Taken

  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.

  “Wheels? This kid can’t walk.”

  “Straight ahead and across the street.”

  Random gunfire came from the trees. I heard automatic-weapons fire behind us, and wondered if it was Jon Stone.

  Pike and I carried Jack Berman between us. We jogged straight down the gravel drive as the gunfire lessened behind us, crossed the street, and made our way to Pike’s Jeep where it was parked beside an old irrigation truck.

  Jack said, “I can walk. I’m fine.”

  We ignored him.

  Pike unlocked the Jeep. Krista opened the back door, and we pushed Jack inside.

  “We have to get this kid to a hospital. Krista, you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I nodded at Pike.

  “Let’s get out of here before we get hung up with the police.”

  Pike closed the door, and Ghazi al-Diri stepped from behind the old truck. He carried a short black shotgun, and his ponytail had come untied. His hair hung loose at his shoulders.

  I said, “Joe, this is Ghazi al-Diri, the Syrian.”

  He raised the shotgun.

  “Put down the keys and walk away. I want the vehicle.”

  His men must have taken his car and left him with nothing.

  Krista said, “Fuck you. We have to take my boyfriend to the hospital.”

  The Syrian jerked the gun to his shoulder, and shouted.

  “Move or I kill you!”

  A loud roar of automatic fire kicked up debris from the ground at his feet, and the shotgun spun lazily away.

  Then the roar stopped, and Jon Stone ran up, put al-Diri facedown in the dirt, and parked a knee on his neck.

  Stone nodded at me.

  “You good?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Where’s the boy?”

  “Jeep. We have to get him to a doctor.”

  Stone touched the M4’s muzzle to the back of al-Diri’s head.

  “Go. This one’s mine. See after Mr. Berman.”

  We did.

  Nancie Stendahl

  The black dot did not move. Nancie hoped this was a good sign. Stone was probably parked, and if Stone was close to Jack, this meant she was close to Jack.

  Mo said, “Two miles, heading zero-eight-zero.”

  The five people on the helicopter looked in the same direction at the same time. Farms. Rectangles of green painted on the gray desert sand.

  “One mile. Right in front of us.”

  The pilot tipped the nose and dropped to three hundred feet.

  Stan Uhlman said, “Anyone sees a red Jeep, please raise your hand.”

  “Quarter mile. Three, two, one, we’re on top of it.”

  JT
said, “What is that, palm trees?”

  Mo said, “It’s a date farm. It looks deserted.”

  Nancie said, “Lower.”

  The pilot dropped to two hundred feet and made a slow pass. They saw no people or movement or life. They saw no bodies.

  Mo said, “We’re right on top of it. You see that building? It’s parked in that building.”

  Nancie said, “I see five buildings. Which one?”

  “On the end. First one in from the entrance.”

  Nancie said, “Land.”

  The pilot touched down on a flat area to the west of the orchard, and safely away from the trees. Nancie, Mo, JT, and Stan walked back together as the rotor spun down. The pilot stayed with her ship.

  They were thirty yards from the building when Nancie’s cell phone buzzed. She answered automatically.

  “Nancie Stendahl.”

  “Keep walking.”

  “Who is this?”

  “You know who! I’m too cute to forget.”

  She couldn’t help herself.

  “Jon Stone.”

  “Jack’s safe.”

  Nancie stopped, causing Mo and Stan Uhlman to bump into her.

  “Talk to me. Where is he?”

  “He was delivered to the Coachella Regional Medical Center about an hour ago. Emergency room. Go see him when you finish here. Take him home.”

  Nancie looked at the building.

  “What do you mean, finish here? What’s here?”

  “Present. You find my first present?”

  “Did you kill those people?”

  “No, ma’am, I did not. Keep walkin’.”

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Who killed those people?”

  “Walk. I’ll call back in a bit, fill in some blanks.”

  “How’d you get this number? This is my personal number.”

  “Go see. From me to you.”

  She lowered her phone and walked to the building, picking up speed, but stopped cold when she reached the door. A bound man was on the floor. His hands, arms, legs, and ankles were bound, and a strip of duct tape covered his mouth. He had long black hair bunched around his face, and he stared at her with angry eyes. She stared back, then slowly walked over.

  “Are you Ghazi al-Diri?”

  She pinched the corner of the tape and ripped it off.

  “Are you Ghazi al-Diri?”

  “Who are you?”

  She smiled, and showed him her badge.

  “I’m the person who’s looking forward to speaking with you.”

  She pressed the tape back over his mouth, then went back to the others and phoned in additional SRT teams.

  47.

  Elvis Cole

  The ER staff let Krista stay with Jack while they evaluated him. They told me it shouldn’t take long, so I phoned Nita Morales from the waiting room while Pike looked on. I used his phone. The only person there besides us was an elderly woman who held rosary beads and stared into space.

  I said, “She’s safe. I’m bringing her home.”

  Nita was silent. I let her have those moments because they are personal and precious, and after a few seconds I heard the soft whispers of her crying.

  “Thank you. I knew you—I knew you were—”

  “Shh. It’s okay. She’s with me, and I’m bringing her home.”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  “I’ll put her on, but I want to tell you where she’s been and what she’s been through. She’s with Jack now, so I can speak freely.”

  A touch of frost brittled her voice. I could feel it from a hundred miles away.

  “Did he get her into this?”

  I softened my voice, and made it caring. I truly did understand where she was coming from.

  “No, Nita, he didn’t. She’s with him now because we brought him to the Coachella hospital. He’s going to be okay, but he got hurt pretty bad trying to take care of her.”

  I told her everything I knew about what happened while Krista was held by Dennis Orlato’s crew. I felt, and still do, that giving Nita the time to work through her fears would help later when she and Krista spoke.

  Pike and I were still waiting twenty minutes later, so I asked a male nurse if Jack was still waiting to be seen. When the nurse told me the evaluation had finished fifteen minutes ago, I asked him to send Krista out.

  She fidgeted when she saw me.

  “They want him to see a doctor closer to home, but he’s going to be fine. He called his aunt. I want to wait with him until she gets here.”

  “He can wait for his aunt by himself. I’m taking you home.”

  “I’m going to stay. He doesn’t have anyone here. I think I should stay.”

  “We’re going home. This isn’t over until you’re home.”

  I would have carried her if she refused, but she didn’t. She didn’t like leaving Jack, but she also wanted her mother.

  The three of us said almost nothing as we drove back to L.A., but it was a clear and pretty day, and the traffic was light. Krista rode in back. She spoke quietly to her mother for a few minutes, but most of what I heard were yes or no answers. She had lived it, and was burned out now, and didn’t have more to give. Sometimes it takes a few days. Sometimes, longer. She gave back Pike’s phone and said nothing more until we entered the Banning Pass. The desert was behind us, and falling farther behind.

  She said, “I just wanted to see.”

  “This wasn’t your fault. The Syrian, Orlato, the people who did these horrible things—it was their fault. They did it. Not you.”

  A little while later, I heard her sniffle. I reached back, and held her hand.

  When we reached the city, I phoned Nita to tell her we were five minutes away. Nita and twenty-five or thirty people were waiting outside when we arrived, and they were all wearing the T-shirt. Elvis Cole Detective Agency. World’s Greatest Detective. They had spent the past two hours making the shirts.

  Nita enveloped Krista and wouldn’t let go, and cried so hard she shook. Farther back in the crowd, the big kid with the big shoulders I’d met on the first day called out.

  “Magazine guy!”

  He gave me a thumbs-up, beaming.

  Nita grabbed onto me next, and wept even harder.

  “God bless you. God bless you for this. I owe you everything. I owe you my life.”

  I hugged her back, as tight as I have ever hugged anyone, and then Pike drove me home. We took the Hollywood Freeway north to the Cahuenga Pass, then Mulholland along the crest to Laurel. I don’t think we spoke ten words, which was normal for Pike but not for me. As with Krista, sometimes these things take time.

  We drifted down Woodrow Wilson to my little street, rounded the last curve, and saw my home. I smiled when I saw it. I usually do.

  We parked across the drive, and went through the carport to the kitchen door, which is how I always enter my home, but this time something was different. I studied the car.

  “It’s clean.”

  Pike touched the yellow skin.

  “Needs wax.”

  “You washed it?”

  “Rinsed it.”

  He frowned at his Jeep, and turned away. It had picked up some pits and dings in the desert, along with a heavy layer of dust.

  I reached the door, and realized I didn’t have my keys.

  “No key.”

  Pike let us in.

  My keys and cell phone and things were on the counter where he left them.

  “You want a beer? Something to eat?”

  “Water.”

  I got two waters from the fridge, and we drank them, leaning against the counters. My cat came in. He purred when he saw me, blinked at Pike, then rubbed against my leg.

  I said, “Hey, bud.”

  He did a figure eight between my ankles, wandered over to Pike, and flopped onto the floor.

  I took a breath. I had some of the water, and took another breath. I looked at Pike.

  “Thank you.”

&n
bsp; He dug something from his pocket, and held it out.

  “You dropped this.”

  I smiled at the little Jiminy, then put it on the counter. Nita told me she would take it back when I found her daughter, and I was going to hold her to it. Dreams really can come true.

  I wanted to shower. I wanted to brush my teeth, and floss, and shave, and get out of clothes that smelled of blood and torture and death. I wanted to put the desert behind me, but some things are more important.

  I gathered up the plastic mop bucket I keep in the laundry room, some dish soap and towels, and took them outside. Pike and the cat followed me.

  I filled the bucket with soapy water, soaked a towel, and went to work washing Pike’s Jeep. I rubbed hard to get rid of the desert. Pike picked up a towel and joined me. The cat crouched under my car and watched.

  We washed away the dirt and dust, but the desert had put dings and pits in the paint that were part of the Jeep now, but that’s as it should be. They would fill with wax over time, and eventually be lost in the shine.

  That day would come with enough work and patience. Pike knew it, and I knew it, too.

  We washed his old Jeep, and buffed its bright skin. We made the Jeep as right as we could, and everything with it.

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  Acknowledgments

  The Putnam production team went above and beyond to make this book happen. The author apologizes for jamming their time line, and thanks them for their herculean efforts on his behalf, most notably Meredith Dros.

  Copyediting is an often thankless job done under difficult circumstances. Patricia Crais worked with a constantly changing manuscript, requiring her to revisit and revise her own work for far too many last-minute, sleepless nights. Thank you.

  Neil Nyren and Ivan Held are the Thor and Odin of publishing. No publishers could have shown more courage, faith, and support. They are war dogs.

  English-to-Arabic translations were provided by David Coronel. English-to-Korean translations were provided by Ashley An and Jae-Jin Kim. Thank you, all.

  Thanks to Aaron Priest, as always, for having my back, and pushing me forward.

  ALSO BY ROBERT CRAIS