Taken

  Pike glanced at Stone in the rearview.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  Stone had more of the kimchee.

  “A couple of ex-ROK paratroops at a soju bar over here a few weeks ago. Double Dragons have these twin dragons inked on their arms, and these two assholes wanted to impress me with their ink. Hence, they gave up the farm.”

  Stone grinned.

  “Too much soju. Just like those shitbirds in Africa.”

  We followed the Beemer only six blocks until it made a left, went two more blocks, and pulled to the curb outside a soju bar.

  Stone broke into an even nastier smile.

  “Is this too perfect or what? That’s the place right there—where I talked up the ROKs.”

  The big guy stayed in the car, and Park went inside. He stayed for almost twenty minutes before he and another man came out. The other man was much older, with a leathery face, steel gray hair, and his eyes almost hidden by wrinkles. He didn’t look happy, and neither did Sang Ki Park.

  Stone tapped the air with his chopstick.

  “That would be the uncle, Young Min Park.”

  “The boss?”

  “That’s the man. This was the first bar the Dragons took over. He owns it.”

  I twisted around, and looked at him. Stone shrugged.

  “Those ROK guys wouldn’t shut up, bro. They just could not stop talking. You hear shit, you tuck it away, you never know.”

  I turned back to the Beemer.

  Jon Stone looked like a demented surfer with his spiky, bleached hair and pierced ear, but I knew his background with Delta. Sometimes you forget what that means. Most people think Delta, they’re thinking of Rambo, with the big gun and even bigger muscles. D-boys are deadly warriors, for sure, but you won’t find many who look like Rambo. This is because you can’t rescue hostages or snatch high-value targets from hostile villages unless you find them, so D-boys are also selected to gather intelligence. They are off-the-charts smart, look ordinary, and are trained to blend in anywhere with anyone. This is why D-boys are called operators. Jon Stone had worked the two drunk ex-ROK gangsters for no other reason than gathering intelligence was in his nature.

  As we watched, the older man shook his finger angrily under Sang Ki Park’s nose. Park didn’t like it, but took it. The old man steadily grew more angry until the finger wasn’t enough. He slapped Park’s face hard, then stormed back into his bar.

  Stone said, “The old man isn’t liking his nephew so much these days.”

  Pike said, “What were they saying?”

  “Couldn’t hear, but it’s an easy guess. The nephew here just lost two hundred thousand and a boatload of workers. They probably weren’t talking about a promotion.”

  Their next stop was a large two-level strip mall on Vermont. The strip mall was in the final stages of being remodeled, with a club and a restaurant taking up most of the upper level and what looked like another bar and a karaoke lounge on the lower level. A large sign in Korean script and English hung across the front of the karaoke lounge: OPENING SOON.

  Stone said, “Y’see? This is what I was talking about. You can’t open for business without the right staff.”

  I liked it. Under construction was good. Opening soon was good. The more pressure Park felt to recover his people, the more desperately he would look for ways to do so.

  We stopped at two more strip malls and a large commercial building on Western Avenue. Park met people at each site, and toured the properties as if checking their progress, but no one looked happy, especially Park.

  One hour and thirty-six minutes later, we followed his Beemer eleven blocks north to a small Craftsman home between Beverly and Melrose, not far from Paramount Studios. The house and front yard were small, but neat and clean with an attractive flower bed surrounding a crepe myrtle tree. A black Porsche Cabriolet was parked in the drive. The Beemer pulled in behind it, and parked. The drive was so short, the Beemer’s tail hung over the sidewalk.

  Park got out, went to the front door, and let himself in without a key. The big man rolled down both front windows, and stayed in the car. He would be there for a while.

  I said, “Here we go.”

  Pike stopped in front of the neighboring house, and the three of us got out quickly and quietly. We crossed the neighbor’s drive and walked directly to the Beemer, Stone to the passenger side, and Pike and I to the driver’s side.

  The big man glimpsed movement, and turned, but by then I had my pistol out.

  “Remember me?”

  He jerked sideways, but grew still when he saw the gun.

  From the other side of the car, Jon Stone spoke Korean. The big man gripped the wheel, both hands, ten and two. Stone slipped into the passenger side, holding a .45 caliber service automatic. They had a brief conversation, then Jon explained.

  “He’s seeing a girlfriend. I’m good here. Go.”

  “Does she have kids?”

  Stone spoke again.

  “No kids. Go.”

  Pike and I went to the front door and quietly let ourselves into a classic Craftsman living room. The wood floors and doors and trim around the windows were so dark the wood was almost black, so we followed their voices. I thought we would find them in her bedroom, but they were in a sunroom at the end of the hall.

  Sang Ki Park and a young woman were sitting at a small round table framed in a glass bay window looking out at an avocado tree. The woman was slender, Asian, and probably in her twenties. Park had taken off his suit coat, and rolled his sleeves. She was laughing at something he said, and Park was smiling. Then I stepped inside, and their laughing stopped. The girl made a surprised gasp, and Park pushed to his feet. He was smart enough not to reach for a weapon, but he grew angry, squared himself, and shouted a belligerent stream of Korean. I held my gun to the side, pointing away.

  “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 & 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?”