Taken

by Robert Crais

  “enta bethahraf aina be naifham kuiais. eish auzanee le olak bel logha arabeia.”

  Jon answered in street Arabic, saying Pike already knew he was fluent, and asking what he wanted translated.

  Jon Stone was fluent in English, Arabic, Korean, Chinese, Spanish, Russian, and French. He could get by in Farsi, Japanese, German, and three different African dialects. He had studied only English and French in school.

  Pike said, “Copy the address. Come down and see.”

  “I didn’t hear a ka-ching.”

  “Come down.”

  “I’ve been away, man, c’mon.”

  Pike didn’t respond, and Stone knew Pike was waiting him out.

  “Twenty of the last twenty-one. I still smell like camels.”

  “You miss it already.”

  Stone stared at the faint eastern light and admitted Pike had him. Eighteen hours at home, and he already wanted to go.

  “What about the money?”

  “No money. It’s Cole.”

  “That lame-ass turd works for shit. Why you waste your time with that guy?”

  “If you can’t help, you’re gone. I’ll owe you a favor.”

  Now Stone perked up. Pike’s favors meant money. He made a big deal of sighing, as if doing it was some monstrous pain in the ass, but he was already committed.

  “Okay. All right. Where are you?”

  Pike gave him an address.

  Stone didn’t bother writing it because he would not forget it. Jon Stone never forgot anything, and never had. He could still recite junior high textbooks, operating and maintenance manuals for the M249 SAW light machine gun and twenty-seven other personal weapons systems, and both volumes of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, by Julia Child. Every word. Every word of every document, book, newspaper, and article he had ever read. School had been easy. Delta had been hard. Jon liked it hard.

  “Be there in thirty.”

  Stone placed his phone back on his belly. Far to the south, a line of bright lights descended toward LAX. Eighteen hours ago, he was strapped inside one of the lights.

  Jon cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted as loudly as he could.

  “KISS MY ASSSSSS!”

  Far in the canyon below, another voice answered.

  “Shut the fuck up, asshole!”

  Jon Stone laughed, naked there in his backyard overlooking a golden city, then went inside to dress for the day.

  Part 2

  Elvis Cole:

  three days before he is taken

  21.

  Thomas Locano phoned me at six the next morning, so early the canyon behind my house still held the fading threads of yesterday’s fog. I had slept on the couch.

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you so quickly. Is everything all right?”

  “My apologies for the hour, but I told you I might phone early.”

  “Yes, sir, you did. This isn’t a problem.”

  “Can you meet me in Echo Park by seven?”

  I rolled off the couch, and went to the kitchen. This black cat who lives with me was waiting by his dish, but he wasn’t waiting for me to feed him. He had brought his own. A fourteen-inch piece of king snake was on the floor by the bowl. It was still twitching. Maybe he wanted to share.

  I said, “You found something about the Syrian?”

  “I found someone who knows of this man. We will see him together if you will meet me, but it has to be now. He has other obligations.”

  I took the snake outside and dropped it over the rail. The cat let out a long, low war growl, then slipped off the deck after his kill. He would hold it against me.

  I checked the time.

  “I’ll be out the door in fifteen. Where do we meet?”

  “On the east side of the lake, where they rent the paddle boats? You will see me.”

  I shaved, changed shirts, and was making a fast cup of instant when Joe Pike called.

  He said, “Jon’s in. He knows these people. Come down, he’ll fill us in.”

  “Locano called first. I’m heading out now. He may have a line on the Syrian.”

  “We’ll stay with the Beemer. Come when you can.”

  I tossed the phone on the couch, locked the door, and followed the Hollywood Freeway south toward downtown Los Angeles. It was exactly the same route I drove when I first met Nita Morales, but this time I dropped off the freeway at Echo Park, an old and long-established community built around a decorative lake. The lake is encircled by a narrow green area split by a bike path. In the early days of Los Angeles, the silent film industry was centered in Echo Park before it moved to Hollywood, and the nearby Elysian Hills and Angelino Heights neighborhoods were home to the rich and famous. The makeup of the area has slowly changed since the film people left, and is now mostly home to working-class immigrants from Asia and Central America.

  I made my way to the east side of Echo Lake, parked on a nearby street, and hurried to the boathouse. Even at this early hour, joggers and walkers circled the lake, and short brown women pushed baby carriages in schools like fish or stood talking to friends with their carriages parked like cars at a demolition derby.

  Thomas Locano stood between two palm trees at the edge of the water, and wasn’t alone. A skinny Latin kid wearing white pants and a white T-shirt was with him. The kid was bald, maybe five four, and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred ten pounds. He was also sleeved out and necklaced with gang ink, and couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old. They watched me approach, and Mr. Locano spoke first.

  “Mr. Cole, this is my friend Alfredo Munoz. Fredo, this is my good friend Mr. Cole. He is also close to another good friend, Nita Morales.”

  “Hey, Fredo. Good to meet you.”

  “Uhn, yeah, you too.”

  Fredo met my eyes, then glanced away as he offered his hand. His grip was limp, as if he was vaguely embarrassed. Up close, I saw a fine dusting of white powder on his face and neck and upper arms. Flour. His hands and forearms were clean, but he hadn’t washed above his elbows. Locano went on with his introduction.

  “Fredo works as a baker’s apprentice here on the next block. Every morning from five to seven, then school by eight.”

  I nodded, trying to look encouraging.

  “Man, that’s early. That’s some schedule you have, Fredo.”

  Fredo glanced away.

  “Uhn. It’s okay. It’s good. Mr. Locano set it up.”

  I stared at Locano, my expression asking why we were here with this boy, but then the boy spoke again, and when I looked back he was staring at me.

  “That Syrian guy killed Raoul. I know about that guy. I tell you what I know.”

  I blinked at him, then looked at Locano again.

  “Raoul was Fredo’s brother. Raoul and Fredo were born here, but their parents weren’t. I represented them in a deportation hearing.”

  “One outta two, that ain’t so bad.”

  Locano looked embarrassed.

  “Their father was relocated, but we made arrangements for their mother to stay.”

  “He got her a work visa. That ain’t so bad.”

  Mr. Locano cleared his throat.

  “Raoul worked with Sinaloa here in Los Angeles and in San Diego. So did Fredo.”

  Fredo said, “Uhn. Eastside Kings.”

  The Eastside Kings were a Latin gang with ties to the Mexican Mafia.

  I studied Fredo.

  “How old are you?”

  “Uhn. Don’t let that fool you, but I’m done with all that. I’m looking to the future.”

  Locano filled in the blanks again.

  “The different cartels have members all through the United States. They form partnerships with local gangs for the manpower and connections. One such partnership was with the Eastside Kings here, and a Kings affiliate in San Diego. Raoul and the other Kings were drivers. They brought marijuana and cocaine north up through San Diego.”

  “I made that trip lots of times. I coulda been with him t
hat day. Uhn.”

  I stared at Fredo, and decided he was a million years old.

  “Have you met the Syrian?”

  “No, uh-uh. Uhn. I wanted to, though, I tell you that, but now I wanna get right.”

  “Then how do you know about him?”

  “The shot callers told us what happened, and these Sinaloa Mexicans came up. Two of our guys got away, and the Sinaloas wanted to hear it firsthand. They said it was him, this Syrian dude and his crew. They popped Raoul and this dude Hector, double-tap right here—”

  Fredo touched his head, not even slowing.

  “—and took the truck, and that was two hundred pounds of cocaine, that’s what they say, I never saw it. Jesús and Ocho, they got away. Those Sinaloa pricks, they thought Jesús and Ocho was in on it or some crazy shit, tol’ the Syrian where to find the truck or some shit, and those Sinaloas fucked’m up real good. They cut off Ocho’s fingers, uhn. Those Sinaloas, they said how did he know which truck? He had to get the information from somebody, and they put it on Ocho. I watched that shit happen. That’s when I’m gone, dude, uhn. I don’t need some dog shootin’ my back. My mama, she called Mr. L here, and he’s helpin’ me get right. He tryin’ to get my father back in, too. That ain’t so bad.”

  Locano nodded when Fredo finished, and thoughtfully crossed his arms.

  “When you mentioned the connection to Sinaloa, I remembered Fredo and Raoul.”

  I stared at Fredo, then Locano, then went back to Fredo who looked like a child.

  “Jesús and Ocho personally knew the Syrian? They recognized him?”

  “The Mexicans had this picture—”

  He held up his hand as if he was showing me a picture, and pointed at air as if he could see it.

  “—this him? This dude took you down? Jesús and Ocho, they both say yeah, that was him, who in hell is this guy? Those Sinaloa Mexicans, they called his name, said he used to work with them.”

  “He worked for the Sinaloas?”

  “With, not for. He was a coyote, uhn, whatever they call it in Syrian, over there on the other side of the world. He brought people from over there to Mexico, and got’m where they wanted to go, but I know what happen—they took his bitch-ass business, and he said fuck you, I ain’t workin’ for you, so he started stealin’ their shit. Not just them. The Bajas. The Pacific Cartel. Whoever runnin’ stuff up. That Sinaloa, he said what we got is a rogue coyote, and we gonna put his ass down.”

  I thought it through, and wondered if the Sinaloas had been right about Ocho and Jesús.

  “So how did he know where to find your brother’s truck?”

  Fredo glanced at Locano, then back, and smiled.

  “Only one way that flies. He buys the intel. The Sinaloas got that part right, they just ain’t right about Ocho and Jesús.”

  “The Syrian pays for tips?”

  “That’s what they do, the bajadores. You can’t steal something ’less you know where it is, uhn. They pay. I met this dude, Wander, he say the Syrian pays better than anyone else.”

  Locano fixed his eyes on me, and nodded.

  “This was not long ago, after Fredo left the Kings. This is recent information.”

  Fredo nodded, hanging on Locano’s every word.

  “This dude, Wander, he works over here. He used to be Latin Blades, but he jumped out, too. When he heard I was a King, he knew we were with Sinaloa. He said I could pick up some cash, you know? I didn’t say I was on the outs, uhn. I just let him talk, tucking it away, thinking about Raoul. I said, dude, you crazy, you know Sinaloa wants to kill that Syrian bitch? But Wander, he says he feeds tips to all these cartel bajadores, and they killin’ each other left and right. He said the Syrian, he pays a lot more. He told me if I get something to sell, he can make it happen, put good money in both our pockets.”

  I studied Fredo.

  “You think it’s true, that Wander sells to the Syrian?”

  Fredo shrugged.

  “He drives a nice car. He’s got a silver buckle big as a plate, and a fat rock here on his thumb. I been asking. He’s been paying people for tips, that much is true. He’s gettin’ cash somewhere, so I’m thinkin’ the rest is true, too.”

  Locano said, “When the Sinaloas came up, you said they called the Syrian’s name.”

  “Uhn. Ghazi al-Diri. It was hard to say in my mouth, but I practiced to make it right. Ghazi al-Diri killed my brother, Raoul, shot him two times right here.”

  He touched his head again.

  I said, “If I wanted to see Wander, could you find him?”

  Fredo studied me, and did not look away.

  “What would you say?”

  “I might have something for the Syrian. I might want to meet him.”

  Fredo nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “Why he wanna meet you?”

  I didn’t have much to say, so Fredo shrugged.

  “Lots of people trying to find him, and can’t, uhn. Just ’cause you say you want to see him don’t mean shit. Why he want to see you? You gotta give him a reason.”

  “I’ll find a reason.”

  “It’s gotta be good. He ain’t in business to mess around.”

  “I’ll find a good reason. What I’m asking is, can you put me with Wander?”

  Fredo kicked at the ground, then looked at the lake.

  “I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout this thing Wander told me, him being up with this Ghazi al-Diri, trying to figure out what to do. I could give him up to the Kings, give him to the Sinaloas—they all want his ass dead. But here I am trying to get right. I have to put this stuff behind me.”

  I nodded. I knew where he was going.

  He looked at Locano.

  “Mr. L, he says you’re trying to find some girl this dude took?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Okay, I’ll help you do that. Raoul and I, we can help. If I help get her back, maybe it helps me get right with myself. You see?”

  “I see, Fredo. I get it, for real.”

  He seemed to notice the flour on his upper arms for the first time. He brushed at his arms and neck and face.

  “I look like a clown.”

  Locano said, “No, Fredo. From this flour you make bread, and bread gives us life. This is not the makeup of a clown.”

  Fredo fluffed his hair, and squinted at me through the dust.

  “I gotta get to school. You find a good reason. Find a reason so good the Syrian can’t pass it up, I’ll put you with Wander, uhn.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Fredo offered his hand again, shook with Mr. Locano, and then trotted up along the lake. I watched him until he was gone, then looked at Locano.

  Mr. Locano had watched him leave, too, and now sighed.

  “That boy is fourteen years old. He is only fourteen.”

  I told him I would let him know soon, then drove across town to meet with Joe Pike and Jon Stone, hoping we would find something so good the Syrian could not pass it up.

  22.

  Jon Stone leaned forward between us, and pointed a chopstick at the two men climbing into the Beemer. He was eating bulgogi heaped with kimchee. Bulgogi was thinly sliced barbequed beef in a bowl, which Stone had covered with a sweet, fire-hot mound of pickled cabbage. Stone knew the best barbeque places in K-town. He also knew the best bars, karaoke clubs, restaurants, and markets. He had bought me a galbi bowl filled with barbequed short ribs, and Pike a bowl of grilled vegetables and rice. Jon Stone was a K-town regular, and had spent the morning before I joined them speaking with friends.

  Stone touched the air with the tip of his chopstick as if he was dotting an i with a quill pen.

  “Your talker there, he’s Sang Ki Park. He doesn’t run the gang. That would be his uncle, Young Min Park. Sang is the second in command. They’re Ssang Yong Pa—the Double Dragon gang—straight out of the R-O-K. Hard-core and nasty.”

  ROK was the Republic of Korea.

  I watched the men as I listened. The big g
uy I put on the floor in the desert opened the Beemer’s door for the hard young guy who had done all the talking, then climbed in behind the wheel.

  “Hard-core and nasty as in violent?”

  “That’s affirm. All your Asian gangs are bad, but the Koreans are worse. It’s China. You grow up staring down China, it fucks with your brain.”

  Pike said, “Please.”

  “Please what? Remember those ex-ROK troopers in Africa? Why’d you send’m home?”

  Stone turned to me before Pike could answer.

  “The company sends us these three ex-ROK Special Forces turds who did nothing but fight. I’m not talking about fighting the people we were paid to fight, I’m talking about our own guys, the friendlies, even each other. Fuckers loved to fight. Pike here damn near killed two of them before he sent them home.”

  Stone looked at Pike.

  “If I’m lying, I’m dying. Am I right?”

  Pike simply stared ahead as we followed the Beemer, so Stone turned back to me.

  “You see? He knows it’s true. These fuckers are pit bull aggressive. You want more of this kimchee? It’s the best.”

  I held up my bowl, and thought about it as Jon shoveled on kimchee. He was right about the kimchee. It was world-class spectacular.

  “Sanchez told me they paid Sinaloa two hundred grand to bring up their people. You think they’ll pay the Syrian’s ransom?”

  “Not in their nature. Your Syrian’s gonna be stuck with twenty or thirty people no one will pay for. And the Sinaloas are shit out of luck, too, ’cause if these boys here don’t get their money or people, they’ll go all World War Three.”

  Rudy Sanchez had already told me the Sinaloas were worried, and worry wasn’t something normally associated with the Sinaloa drug cartel.

  Pike glanced at Stone in the mirror.

  “Why bring in so many people?”

  “They need’m.”

  I said, “For what?”

  “Staff. The Dragons have been buying bars and restaurants as fronts for dealing dope and whores. They cater to Korean businessmen, so they want people who can speak the language, and they also want people they can trust. It’s the same way with the Tong in Chinatown. They bring people from back home who are scared shitless of the police, and they’re completely dependent on the gang for food, shelter, and protection. To a guy like Park here, people from back home are more trustworthy than Americans, and you know goin’ in none of them are federal agents.”