“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 & 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 floated 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.”
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.
Kwan punched the door a final time, and stalked back to his place against the wall. He locked eyes with Jack only once, then dropped to the floor.
They were scared because their treatment by the guards had changed. Medina had been using the pliers on more and more of them. If money wasn’t sent, the calm and reasonable Rojas turned harsh during subsequent calls. He threatened terrible things, and some of the men and women returned in tears, reporting that Rojas or Medina had twisted their fingers or used the shock prod while they were on the phone, so their families would hear them cry out.
Jack wondered what the guards had done to the paunchy man to make him scream so loudly. Everyone in the room was waiting to find out, but when the door finally opened, Rojas came in and made a short speech. One of the young Korean women translated for the Koreans.
“You will all be happy to know Mr. Chun is on his way home. His family was generous today. You should tell your families to be the same. They have transferred the money we needed, and now Mr. Chun is on his way to their loving arms. If your families cooperate as well, you will soon be home, too. If not, then not.”
Rojas remained until the girl finished translating, then left. The people in the room buzzed with this news, but Jack noticed Kwan was smirking.
Jack said, “That’s good news. One of us got out.”
Kwan snorted, and settled against his wall.
“No family. The people he call no pay.”
“Rojas lied?”
“No pay.”
Jack felt a chill as he realized what Kwan was saying, and felt for the knife again. He kissed Krista’s head, and whispered into her hair.
“We’re going to do this, Krissy, okay? We’ll just go, is all, just do it.”
She nodded, her face still in his shoulder.
They sought a chance to escape every day, but either the utility room door would be locked when the guards were away, or too many guards were around when the door was unlocked. There was always something wrong, but they would try again soon. Miguel was going to show up in a few minutes to bring Krista and the other cook to the kitchen. Every time Kris was in the kitchen, she was closer to the door. Jack believed it was only a matter of time before their chance to escape would come.
Jack kissed her soft hair again.
“I want you to promise something.”
“What?”
“We gotta get out of here, right? Someone has to get out, even if it’s just one of us.”
“We’re both going.”
“I know, yeah, we’re both going, but listen, okay? If you get a chance when I’m not around, go. Get out of here, and go. And if we get into the garage together, but the guards come before we get out, I want you to keep going, okay?”
She sat up.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“I’m saying don’t wait for me. If you can get out, go, and I’ll hold them off.”
She stared at him, and finally nodded.
“Is she going to find us?”
“Yeah, she’s going to find us, but we’re not going to wait. If you get the chance, go.”
The door opened again, ending their conversation, and Miguel told her to get her ass into the kitchen.
Two minutes after she left, Rojas returned, and pointed at Jack.
“Come here, piss cleaner. Since we gotta wait for your mommy to get back from her trip, you gotta earn your keep. I have a job for you.”
“You want me to empty the bucket?”
“Leave it. I got something else.”
Jack locked eyes with Kwan for a moment, then followed Rojas to the bathroom. A can of Comet, a spray bottle of Mr. Clean disinfectant, and a plastic scrub brush were waiting for him on a pile of threadbare cloth towels.
“Clean the tub. Use this stuff, but don’t throw away the towels. We’re gonna wash’m. Bring the towels to the kitchen when you’re finished, and give’m to Miguel. You understand what I’m telling you?”
“Yeah. I understand.”
“When’s your mommy coming back?”
“I don’t know. Ten days, maybe. I’ve lost track of time.”
“You better hope she don’t spend all her money.”
Rojas explained to the hall guard what Jack was going to do, then left. The hall guard leaned against the wall, already bored.
Jack wondered what Rojas meant by his crack, then stepped over the cleaning supplies to check out the tub. The smell of feces and urine was strong throughout the house, but here it was even stronger.
A thin red splatter streaked the tile wall like paint flicked from a brush. Pale red smears colored the tub’s beige enamel, and pink foam thinned by yellow liquid pooled thinly around the drain. A single island of black hair floated near the drain, held together by something the color of liver, while three long smears of something brown and loose smudged the bottom of the tub. Jack didn’t understand what he was seeing at first, then he did, and knew Mr. Chun had died here. They had killed him, right here in the tub, while his screams shook through the walls. They had cut his throat or stabbed him, and he had bled to death in the tub. He had died here. He was murdered here.
They’re killing us.
They are killing us
.
Jack’s hands shook, and the shaking spread to his chest. His entire body trembled, like a reed in strong wind.
Jack glanced at the guard, who was watching with sleepy, lizard eyes.
Jack picked up the Mr. Clean, and sprayed the disinfectant into his hand. He smelled it, and drew the strong smell deep, trying to blot out the awful stink trapped in the little bathroom. He pumped the sprayer to fog the tub and the walls and the air, and breathed deep so the chemicals scoured his nose. He wiped everything down with the towels. He sprinkled the Comet like blue snow, and wet it with more Mr. Clean, and sopped up the blood and piss and Mr. Clean to make the towels awful and foul. He wanted them soaked with death, and so disgusting Miguel would refuse to touch them and order Jack to load them into the washer.
In the utility room.
With the door to the garage.
Jack rubbed and wiped until the tub was clean, then scooped up the bloody, piss-soaked, shit-stained towels, and turned to the guard.
“It’s clean. Samuel said I should bring the towels to Miguel.”
The guard, who had heard Samuel Rojas say that very thing, shrugged toward the kitchen, and let Jack pass.
Jack said, “Gracias.”
He carried the last remains of Mr. Chun in his arms like an overfed baby. Each step brought him closer to the kitchen, and Miguel and Kris, but he felt dizzy and separate from his body.
THEY ARE KILLING US
.
He suddenly understood the crack Rojas made when he said Jack better hope his mother hadn’t spent all her money. They had killed Mr. Chun because his family couldn’t or wouldn’t pay. This is how all of them would die. One by one, the money would stop, and they would bleed to death in the tub.
Jack and Krista had to leave. Today. Now. Immediately. So Jack had to make it happen. He was frantic for a plan, but if he returned to their room for the knife, the guard might not let him out. He wanted to tell Kwan, and enlist Kwan as an ally, but Kwan was in the room, which led to the same problem. Once Jack returned to the room, he might not be able to get out again while Krista was in the kitchen.
Jack let a few towels fall, buying himself time to think. He had to do this now, alone, without the knife. Okay, fine. Suck it up, and get it done. Think!
Miguel had a key if the door to the garage was locked. Miguel was bigger and tougher, but he was also lazy and stupid, and turned his back to Jack all the time. A heavy frying pan might make a good weapon, or the big cans of tomatoes Krista put in the soup. Those cans had to weigh a couple of pounds.
Jack could get Miguel into the utility room easy enough by pretending something was wrong with the washer. If Jack could grab the pan or one of the big cans, he only needed to get behind Miguel for a second. He would do whatever he needed to do to open the door.
Jack was so scared his eyes watered. He blinked hard, and gathered the sopping towels in his arms, and continued toward the kitchen.
Miguel usually parked his fat ass in a folding chair at the mouth of the kitchen in the entry. This is where he slept, only now the chair was empty.
Jack hoped this meant Miguel was in the utility room or in the garage, which would be the best of all possible worlds, so he quickened his pace.
His heart pounded and his pulse rushed in his ears as he crossed the entry into the kitchen, gearing up for the battle to come—
But Miguel wasn’t in the kitchen, and nothing was as Jack expected.
Medina stood over Krissy, and Krissy was on the floor. Her hands were up to protect herself. Blood smeared on her face.
Jack’s world shrank to fuzzy red tunnels filled with roaring static. He saw Krista down with Medina above her, then Medina saw Jack, and his lips peeled away to show the horrible jagged teeth.
Jack floated through falling blood-stained towels as he charged forward without doubt or hesitation.