Taken

by Robert Crais

  “Let him the hell go. Don’t you see we got people here? We’re doing business.”

  The three men glanced at me as if I had been invisible until that moment, then the man holding the kid barked a broken-English command.

  “Leave now. Come back tomorrow.”

  I looked from him to the brothers, and wondered what was between them. I didn’t like the way they held the kid, or the way they assumed I would leave, or how they wore suits in the hundred-degree heat.

  He barked again, louder.

  “Leave now.”

  I said, “I’m from the government. I’m here to ruin your day.”

  Now he barked in a language I didn’t understand, and the big man reached for my arm. He was heavier and probably stronger, but he didn’t have time to use his weight or strength. I rolled his hand away, stepped into him with my left foot, and brought my right knee up into his liver. He went down as Joe Pike came through the door, kicked the legs from beneath the last man, and slammed him facedown into the floor. Then Pike’s gun was out, and up, and on the talker, and so was mine. Start to finish, three-quarters of one second.

  I smiled at the talker.

  “Nice suit.”

  He let the boy go, and the boy scurried to his brothers. Then the man said something else I didn’t understand.

  Pike said, “Korean.”

  The Korean didn’t look scared.

  “You should go. Go now.”

  Pike took small pistols off each of them, and slipped them into his pockets.

  I looked at the brothers behind their desk. They didn’t look like banditos or criminal coyotes. They looked like three rabbits pinned by the headlights.

  I tipped my gun toward the suits.

  “Who are these people?”

  Rudy J wet his lips, then shook his head. Too scared to speak.

  I said, “Want to call the police?”

  Rudy J shook his head again, but it wasn’t good enough for the Korean.

  “They owe us money. You should not be involved.”

  Rudy J said, “Man, we don’t. I told you. The Syrian took’m. I don’t know what else to say.”

  He was pleading.

  The big guy was moving like he might try to get up. I cocked my pistol, pointed it at his head, but spoke to the talker.

  “If he gets up too fast, I’ll hurt him.”

  The talker stared at me as if deciding whether to continue, then kicked the big man hard in the back, shouting in more Korean. He kicked him twice more, and then we all heard a loud buzzing. The talker reached into his pocket, came out with a vibrating cell phone, and looked outside through the glass. Everyone else looked, too.

  Three men climbed from a dark gray four-door sedan. Short-sleeved Arrow shirts and ties, carrying their jackets like men who didn’t want to put them on. A lanky African-American and a bald, pale Anglo got out of the front. A trim, well-built man with crew-cut red hair climbed from the back. They moved slowly, scanning their surroundings like they were getting the lay of the land, or maybe they wanted to make sure no one was going to shoot them. It was obvious they were cops even before the black cop took a holstered snub-nose from the car and clipped it to his belt beside a badge.

  Rudy J said, “That’s the police. The black guy, that’s Detective Spurlow.”

  The head Korean glanced at me, then pulled his two friends to their feet as Rudy J continued.

  “That bald guy is Lance. They’re the ones told us about the old man. I don’t know that other guy.”

  Eddie said, “Lange. It was Lange, not Lance.”

  Outside, the officers slipped into their jackets, shaking themselves because the cloth stuck to their skin.

  The head Korean stepped close, and looked like he wanted to rip out my heart.

  “You have guns. Give back now.”

  Pike said, “Not him. Me.”

  The talker glared at Pike for a moment, then smiled as if he was giving Pike a break, and swaggered out through the door. His minions followed. All three smiled as they passed the officers, climbed into a black BMW sedan, and drove out of the yard.

  Pike said, “Watch.”

  As they passed the Subaru, the man in the hat nodded at the men in the Beemer. A moment later, the man in the hat sat taller and started his car.

  Pike trotted past the brothers and left through the rear.

  The officers had gotten themselves together, and were coming our way. None of them hurried, but they didn’t have far to go.

  Rudy was staring at me. His mouth worked as if he was terrified of what I might do.

  I said, “Who were those guys?”

  “I don’t know, man. They were in with my dad.”

  He wet his lips, and glanced at the approaching officers, and I glanced at them, too.

  “I’m coming back.”

  I left through the front door just like the Koreans, nodded at the officers the way strangers do, and mumbled something about the heat. Spurlow nodded back and Lange ignored me, but the red-haired guy locked eyes with me and didn’t let go.

  I kept walking, just a man going to his car at the end of the day, only I wasn’t. Each step was careful and measured, and with each step I hoped they wouldn’t stop me.

  When I passed through the gate, Spurlow and Lange were inside, but the red-haired guy was in the door. He was watching me with eyes so narrow they looked like slits.

  Joe Pike called as I reached my car.

  “The Subaru climbed the first on-ramp. The Beemer is somewhere ahead.”

  “Which direction?”

  “L.A.”

  “Find the Beemer. Follow it. I’ll stay with the brothers.”

  I pulled around the corner, parked behind the taco stand, and waited for the police.

  Jack and Krista:

  nine hours after they were taken

  14.

  They were herded from blackness through a blood-red world, then into light so bright Krista closed her eyes. When she opened them, squinting against the glare, they were shuffling through a small house, Jack close behind her. Now in the harsh light, this was the first time she saw the others clearly. They were mostly Asian, but also a few Latins and people who might have been from the Middle East or India. One by one, they were searched as they walked. Belts and shoes were taken, and tossed into a growing pile. Six or eight men with shock prods and clubs pushed the crowd through the house. Krista did not look at them. She kept her eyes down, afraid to make contact.

  The house was shabby, and empty of furniture. The harsh light came from hundred-watt bulbs in shade-less lamps. The shuffling line slowed, then was prodded into a small room.

  Behind her, Jack’s whisper.

  “We’re fucking trapped.”

  Heavy plywood panels were screwed over the windows, completely covering them. The floor was a stained wall-to-wall carpet, a narrow door revealed an empty closet, and the sickly blue walls bore crayon marks and holes where tape and nails had been removed. An empty plastic bucket, one roll of toilet paper, and a case of plastic water bottles waited in the corner.

  Krista guessed they were in a boy’s bedroom. The bedroom was small, filled quickly, and then the door closed.

  No one moved. The people who now filled the crowded room stood as if waiting for something more to happen, as if they were too shocked or afraid to move.

  Krista and Jack did not move, either. She turned to Jack, and he hugged her, and they stood without moving as people around them cried.

  Krista cried, too, and felt Jack sob as he held her.

  The man said, “I am Samuel Rojas. You may call me Sam.”

  Seeing she was Latin, he spoke to her in Spanish and she answered in the same, pretending to be a Mexican.

  People were taken from the room in no particular order. The door would open, a man would come in, motion to someone, and take that person away. They always came back a few minutes later, and no one was hurt, so Krista wasn’t afraid when the guard she would soon know as Mr. Rojas motio
ned her to him. Jack held her arm a moment too long, but she pried his hand gently away, and told him it would be fine.

  The man brought her to the kitchen, and they sat facing each other on the dirty vinyl floor. Following Rojas to the kitchen, she saw other guards in paired conversation with prisoners in the living and dining rooms. Krista also noted the windows in these rooms were covered by the same heavy plywood, and the front door was sealed in the same way. She felt a hollow sickness in her stomach when she realized the entire house was a prison, and suddenly the kitchen felt hotter even though the AC was blasting.

  Once they were seated, Rojas opened a spiral notebook. The cover showed a unicorn reared on its hind legs.

  “What is your name?”

  “Krista Morales.”

  “Where are you from, Krista?”

  “Hermosillo. In Sonora.”

  “It is very pretty there. I have always wanted to see it. I am from Torreón, in Coahuila. It is not so pretty there.”

  Rojas made notes in the spiral notebook as they talked. He had a reassuring smile and a gentle voice.

  Krista heard the Asian language in the next room, and a frustrated conference in Spanish between two of the guards. None of them spoke the language, so they had no way to communicate with the prisoner.

  “Do you have family there in Hermosillo?”

  “No, I am the last. The aunt I lived with, she died.”

  “That is such terrible news. Is this why you are traveling north?”

  “Yes. There is nothing for me at home.”

  “Do you have family in the north, or a job?”

  “My mother.”

  Rojas smiled, and Krista knew she had said the right thing. She had desperately been trying to recall everything she knew about how bajadores operated, and what the people from Guatemala had told her.

  “Ah, that is very good for you. A mother in your new home. Where is she?”

  “Los Angeles. A place called Eagle Rock.”

  “Ah, good. She is waiting for you?”

  “Yes. She sent her friend’s son to pick me up.”

  Now Rojas cocked his head.

  “What friend is this?”

  “Her friend’s son, Jack Berman. The Anglo boy who is with me. He was waiting at the airplane when you took us.”

  Rojas wet his lips, and glanced toward the living room before going on.

  “This boy, he is here?”

  “Yes. In the room.”

  Rojas went to the entry, and gestured to someone in the living room. A moment later, a dark man with long hair and tiny, jet black eyes joined him. The man stared at Krista as Rojas whispered in his ear. They had a quiet conversation, then the man walked away, and Rojas returned to resume their conversation.

  “Does she have a good job, your mother?”

  “She is a housekeeper.”

  “That is good, steady work. Do you have other family? Aunts, uncles, cousins?”

  “No. There is only my mother.”

  Rojas scribbled quickly.

  “What is her name and phone number?”

  “Why do you wish to know this?”

  “She will have to pay our expenses before we deliver you. Unfortunate, but once she has paid, we will let you go home.”

  “She is a housekeeper.”

  “This is good, steady work, so she probably has savings, and maybe a generous employer. We will let you call her. Not now, but later.”

  Krista gave him her mother’s name and cell phone number. As Rojas was recording these things in his ledger, two men entered from the utility room, which was the same door through which Krista and the others were brought into the house. The first man was tall and dark, with hollow cheeks and the face of a hawk. Krista thought he was a deeply tanned Anglo, then realized he was Arab. The other was a shorter, burly Latin, with broad shoulders and a large stomach. The tall man glanced down at her, but paid no attention. He wore tight designer jeans and a knit shirt that showed overdeveloped arms and shoulders. His long, black hair was pulled back into a ponytail. One glance at her, and the tall man strode across the kitchen to the entry, and called for someone named Vasco. The man with tiny eyes reappeared almost at once, smiling broadly as he greeted the new man. Krista saw that his teeth were jagged and broken, as if he had been in many fights, and never had them fixed. The two men disappeared as they moved into the house.

  The burly man nudged Rojas with his toe, and spoke.

  “Got the food out here. C’mon, the Syrian doesn’t want to spend the night.”

  Rojas answered in English.

  “Fuck you, Orlato. I’m not your bitch.”

  “You can tell it to The Man when I tell him why he has to wait. Then we’ll see whose bitch you are.”

  Orlato toed him again.

  “C’mon, make this puta here help. It’s only a few pies. How many you get?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Cool.”

  Rojas switched to Spanish when he told Krista to follow him. He led her out of the kitchen into the utility room and then into the garage. The utility room held a washer and dryer. A door that probably opened on the side of the house was covered by plywood just like the windows. There would be no way to open the door without removing the plywood, but a dozen wood screws held it in place.

  Earlier, when they arrived at the house, the big truck had backed up to the garage, and black plastic hung to hide its cargo as they unloaded. Now, the truck and the dim red lights that illuminated the garage were gone, and the garage held a charcoal gray Lexus SUV and a long blue BMW sedan.

  Rojas said, “Smells like pepperoni. Yum!”

  The BMW’s back seat was filled with three stacks of giant pizza boxes, five boxes per stack. Rojas handed five boxes to Krista, took ten for himself, and also two plastic grocery bags. When she followed him back between the cars to the utility room, she saw a switch mounted on the wall by the door inside the garage. Wires ran up the wall from the switch, across the garage ceiling, then down to the overhead door’s motor. Krista instantly knew this was a switch to open and close the garage door.

  Krista’s heart beat faster as she considered the switch. The door would be noisy, and would take precious seconds to rise, but one push, and she could be free.

  Then they were through the door and inside the utility room. Like the rest of the house, it was small and cramped, and Rojas clumsily bumped into the washing machine with his stack of pizzas. The top two boxes fell, Rojas tried to catch them, and three more boxes hit the floor with a crash. Rojas cursed, and told her to help him pick up the food. When she set her own boxes on the washing machine to help, Krista noticed a square access door in the ceiling. It had not been blocked or screwed shut, and would open into the attic so people could service air-conditioning ducts or pipes or whatever was in the crawl space.

  It was in the ceiling, but she could reach it by climbing onto the washer.

  Krista Morales, who was smart and resourceful, began to work out a plan.

  15.

  Five seconds after they took her, Jack pushed to the door and tried the knob, but it was locked. He twisted as hard as he could, pushed, jerked back and forth, but it was no good. These weren’t ordinary interior doorknobs and locks. The knobs had been changed so the doors could be locked from the outside, and the locks were deadbolts. Jack punched the door in frustration and edged through the crowd, trying to burn off his fear, but had no place to move. He finally made his way to a spot against the plywood, and leaned with his back to the wall, studying the other prisoners.

  The little room felt like a steam bath. A laser of cold air blew from an AC vent in the ceiling, but was immediately swallowed by the heat of so many bodies crowded into the tiny space. Their smell was making him sick, and he wondered how many days they had been traveling.

  Thirteen people were wedged into the room. Jack and Krista made fifteen. Nine were Asians who appeared to be in their twenties or thirties, though three were much older. There were two singleton
Latins and the Guatemalan couple. All of them looked hungry, tired, and poor. Their shabby, sweat-stained clothes were either too thin or too coarse, and their eyes were frightened. A few hugged meager cloth bags, but these had been looted when they were taken.

  The Asians had clumped in the opposite corner, most skinny young women and men who sat on their heels with vacant expressions, but one sat to the side by himself. He was young, too, but didn’t look like the others. He was muscular and fit, with nice clothes and glistening hair that was short on the sides and straight up on top. His eyes were hard and angry, and his face rippled as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. He must have felt Jack’s stare because he suddenly looked dead into Jack’s eyes, and Jack glanced away.

  Jack said, “Does anyone here speak English? Any English speakers?”

  The Guatemalan man answered.

  “I say a leetle some.”

  A slim Asian girl raised a delicate hand.

  “I understand some. My speaking not so well.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Korea. Are we close to Olympic Boulevard? We go to Olympic Boulevard.”

  Her accent was so bad Jack did not understand her at first, then realized she was saying “Olympic Boulevard.” So many Koreans had settled between Olympic and Wilshire in the midtown area, the neighborhood was now known as Koreatown. Jack and Krista had been twice, once for galbi and once to a karaoke bar. Neither of them had sung, but it had been fun to watch.

  They were interrupted when the door opened, and two guards entered. The first guard was a short, muscular African-American. He cast his eyes around the room, then pointed at the tough-looking Korean kid.

  “You. Yeah, you, c’mon, get up.”

  He spoke perfect English, but Jack couldn’t tell if the Korean kid understood English or not. The guard motioned him to get up, so he slowly stood. The guard motioned him closer, so he went closer. He didn’t shuffle forward with downcast eyes like the others. He held himself erect and met the guard’s eyes. The guard took his arm, and they left.

  Two minutes later, the door opened again, and Jack felt a rush of relief when he saw Krista. Her eyes told him to play it cool, so he showed no emotion as she came toward him.