5.
It was full-on dark when they reached Pike’s Jeep, covered by brush in a low wash, two-point-two miles away. Pike pulled Haddad from the Escalade, proned him in the dirt, and wiped their prints from the Caddy while Stone cleared the brush. They rolled on in less than three minutes, Pike driving the Jeep, Stone in back with Haddad, the Escalade abandoned. They crept across the desert by starlight and moonglow that made the brush glisten.
Thirty-eight minutes later, they approached a small ranch-style home on a street of similar homes at the outskirts of Coachella, California, the most eastern of the desert communities. Two-car garages, rock lawns, clean sidewalks, streetlights.
Haddad said, “This one. On the right.”
“Cole is inside?”
“When I left.”
Stone said, “You better not be lyin’.”
It was nine-oh-five
P.M.
Early. Every house on the street showed light and life except this one. It looked like a corpse.
Stone said, “Shit, it’s fucking deserted. That place is black.”
“The windows are covered with dark plastic and wood.”
“So every light in the house could be lit, and we wouldn’t see it?”
“Yes. Or hear what goes on. The windows are all like this. We screw them shut so the
pollos
can’t open them, then cover them with the plastic and wood.”
Pike glanced in the rearview.
“Civilians?”
“I don’t understand.”
Stone jabbed him with the rifle.
“Women and children, dipshit. A family. You got innocent people living in there, or just dead men like you?”
“No one lives there. The house was empty.”
Stone said, “Who pays the bills? Water? Power? This shit ain’t free.”
“Maybe the Syrian. He gives us the address. We come, make it ready with the boards and plastic, and bring the
pollos
.”
Pollos
. Spanish for “chickens.” As if the people they murdered weren’t human.
Pike circled, and approached the house from the opposite direction. He slowed as they passed.
“How many guards were with Cole?”
“Two. Washington and Pinetta. If the Syrian is here, one or two more.”
Pike thought, five guns.
Stone said, “Were you and your turd friends supposed to come back after dropping the bodies?”
“Yes. We have to clean the house, and get our things. Washington and Pinetta were going to leave with the Syrian. Ruiz was angry we had to clean.”
Stone moved the M4.
“Shut up. No one gives a shit about you having to clean.”
Pike continued to the first cross street, turned around, cut the lights, and pulled to the curb with a face-front view of the house. Pike locked eyes with Stone in the rearview.
“Three-sixty.”
Three-sixty meant circle the house.
Stone passed the M4 to Pike, and slipped from the Jeep. Pike watched him go, wondering if Cole was in the black house. He wondered if Cole was alive, or dead, or dying as they sat on the quiet street. He wondered if Haddad was telling the truth.
“You and your crew come back, how do you enter?”
“We park in the garage, never the street or the drive. We pull into the garage and close the door before we get out. This way the neighbors don’t see. The Syrian tell us this. He say never park on the street or the driveway.”
“There’s a door from the garage into the house?”
“Yes. Into the kitchen.”
“You need a key?”
“Orlato had it.”
Pike took out the keys Stone found in the Escalade, along with a garage remote. Haddad affirmed the remote would open the garage, and told him which key would unlock the door.
Pike tucked the key and remote away, then told Haddad to describe the floor plan. The house was a cookie-cutter three-bedroom. Kitchen, dining room, living room on one side of the house; master bedroom and two smaller bedrooms on the other, the two smaller rooms sharing a bath. The
pollos
had been kept in the smaller bedrooms.
Stone returned as Haddad finished the description, and slipped into the Jeep as quietly as he left.
“They wrapped it, man. I can tell there’s light inside, but I couldn’t see or hear anything.”
Pike broke down how he wanted to hit the house, then looked at Haddad.
“Do exactly what I said. Are we clear?”
“Yes.”
Pike put the Jeep in gear, cruised lightless directly to the house and turned into the drive. He drew his .357 as he slid from the Jeep. The rising moon put more light on them than Pike liked, but no one moved on the street.
Pike took Haddad by the wrists and pushed him to the left side of the garage door. Stone went to the right, and Pike clicked the remote without hesitation. As the door rumbled up, Stone immediately slid under. Pike pushed Haddad down, and crawled under with him. By the time Pike was under, Stone was set up to the right of the kitchen door, and Pike clicked the remote again to lower the door.
Haddad stopped.
“No cars. They are not here.”
Pike pressed the .357 into Haddad’s ribs and pushed him to the door.
“Speak when I tell you. Open the door.”
Pike held tight as the key fumbled into the lock and Haddad opened the door. Haddad was at the door because the men inside would expect him. If they saw Haddad when the door opened, Pike would have an advantage. If Pike drew fire, he would fall back to open a field of fire for Stone.
The door opened to a well-lit empty kitchen.
Pike whispered.
“Say it.”
Haddad called loudly.
“It is Haddad. We are back.”
Pike listened for a three-count, heard nothing, then pushed Haddad into the kitchen and immediately pulled him to the left. Stone crossed the kitchen at combat speed, gun up and good to go, cleared the entry, and disappeared into the house.
Pike tracked Stone’s progress by ear, pinning Haddad to the floor until Stone called from the back.
“Clear. We’re good.”
Pike echoed the call.
“Clear.”
Pike pulled Haddad to his feet as Stone reappeared in the entry, red-faced and furious.
“This fucker’s full of shit, man. The place is empty.”
Stone stalked over, and stabbed Haddad with his rifle.
“Cole wasn’t here. You lied out your ass!”
Haddad’s eyes rolled toward Pike, pleading.
“I have not lied! Look in the living room! I will show you!”
The living room was empty except for three cheap futons set against the walls, and two cheap table lamps set on the floor. Duffel bags and blankets were lumped on the futons. Haddad lurched toward the futons, trying to point even with his hands tied behind his back.
“You see these things? These are our things. This is why we had to come back, to get these things. I have not lied. This is where I saw your friend when we left.”
The corner Haddad indicated was lit by a lamp. The opposite corner, on the far side of the living room, was dim with shadows. Pike glanced at the light corner.
“Take it easy, Jon.”
Stone stalked in a tight circle, moving from shadow to light as he burned off the adrenaline from his entry.
“Easy my ass, Cole in the corner. This is fuckin’ bullshit. I wanna kill somebody. You see what’s back there, you’re gonna wanna kill this prick, too.”
Haddad blurted out the words, speaking the way you speak when you fear for your life.
“He was there in the corner, by the lamp. I swear to you this is true. I saw him when Ruiz and I carried out the bodies. His hands were behind his back, like mine. Orlato was telling Washington and Pinetta to keep him here for the Syrian.”
Pike holstered his pistol and went to the corner. Even this close to the lamp, the light was meager. He studied Haddad, then considered Jon Stone. Stone looked like a blond shark adrift in the shadows.
Stone said, “We’re wasting time, bro. He wasn’t here. And if he was, they killed him and dumped the body.”
Pike said nothing. He took a knee, putting himself at Cole’s level with his back to the wall to see the room as Cole had seen it. He looked at the lamp, and that’s where he found the cricket.
“Elvis.”
Pike tossed it to Stone, who snatched it out of the air, and frowned.
“Jiminy effin’ Cricket?”
Stone tossed it back.
“The girl’s mother gave it to him.”
Haddad said, “I do not lie to you. I see him where you are. They wait for the Syrian.”
“Was he hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was the Syrian going to hurt him?”
“I don’t know.”
Stone’s voice came low from the shadows.
“See the back, man. Go see what they were doing back there.”
They marched Haddad to the bedroom side of the house, Jon Stone leading the way.
The eleven Indians had been housed in the two smaller bedrooms, five in one, six in the other. Both rooms smelled of urine, human waste, and body odor. The walls along the floors held dark stains as if bare bodies had sweat into the paint, and rusty stains streaked one of the walls. Remnants of clothing and sandals were scattered on the floor, but nothing of Cole’s.
Stone waited in the door while Pike checked, then stepped back to let him pass.
“The killing floor.”
The bathroom joining the two rooms was where they died. An extension cord with one end cut to expose the wires was coiled on the floor. Pliers, butane lighters, kitchen matches, and a blood-smeared ball-peen hammer were on the lavatory counter. The tools of torture. Bloody towels and a blood-specked pillow were on the floor.
Stone’s voice was quiet.
“We’ve seen places like this, bro. Somalia. Rwanda. That shithole in Honduras.”
This was where the hostages were tortured to make them scream for their families, where Orlato and Haddad and Ruiz demanded money to make the screaming stop. When their families no longer answered the calls, or wired the money, one by one, they would be brought into the bathroom and killed. Then, one by one, they would be wrapped in the heavy plastic, loaded into a vehicle in the garage, and driven into the desert to be dumped into the cut.
Pike studied these things, then stepped past Stone and Haddad, and went to the master bedroom. He stopped inside the door. Stone pushed Haddad in behind him, and Haddad immediately spoke.
“They have not gone.”
Stone said, “Who?”
“The men who guarded your friend. Washington and Pinetta. Orlato and Ruiz and I, we slept in the living room. Washington and Pinetta, they slept in here.”
Two futons were on the floor against opposite walls. A blue nylon duffel sat on the nearest, and a black gym bag sat on the other. A clock radio flashed the time.
“You see? Their clothes? Their razors? These are their things. They will come back.”
The corner of Joe Pike’s mouth twitched. Elvis Cole had been here, but now wasn’t, which meant he had been taken to some other place. Dead or alive, someone had taken him, and that someone knew where he was. Maybe the two men who would return for their clothes.
Pike glanced at Stone.
“We’re closer.”
Stone made the shark grin at Haddad, and pulled him out into the hall.
“You get to live five minutes longer.”
Pike held the cricket tight, then put it away as they set up for what was to come.
Jack and Krista:
taken
6.
That night crackled with chaos and noise: revving truck engines, spinning tires, flashes of gunfire, and blue-white lights sweeping the brush. The man with night goggles hit Jack across the back, driving him into Krista. Jack tried to shield her from the blows, and shoved at the man with the rifle.
“We’re Americans. We’re not—”
The man hit him harder.
“We were just fucking around. We don’t—”
The man hit him so hard a tingling flash blew up his back to the top of his head, and Jack staggered to his knees.
Krista whispered frantically as she helped him to his feet.
“Stop it. They’ll kill you.”
“They think we’re with these people.”
“They’re
bajadores
. They’ll kill us.”
“What?”
“Stop fighting—”
Men with baseball bats and shock prods swarmed like furious wasps, herding the growing crowd back to the box truck. Jack fell into step behind Krista, shuffling along with the crowd. Most of the people around them were Asian, though a few were Latin and Middle Eastern. Krista spoke Spanish to a frightened woman beside them as Jack caught a glimpse of men in the brush lifting a body. Then Krista leaned into him, whispering—
“This lady is from Guatemala. Most of these people are from Korea. She says we’re being kidnapped.”
“That’s crazy. This is America.”
“A man named Sanchez brought them across, but the
bajadores
just killed him. Give me your wallet.”
“Why do—?”
“Shh.”
She traded more Spanish with the woman before turning back.
“We have to get rid of it—anything with your name. Please, baby, trust me. Don’t draw their attention.”
Jack slipped her the wallet, but did not see what she did with it.
They were herded toward the box truck as if the guards were under a clock. When the bunching crowd slowed, the guards beat them harder, and cried out when they were shocked. The people around Jack pleaded in languages he did not understand, their faces lost and afraid even in the dim starlight.
As they got closer to the truck, and the crowd pressed tighter, Jack wanted to run. He wanted to push through all these crying people, and run hard out into the desert, just get gone and dodge and dart from bush to cactus, and run all the way back to Los Angeles. His heart pounded, and he felt sick, like he might throw up. He felt more scared than he had ever been, even when his parents died.
Instead, Jack slipped his arms around Krista, and whispered into her hair.
“They’ll find my car out here. That’s how they’ll find us. They’ll see my car.”
The waiting cargo hold was a black cavern guarded by men with guns. The gunmen searched each person before pushing them aboard. Hands moved over Krista in ways that made Jack feel ashamed, then the same hands moved over his pockets and under his jacket. They took his cell phone and keys, then pushed him up into the truck. Hands reached from within to help, then Jack was in, too.
“Jack!”
“I’m here. Where are you?”
They were forced deeper into the cavern as more people boarded until the container was crowded with sweating bodies. Then the big sliding door rattled down to chop off the last faint shreds of light. The darkness was a deep, pure black, and the close air rich with the bad smells of body odor and urine. Jack saw nothing, not even a shape or line or shadow. He heard a lock being snapped into place, and whispered.
“They locked us in.”
Krista pressed herself closer, invisible in the blackness. Outside, the cab doors slammed shut, and the engine rumbled. The big truck lurched, and moved.
Jack didn’t know what to do. All around them, people wept, and others spoke in voices too low to hear. A woman on the other side of the truck wailed, then Jack decided he wasn’t sure if it was a woman or not. The body odor smells were so strong, Jack tried not to breathe. He held Krista tight, and spoke into her hair.
“Anyone here know where they’re taking us?”
Krista spoke more Spanish, and this time a man’s voice answered. A woman joined in, but their conversation was short, and then Krista switched to English.
“They say we’re going to be sold. That’s what
bajadores
do, and they’ve heard stories about the
bajadores
.”
“What does that mean, sold? Like slaves?”
“No, more like ransomed. I think he meant ransomed. They kidnap people, and try to get ransom.”
“Where are they taking us?”
She spoke more Spanish, and translated as the man answered.
“A house, a camp, a barn. He doesn’t know. We might even be kept in this truck. He’s worried because he has no money to pay. He gave all his money to the coyote.”
The truck lurched as it rolled over brush and dropped off up-thrust rocks. Five minutes ago, Jack had been freezing. Now, trapped with thirty frightened people in the black belly of the truck, he was sweating, and thought he might throw up.
Krista traded more Spanish, then switched to English.
“They’ll want to know who we are. Don’t tell them, baby. Lie. We can’t tell them who you are.”
“Maybe they’ll let us go.”
“Just don’t. You can’t.”
“I can pay them.”
“Don’t. Promise me, Jack. Don’t even try.”
Jack put his arms around her, and held on as they bounced slowly across the desert. A few minutes later, they were on a road, and the truck picked up speed. Jack checked the time on his digital watch. Fifteen minutes later, the road became paved. Twenty-two minutes after they reached pavement, the truck slowed, backed up, then stopped. A drive this short meant they were still in the desert.
The lock was removed, and the door rose with a ratcheting clatter, filling the truck with grim red shadows. Jack checked the time. 2:55
A.M.
The people ahead of them started to move.
Krista’s whisper drifted over her shoulder.
“Don’t tell them who you are.”
Jack and Krista followed the others into a world the color of blood.