Pike moved deeper into the trees, and watched the garage as he ran from trunk to trunk to the building. He came out of the grove behind the garage, drew his pistol, and made his way to the door. He heard nothing, so he eased to the ground and peeked. Three SUVs and a pickup were parked inside, but he saw no one.
There was a door at the far end of the giant garage past the SUVs. Pike knew this would be the way in. He was making his way toward it when he saw a three-foot smear of fresh blood on the concrete as if something had been dragged. Then the smear stopped, and fresh drops and a line of blood as thin as a string trailed out of the garage. The drops were bright and filled with the color of fading life. Someone had died as they boarded the truck.
Pike jogged directly to the door, and checked the knob. Locked. He was reaching for his pick gun when the door suddenly opened.
An Anglo with large hands blinked at Pike, and an African-American man beside him frowned.
“Who are you?”
Pike shot the man with the large hands, and reset on his friend.
Pike spoke two words.
“Elvis Cole.”
He stepped inside, and closed the door.
Elvis Cole
The guards were different that morning. They moved faster than usual past my little office-cell, and their voices were strained and clipped. Sometimes they argued. I heard muffled shouting and what might have been women screaming, and an engine revving, but I wasn’t sure about any of it.
Royce and the Praying Mantis opened my door, and Royce told me to get on my feet. Even Royce looked different. Closed off, and grim.
“Get up, asshole. Let’s go.”
I turned sideways to show the cuffs when I stood.
“Cut these things. I have to pee.”
“So piss yourself. C’mon.”
He took my arm and pulled me past the commissary. The hall was crowded with guards and prisoners, who were being moved from one room to the other. Someone shouted in Spanish, and the guards pushed people more roughly than usual, and used their shock prods.
The Mantis pushed me into the room with Krista and Jack, which was now much more crowded.
“What’s going on?”
Royce said, “You’ll find out. Shut up and sit down.”
They turned away, moving to other parts of the room. I saw Krista and Jack in their usual spot, and picked my way to them. Jack was awake and focused, and sitting upright.
I said, “Remember me?”
“Sure. Kinda.”
“You look a lot better.”
Krista leaned close as two guards moved past.
“Kwan and his group got to leave. They’re going home.”
I realized Kwan and the other Korean victims were missing.
“This morning?”
“Yeah, and now they’re putting everyone from the other room into ours.”
I thought about Sang Ki Park’s adamant refusal to pay, and wondered why his people had been released. The guards who were shoving people into our room moved like men who were running out of time, and feeling the pressure. Pike was big on pressure, and might be working with Park. If Pike was close, everything could and would change in a heartbeat.
I edged closer to Krista, checked the area for guards, and turned so my back was to her.
“You have the knife?”
“Yes, like you said.”
“Cut. They’re tough, so cut hard.”
She went to work with the knife. When she slowed, Jack edged closer to help, and a minute later the plastic gave. I kept my hands behind my back, and sat with my back to the wall.
The prisoners from the other room were soon in ours, and Ghazi al-Diri made an appearance. He stepped through the door with several guards, spoke briefly to Medina, and left. Even al-Diri carried a shotgun.
Medina then spoke with the guards, who spread through the crowd near the door, pulling people to their feet and pushing them into the hall. When people farther from the door began getting up, other guards rushed to push them down, but the closer people kept being pushed out.
Krista whispered.
“What are they doing?”
I suspected I knew, and hoped I was wrong. Al-Diri might be moving us to a more secure hiding place, but I flashed on Thomas Locano, telling me about mass graves in Mexico.
I nudged Jack.
“Can you walk?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Krista said, “He can’t walk.”
“I can walk.”
We were watching the people closer to the door drain from the room when Medina, Royce, and the Mantis left the other guards, and came over. Royce had a shotgun slung over his shoulder, and the Mantis and Medina carried shock prods. The pistol was still in the Mantis’s right front pocket.
Medina stopped so he was standing over Krista, and leered at her with the awful smile.
“We all goin’ for a little ride, but you’ll be more comfortable if you ride with me.”
He bent to take her arm, and I saw his shirt was spattered with blood. Streaks and drips of blood marked his shirt with slaughterhouse designs, and more blood speckled his face.
I saw the blood as he pulled Krista to her feet. I saw the blood, and it didn’t matter if Joe was here or help was at hand.
He pulled Krista to her feet, and I stood with her, and in that moment the sharp unmistakable sound of a gunshot echoed from the next building.
The room froze in that instant except for me and Medina. He pushed Krista away, and swung the shock prod down like a club. I stepped outside, rolled his arm between us, and hit him in the mouth with the first two knuckles of my right hand. He staggered back, but I had his arm, so I punched him again as Royce unslung the shotgun. I drove Medina backward into Royce, then stepped into the Mantis, hooked my elbow into his throat, and tore at his pocket for the gun. I was still in his pocket when Royce pushed Medina away, came up with the shotgun, and Krista Morales stabbed him in the shoulder. He squealed and swatted at the knife as if swatting a bee. The pocket tore away, I shot him twice in the chest, then shot the Mantis.
Medina was gone. Many of the guards had run to see what was happening, and now the sound of gunfire popped and pounded through the buildings. Some prisoners ran, others dropped to the floor, and still others curled into balls.
I grabbed Royce’s shotgun, pulled Krista and Jack close, and shouted over the screaming.
“We’ll be trapped if we stay. Can you walk?”
“I’ll run.”
I shot two guards, and we pushed our way into the crowd.
Sang Ki Park
Sang Ki Park felt benevolent toward the defeated foe before him. The man nodded respectfully, and introduced himself.
“My name is Samuel Rojas. We have your people here.”
They were making the exchange at an abandoned quarry a few miles north of the Salton Sea. The man called Rojas gestured to the large truck behind him, from which people were already emerging. The men from the three smaller pickups were helping Park’s people from the truck.
Park would inspect his people once they unloaded, then keep the truck to transport them.
Rojas said, “You have a lady for us?”
Sang Ki Park raised his hand. The woman stepped from the back seat of his BMW, but came no farther. She was not allowed to come farther.
Park appeared patient as the people he brought from Korea gathered in a small group, but he was not. In truth, he was looking for his cousin, and anxious to be done with this. His uncle was now waiting at the motel, and he did not wish his uncle to wait long. His uncle was not a patient man.
It did not take long to unload twenty-three people. Less than two minutes. Certainly no more than three.
Park frowned. Twenty-two people now milled in a group before him, and none were his cousin.
He was about to say something when two men carried a body from the truck, and placed it on the ground a few feet away.
Sang Ki Park stared at the crushed head of his cousin, Kwan Min Park.
He felt very tired, but at the same time filled with a rage so fierce it might drive the heart of a dragon.
Samuel Rojas said, “May we have the lady now?”
Park glanced at Samuel Rojas, then turned and walked to Megan Orlato. When he reached her, he drew a Sig Sauer pistol from beneath his jacket, and shot her in the head.
Fourteen Ssang Yong Pa soldiers then emerged from their hiding spots and opened up with automatic weapons, killing Samuel Rojas and the seven men who had come with him.
When the killing was done, Park had his twenty-two employees put back aboard the truck along with his cousin’s body, and all of them drove away.
Nancie Stendahl
Eighteen hundred feet above the desert, and homing on Jon Stone’s black dot, Nancie Stendahl adjusted the headset.
“Say again.”
Mo said, “Fly heading two-zero-zero.”
The pilot nudged the helicopter a few degrees to the west, bringing them farther out in the desert on a south by southwest course.
Nancie had four people along on the flight: the pilot and Mo with her magic laptop in the front seats; Nancie, JT, and an SRT coordinator named Stan Uhlman. The two SRT teams were staged twenty miles apart and awaiting direction.
Mo’s voice came through the headsets.
“Six miles.”
Stan Uhlman said, “There’s no roads down there. What’s he driving?”
Nancie said, “Jeep. It’s red.”
Uhlman sounded doubtful.
“I don’t know.”
“Four miles. We should see him soon if he’s here. He’s stopped.”
Mo grinned over her shoulder.
“What’s your bet, boss? We got your boy?”
Nancie said, “You still have a read on the second signal?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
Nancie grinned back.
“Then if Mr. Stone found the bait transmitter and got cute with it, I’m betting he didn’t find the second, and that’s where we’ll find him.”
JT pointed past the pilot.
“There’s a road. I got a road.”
Mo said, “One mile. Less than a mile.”
Nancie peered over Mo’s shoulder to see the little black dot on her laptop, then looked out the window. Out here in the middle of nowhere, the map graphic provided no landmark to help orient the dot. All Nancie saw was the dot.
Stan Uhlman said, “There. What’s that, trucks?”
The pilot tipped the nose over, dropped down to four hundred feet, and picked up speed.
JT said, “Oh my God.”
Nancie said, “Closer.”
The pilot tipped the chopper on its side, sank to two hundred feet, and orbited the scene.
Uhlman said, “I make three pickup trucks and multiple bodies.”
JT said, “Nine. I see eight adult male, one adult female. No Jeep. No red Jeep. Boss?”
“Roll the SRTs. Notify the sheriff ’s to secure the scene.”
“What about us? You want to set down?”
Nancie peered at the bodies through her binoculars. None were Jack, and none were Jon Stone. None were moving, or showed signs of sustainable life.
Nancie said, “What’s the heading for the second signal?”
“One-one-zero.”
“Fly one-one-zero.”
The pilot banked north, and flew toward Coachella.
Elvis Cole
The hall and the commissary were a chaos of running, hiding, crying people. The immigrant prisoners didn’t understand what was happening or where to go, but the guards shared this same confusion, which likely saved us. They didn’t know who was shooting, or why, and most assumed they were being invaded by the feds. At that point, they panicked like the prisoners and thought only of getting away. Only two guards tried to stop us, and both times I pulled the trigger first.
Jack tried hard, but was wobbly and slow. It was clear we needed a vehicle, so we pushed through the commissary toward the garage.
We crossed the commissary past the offices, and had turned toward the garage when Jack Berman fell. I bent to lift him, when Medina lurched from an adjoining hall with a shotgun. He smiled, but now his teeth were gone and his shredded mouth bloody.
He jerked the shotgun to his shoulder, and that’s when Joe Pike stepped around the corner and shot him.
Medina dropped as limp as a string, but Pike shot him again, then dumped his empties, fed in a speed-loader, and finally looked at me.
Pike said, “Got you.”
He wasn’t talking to Medina.
I fought down the smile, and half-carried Jack toward the garage.
“Garage. Only way out.”
Krista said, “Is this your friend?”
“Yes.”
Pike led us past the last few offices into the garage. The guards had taken the cars, and the garage was empty.