Taken

by Robert Crais

  They put me on the floor in the living room, and Medina told a man with a badly fixed cleft lip the Syrian would come for me later. He told the man to take special care of me. He said the Syrian was looking forward to killing me.

  Then he showed the rancid teeth, and he and the Anglo left.

  The guards went about their business. None of them bothered me. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, the Indian woman brought a paper cup of water, and held it to my lips. Her eyes were large, and wet, and frightened.

  She whispered as I drank.

  “Only four of us are left. They are killing us.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She let me finish the water, then returned to the kitchen. Tears ran down my face, and I felt as if my heart was broken. I wanted to help her. I wanted to help all of them. I wanted to help myself, but feared all help was lost.

  Part 4

  Riverside County Jail

  Indio, California

  Hermano Pinetta

  37.

  Two Riverside County Deputies led Hermano Pinetta from his cell to a small interview room in the Riverside County Jail. Hermano, who currently wore a blue Riverside County jumpsuit, was a forty-four-year-old two-strike felon looking at serious time if convicted of charges stemming from his most recent arrest.

  Hermano’s attorney was in the hall outside the door. Oscar Castaneda was a nervous middle-aged man with long hair he constantly pushed from his face, and eyes that flitted like nervous moths.

  Oscar glanced at the lead deputy as if he was embarrassed to make eye contact.

  “One second, please?”

  The guards stopped to let Oscar have his second, so Oscar stepped close and lowered his voice.

  “They gonna ask you about a car. You gonna get one chance here. You wanna go home in this life, you answer this lady’s questions.”

  “What lady? What you talkin’ about?”

  The deputy tugged Hermano’s arm before Oscar could answer, and pulled Hermano into the room. Hermano had been in this same interview room three times since his arrest, but never with more than a couple of local detectives he knew by their first names. Now, the little room was crowded with humorless men in suits who watched him with hungry eyes. The lone woman sat at the interview table with the men surrounding her like a chorus of angels. Her hands rested on a manila envelope, with her fingers laced.

  The deputies pushed Hermano down onto a chair opposite the woman, then hooked his handcuffs to a steel rod bolted to the table.

  She said, “Hermano Pinetta.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You were arrested and booked for running a chop shop and receiving stolen property, to wit, twenty-seven counts re various stolen autos and auto parts. These are state crimes. You are not currently charged with any federal crimes. Do you understand the difference?”

  Oscar leaned down, and whispered in Hermano’s ear.

  “Say yes.”

  Hermano said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “The charges against you will be prosecuted by the Riverside County prosecutor’s office. These charges are what we call ‘wobblers,’ meaning Riverside has discretion to prosecute them as felonies, misdemeanors, or not at all. Do you understand what this means?”

  Oscar whispered again.

  “They ding you for a felony, that’s your third strike, and you on the farm the rest of your life. Tell her you understand.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My name is Nancie Stendahl. I’m an Assistant Deputy Director of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. From Washington. Would you like my help with Riverside?”

  Hermano felt sick. He glanced at Oscar, whose eyes danced and spiraled like dying fireflies.

  “Yes, ma’am. We would definitely appreciate your help.”

  The woman opened the envelope, took out a picture, and put it on the table so Hermano could see it. The picture showed a couple of skinny white kids standing beside a silver Mustang.

  “Parts of this vehicle were found at your place of business. Do you recognize this car?”

  “No.”

  The woman and everyone else in the room simply waited, and Oscar once more appeared in his ear.

  “Tell the truth, you stupid motherfucker.”

  Hermano cleared his throat.

  “Yeah, I seen that car. Sure.”

  The woman leaned forward.

  “Where did you get it?”

  Hermano hesitated, but Oscar’s voice floated in his ear again.

  “You give this lady a name, or there ain’t no one on this earth gonna help your sorrowful ass.”

  Hermano said, “My cousin, Luis. Luis Pinetta.”

  The woman smiled for the first time, but it was not a pleasant smile.

  Joe Pike:

  one day after Elvis Cole is taken

  38.

  When Pike realized Washington and Pinetta would return for their personal belongings, he shoved Haddad toward the door.

  “Move. Out now, Jon. Move.”

  They pulled out of the house where the Indians were murdered as fast as they entered, Stone pushing Haddad face-first into the Jeep’s back seat, Pike gunning the Jeep out and away, clearing the scene before Washington and Pinetta returned. The garage door was still lowering when they parked behind a Dodge pickup less than one block away, the Jeep’s engine ticking.

  Pike edged down behind the wheel, but saw neither Stone nor Haddad in the mirror.

  “Is he down?”

  Behind him, Stone’s voice came from the darkness.

  “He’s so down the next stop is a fuckin’ grave.”

  Everything changed when they left Orlato and Ruiz in the desert. Orlato, Haddad, and Ruiz had been sent to dump bodies, but had not returned or called. The Syrian might send someone to see if the Escalade had broken down in the desert, but Pike thought it more likely the Syrian would assume his men had been arrested, and everything they knew would be shared with the police. He would send Washington and Pinetta to clean the house of evidence as quickly as possible.

  Stone said, “We’re not grabbing these guys, right? We’re going to follow them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Groovy.”

  Jon Stone said nothing more, and neither did Pike.

  Pike’s cell phone buzzed eighteen minutes later. He glanced at the call screen, and saw the caller was a man who managed a gun shop Pike owned.

  “Yes?”

  Ronnie said, “Hey, man. Thought you should know. The ATF came around today.”

  “Okay.”

  Pike thought nothing of it. His gun shop was licensed by the government to sell firearms. An agent from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms dropped by once a year to check their paperwork and ask questions. Pro forma.

  “They weren’t here about the shop. Said they’ve been trying to reach Elvis, and thought you might know where he is. Asked you to call, and left a card.”

  “Why are they looking for Elvis?”

  “They want to ask him about an old client or something.”

  Ronnie was still speaking when Jon Stone touched Pike’s shoulder, and Pike cut Ronnie off.

  “Gotta go.”

  Pike put away his phone as a dark Toyota SUV approached the murder house from the far end of the street.

  Stone pulled Haddad upright. When the Toyota turned into the drive, the passenger window was down, revealing an African-American male with jerry-curl hair.

  Haddad said, “This is Washington. Pinetta is driving.”

  The garage swallowed the Toyota, then closed.

  Pike said, “These two always break down the houses?”

  “Yes. They prepare the houses before, and clean the houses after. Everyone has their job.”

  Pike remembered the heavy plywood screwed over the windows, and how the screw holes left in the Mecca house had been filled with putty.

  “They take down the plywo
od, too?”

  “Yes.”

  Stone said, “What’s your job?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Everyone has a job. What’s yours?”

  “To speak with people from my part of the world. We take pollos who have no other language.”

  Stone said, “So your job is to fuck over your own people.”

  Haddad was silent.

  Pike glanced at the rearview, but saw neither man. He was thinking about the houses.

  “You use a different house for each group of pollos?”

  “Yes. Sometimes more than one if we have to change.”

  Stone said, “That’s a lot of fucking houses. Where do you get them?”

  “I do not know. Orlato, he gives us the address, we go.”

  They were still talking when the garage opened, and the Toyota backed out. Pike checked the time. Washington and Pinetta had been inside the house for only sixteen minutes.

  Stone said, “Look at this shit. They sure as hell didn’t clean very much.”

  Haddad shrugged, and appeared confused.

  “I cannot know. They may need something. They may be going to the desert to look for us. Orlato would have spoken with the Syrian by now. The Syrian must know something is not right.”

  Pike waited until the Toyota turned the corner, then followed them south through the late-night traffic of Coachella to Mecca, and on to the empty darkness of the irrigated farmland west of the Salton Sea. Traffic thinned until Pike realized his headlights were the only headlights in the Toyota’s mirror, so he dropped farther back and turned off the Jeep’s lights.

  They reached a small area of feed stores, gas stations, and local businesses, and then the Toyota’s brakes flared, and it pulled into a small parking lot surrounding a bar.

  Pike shot past the bar, turned hard, and wheeled around to park on the opposite side. Pike was out before the Jeep stopped rocking.

  “You drive. Be ready to go.”

  “Always.”

  Pike entered through a side door, and went to a pay phone.

  The bar was brightly lit, with maybe ten people spread between the bar and a few shabby tables. Pinetta was at the bar, but Washington had stayed in their car. Pinetta and the bartender were talking like they knew each other. The bartender slipped a bottle of Crown Royal into a brown bag, put it on the bar, and Pinetta paid. Then Pinetta tucked the bag under his arm like a football, and smiled his way out the front door.

  Pike hurried out the side, where Stone picked him up on the roll. The Toyota cruised past five seconds later. Stone gave it another five, and nosed out onto the road.

  “What happened?”

  “He bought booze.”

  “Booze?”

  “Crown Royal.”

  The Toyota led them into a mixed residential area of small homes and apartments, where Stone was forced to turn off the lights.

  Haddad said, “This may be where Pinetta lives. I hear him say he has a woman on the west shore of the lake.”

  Stone glanced in the mirror.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Why would I kid about such thing?”

  The Toyota was four long blocks ahead when its brake lights flashed again, and it turned into the poorly lit parking lot of a small, two-story apartment building. Stone immediately pulled off the street into a building’s shadow.

  The Toyota parked at the base of the stairs. The interior light came on as Pinetta got out, then went off when he closed the door. Washington remained in the vehicle.

  Jon groaned.

  “Are you kidding me? We’re following this asshole all over the desert for a fuckin’ conjugal visit?”

  Pinetta and his Crown Royal were halfway up the stairs when blue flashers exploded from behind a building one block ahead of them. The radio car jumped out of nowhere, and roared toward the Toyota as more blue flashers converged from every possible direction. Pike knew this was a major tactical event, and they were in trouble.

  “Back out, Jon. Slow. No lights.”

  “I’m backing.”

  The units screeched into the parking lot and blocked the Toyota as an amplified voice identified them as the police.

  Pinetta was caught on the stairs. He dropped the bottle and froze, hands open and away from his body, but something bright flashed twice inside the Toyota, and Stone muttered a single word.

  “Loser.”

  Flashes and loud cracks erupted from the surrounding radio cars, speckling the Toyota’s windows and fenders like furious hammers. Washington’s pistol flashed twice more, then three fast times—flashflashflash—but the officers’ fire pocked the Toyota until the amplified voice ordered a cease-fire.

  As the firing stopped, Pike saw an oversized white SUV on the far side of the parking lot, only this SUV wasn’t an ordinary police vehicle. The blue lettering and insignia on the side were difficult to see in the dim light, but visible. ATF. SPECIAL RESPONSE TEAM. The Special Response Team was the ATF version of SWAT.

  “Jon. See the van?”

  “I did. The big boys came to play.”

  They were creeping backward across the dark yards and had almost reached the cross street when the rear of the Jeep was suddenly splashed with white light. A siren whooped, and more flashing radio cars cut off the street behind them.

  They were trapped. When the officers saw Haddad and Stone’s M4, their search for Cole would end.

  Pike said, “On foot. We gotta jam it on foot.”

  “I hear you.”

  Stone cut a hard tight turn going backward, then dropped the tranny into drive, and hit the gas hard, digging with all four tires toward the narrow space between the two nearest houses.

  Pike braced.

  “Too narrow.”

  Stone said, “Just right.”

  Jon Stone jerked the emergency brake to lock the back wheels, and spun the Jeep broadside between the two houses, blocking the way with Pike’s door toward the darkness.

  Stone said, “Get him. I got this covered. Go!”

  Jon Stone did not look back. He popped the driver’s side door and stepped out with his hands high to face the oncoming police, shouting for them not to shoot, giving himself to them to cover Pike’s escape.

  Pike slipped out the door and ran into the darkness between the houses.

  39.

  Pike hurdled rattling chain-link fences between inky backyards and vaulted cinder-block walls in the deep black shadows between houses. Twice he cleared fences with dogs at his heels, and once a free-roaming pit bull chased him across an empty street. Pike turned into its charge, and slapped the pit hard on its snout with his .357. The dog broke off its chase, and Pike ran on, pumping fast toward the lake and away from the highway.

  He stopped twice to listen, but heard no pursuit. The police sounds were lost. No shots had been fired, so Jon was okay.

  Pike turned south at the lake, and ran another half mile before looping back to the highway. A truck driver wired on Ritalin gave him a lift north, and thirty-eight minutes after the police raid exploded around him, Pike reached the Palm Springs airport, used the valet key he carried, and climbed into Stone’s Rover.

  Breathe.

  Pike closed his eyes, and filled his lungs, then pushed with his diaphragm. He breathed deep again. Pranayamic breathing from the hatha yoga. Pike lost himself in a cool forest glade, dappled by sunlight filtered through lime green leaves. When he breathed, he smelled moss and sumac. His pulse slowed. He grew calm. He centered.

  Pike started the Rover, then realized he didn’t know what to do, so he shut down the engine. His instincts told him to push forward, but Haddad, Washington, and Pinetta were gone. Jon was now gone. Cole and the two kids were still missing, the police were involved, and when Ghazi al-Diri learned Pinetta was arrested he would be off balance and fearful.

  This was good. The Syrian would be flooded with incoming information, but never enough to answer his questions. He would freeze in place, scramble for answers, and wor
k himself into a panic. Panic was good when the other guy panicked.

  Pike focused on what he knew. The ATF visited his gun shop looking for Elvis Cole, and now a major tactical event involving the ATF had taken out Pinetta and Washington. Pike had no idea how the two events were connected, but the ATF was a small, elite agency. They didn’t have the manpower to flood an area with agents, so Pike believed this was not a coincidence. He took out his phone, and called Ronnie back.

  “When did the ATF come in?”

  “This morning. A little before eleven.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Just the stuff about asking Elvis about an old client. Was that bullshit?”

  “Yes.”

  “They told me he wasn’t in trouble. They told me to pass it on in case that’s why he hasn’t returned their calls.”

  Pike found this interesting, and wondered how many times they had called, and how long they had been trying to reach Cole.

  “And me?”

  “They were hoping you could tell them where he was. That’s all they said about you.”

  “One agent or two?”

  “Two.”

  “They left a card.”

  “I got it right here. Special Agent Jason Kaufman, L.A. Field Division over in Glendale.”

  “Number.”

  Pike copied the name and number, then phoned his own home in Culver City. Pike had an unlisted number, but found a message from an ATF agent who identified himself as Special Agent Kim Stanley Robinson. Robinson floated a story similar to Kaufman’s, but not identical. Robinson wanted to speak with Cole regarding allegations made by a former client who was now in federal custody, and hoped Pike could help them reach Cole. Robinson left a number, too, but his number was in Washington. The time marker on the recording showed the message had been left sixteen minutes before Kaufman visited Pike’s shop.

  Pike phoned Elvis Cole’s office next. He had no way to check Cole’s home voice mail, but he knew the replay code for their office, and found two more ATF messages. The most recent was left yesterday morning by Agent Kaufman. The older message was left the day before by a woman who identified herself as Nancie Stendahl, with the ATF, and asked Mr. Cole to phone her as soon as possible. She left a D.C. number, but no other information.