ear again.

  “You give this lady a name, or there ain’t no one on this earth gonna help your sorrowful ass.”

  Hermano said, “My cousin, Luis. Luis Pinetta.”

  The woman smiled for the first time, but it was not a pleasant smile.

  Joe Pike: one day after Elvis Cole is taken

  38

  When Pike realized Washington and Pinetta would return for their personal belongings, he shoved Haddad toward the door.

  “Move. Out now, Jon. Move.”

  They pulled out of the house where the Indians were murdered as fast as they entered, Stone pushing Haddad face-first into the Jeep’s back seat, Pike gunning the Jeep out and away, clearing the scene before Washington and Pinetta returned. The garage door was still lowering when they parked behind a Dodge pickup less than one block away, the Jeep’s engine ticking.

  Pike edged down behind the wheel, but saw neither Stone nor Haddad in the mirror.

  “Is he down?”

  Behind him, Stone’s voice came from the darkness.

  “He’s so down the next stop is a fuckin’ grave.”

  Everything changed when they left Orlato and Ruiz in the desert. Orlato, Haddad, and Ruiz had been sent to dump bodies, but had not returned or called. The Syrian might send someone to see if the Escalade had broken down in the desert, but Pike thought it more likely the Syrian would assume his men had been arrested, and everything they knew would be shared with the police. He would send Washington and Pinetta to clean the house of evidence as quickly as possible.