by Sean Black
He let out a scream of horror before he realized there was no pain. Gingerly he prodded his tongue out between dry, cracked lips and tasted only water.
Rage took over, and he screamed, this time in fury. The man stepped back, and began to laugh. He slammed the trunk down on Shotcaller. The darkness returned.
52
Lock’s Audi slowly squeezed through a freshly cut gap in the chain-link fence into the parking lot. He made a sweeping turn and stopped so that the hood of the car was facing the gap.
He switched off the Audi’s engine, and placed it in park. He reached under his seat for his SIG Sauer, ejected the mag, checked it was full, and snapped it back in, ensuring he had a round racked in the chamber. Next to him, Ty ran through the same procedure.
Like his partner, Lock believed that the more prepared you were, the less likely you’d be called upon to use a weapon. It wasn’t so much the deterrent factor as some glitch in the cosmos that seemed to dictate that the one time you weren’t carrying was the one time you’d need your gun.
Not that Lock fetishized firearms. They were simply a tool of his business. He’d happily never touch a gun again if he could be guaranteed he’d never need one.
He scanned the area. It was more fenced-off waste ground than parking lot. There were only a half-dozen vehicles there, and at least four of those were missing tires. If he’d had to guess, he’d have said that the owner of the land was waiting on some sort of re-zoning to take place so he could open his parking business or sell it for condos.
“Guess this is when we find out how professional these guys are,” he said, taking in the traffic on the nearest street.
“How’s that?” Ty asked.
“How many kidnappers do you know who make the exchange at the first location?”
“I hear you.”
In Lock’s experience, those who were used to running kidnap-for-ransom operations did their best to keep the other party off-balance before the exchange took place. It wasn’t unusual for a negotiator or exchange team to be sent to a half-dozen different locations before the swap took place. Frequent changes of location made it easier for a kidnapper to spot law enforcement. And, looking around, this was far from an ideal exchange site. It was too open, too public, and overlooked by any number of nearby office buildings.
A beat-up silver Toyota Corolla edged tentatively through the gap in the fence. Lock could only make out the driver, an elderly Hispanic lady, who was hunched over the wheel as she drove at a snail’s pace toward them. She didn’t look much like an MS-13 gang member, and there was no sign of either Emily or Charlie. In any case, they still hadn’t been given details of where the first part of the ransom was to be transferred.
Perhaps, Lock speculated, she had simply seen them parked, and figured she could save a few bucks by leaving her car there.
She pulled up about ten feet away, opened her door and, with a great deal of effort, hauled herself out, assisted by a cane. In her free hand she clutched a large brown purse. Lock kept hold of his SIG, just in case. After all, this was still LA, a city where even the grandmas were capable of packing heat.
He tensed as she closed in on them and reached into her purse.
“What’s up with this?” said Ty.
“Guess we’re going to find out,” said Lock, hitting the button to lower his window.
The old lady’s hand cleared her purse. She was holding a white envelope.
“Señor Lock?” she asked.
“That’s me.”
She handed him the envelope. “This is for you.”
Lock reached out and took her arm at the wrist. She startled. “Who gave you this?” he said.
“Let go of me.”
“Answer my question.”
She tried to shake him off, but he held onto her wrist, his grip just tight enough to make sure he kept hold of her but not to hurt her.
“I dunno. A young man at the market. I’d never seen him before. He gave me a hundred dollars if I drove down here and gave you this.”
“Where was this market?”
“Boyle Heights.”
“You know who he was? Had you seen him before?”
“No, he was just one of those young kids.”
Lock believed her. The story made sense. He let go of her wrist. She turned and tottered back to her car. They could catch up with her quickly enough if they needed to.
He opened the envelope. A cop would have put on gloves and handed it to Forensics. He and Ty had no need for such careful procedure. They already knew who it was from, and he had a rough idea of what it contained.
He wasn’t disappointed as he pulled out the single sheet of paper. At the top was an address. The next stop on their human scavenger hunt.
At the bottom of the piece of paper, carefully printed out in black ink, was a series of letters and numbers. It was a bank-account number with the corresponding SWIFT code. Almost certainly it was for an account outside the United States, an offshore tax haven, one of those places where the authorities didn’t ask too many questions.
“We’d better call this in. They can make the initial payment,” he told Ty.
As Lock reached for his cell phone to call Li Yeng, the screen lit up with an incoming call from Carl Galante. He passed the note to Ty. “Here, call Li and give him these account details. I should take this.”
He tapped the screen. “Carl, what’s up?”
“A whole world of pain is coming our way, that’s what’s up. You’re not going to believe the call I just got from a buddy of mine at the LAPD.”
53
Lock threw the car into drive, and hit the gas pedal, aiming straight for the gap in the fence. With the cell phone cradled between his shoulder and his ear, he bounced out of the lot and back onto the street. Whatever the bad news was, they still had to make an appearance at the next location, and he’d recognized the address as soon as he’d seen it. He’d been there with Carmen, and it fit the bill of somewhere you might want to trade two human beings for cash.
“Lock, you there?”
“Yes, so what’s the world of pain we’re looking at?” he asked Galante.
“There’s been a report of an armed abduction at an address in Boyle Heights. Victim is an Ernesto Flores, and his fifteen-year-old son, Ernesto Junior. Flores is a local shotcaller for Mara Salvatrucha.”
Lock’s heart sank. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next, but he asked the question anyway.
“Suspect?”
“Asian male, late forties, early fifties.”
Lock cursed under his breath, and bit down on his lower lip. The Red Tiger. It had to be. No one else had the motive or, for that matter, the sheer balls to go to an MS-13 shotcaller’s home and kidnap him and his son.
“Anyone hurt?” said Lock.
“Not that we know of. Looks like he got hold of the son first and used him as leverage to get the father.”
“Taste of their own medicine,” said Lock.
“That’s what it sounds like,” said Galante.
“Do his associates know what’s happened?”
“The LAPD are keeping it as quiet as they can for now, but someone could easily have seen something or picked up the address from a scanner,” Galante said.
MS-13, like most street gangs, used scanners to monitor law-enforcement communications in their area. They also had people on the streets. It was fifty:fifty whether they’d know what had happened.
“One of their boys gets snatched up, they’re going to hear about it sooner or later,” Galante added.
Lock was less convinced by that part. Criminals like Ernesto Flores lived chaotic lifestyles. They could drop off the grid for days at a time, and not even their closest friends would know why or where they were. It was better to assume they would know, but it wasn’t certain.
His cell phone buzzed. With one hand on the wheel, he pulled it away from his ear and checked the screen. His heart sank a little further as he looked at the number.
54
“Where are you?” Orzana asked Lock.
“We’re almost there.”
“Okay, well, hurry up. We’re not going to wait around forever.”
“You’re there now?” Lock asked.
No response.
“Orzana? Hello?”
He looked again at the screen. Orzana had hung up.
Lock spun the wheel, turning left from Hill Street onto South Broadway, and dodging around an LA Metro bus.
“So, I gave Li Yeng the bank details,” said Ty. “What was the call from Galante?”
Lock told him.
“Dammit. This guy’s going to get these kids killed if he keeps this up.”
“I’m not sure that’s how he sees it. He’s probably thinking he has some leverage now.”
Ty made a tutting sound. “If he thinks those guys’ll prioritize one of their own over a couple million dollars he’s dreaming.”
Lock nodded. “No kidding.” From his own experiences with criminal gangs, including time undercover in a Supermax prison, he knew that gangs might use solidarity and family as a hook to get people on board. But when it came down to it, the color green trumped any other.
He turned into an alleyway across the Grand Central Market. There was a prominent “No Parking, Tow Zone” sign. They would have to risk it.
“Weapons?” said Ty.
Lock nodded. They grabbed jackets and put them on. Both he and Ty looked sufficiently like cops that people rarely questioned why they had a firearm, but it was good practice not to make it too obvious.
Although they were entering a crowded public place they still had no idea what they were walking into. Innocent members of the public didn’t count for much in the world of MS-13. If the gang had gotten word that one of their own had been taken, there was every chance Lock could be walking into an execution rather than a hostage exchange.
“You ready?” said Lock.
They dodged through the traffic on South Broadway and into the dimly lit hustle and bustle of the Grand Central Market. They wove through the flower stalls, a riot of scent and color, toward the food stalls that sold everything from some of the city’s best tacos to ice cream, ramen noodles to bento boxes.
The smells were making Lock’s stomach rumble, so who knew what effect they were having on Ty, with his vast appetite? Lock focused back on the task in hand. He scanned the shoals of people sitting at benches eating, or waiting in line at one of the stands, or simply cruising around, paralyzed by the sheer variety of options. He was looking for someone who stood out, or someone who was watching them, but it was close to an impossible task. The place was jammed.
He looked down at his cell phone, hoping for a text message, or some kind of signal about what they should do next.
There was nothing.
“Damn that smells like good barbecue,” said Ty, as they strolled slowly past a stall called Horse Thief BBQ.
“You want to get something?” said Lock.
While they were waiting, they might as well blend in. Walking around the place staring at people wouldn’t achieve that.
Ty seemed taken aback. “You sure?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Ty stepped forward to order. Lock stood with his back to the counter and swept the area around them, looking, as he always did, for something, or someone, that was off. He caught a likely candidate sitting alone on a bench about twelve feet away, a teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen. Hispanic. He had a baseball cap pulled down low, and he was hunkered over a plate of tostados. Lock caught the kid glancing straight at him. He was going for casual and doing a bad job of it. He quickly looked away.
Lock stayed where he was as Ty placed his order, handing over the money at the same time in case they needed to make a swift exit. “Yeah, gimme the fried-chicken sandwich.” He turned to Lock. “You want anything?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Okay. Don’t change your mind and be asking for some of mine.”
“Yes, Mom,” said Lock, catching sight of the kid’s sneakers.
They were blue and white Nike Cortez, as good a giveaway that he was Mara Salvatrucha as a flashing neon sign around his neck. A middle-aged person might wear the sneakers not knowing what they signified on their streets, but a teenage kid in this part of town would know for definite that they were a symbol of gang allegiance.
In this situation, they were more than that. Galante had told Lock and Ty that word had come down from MS-13 high command about a year ago to ditch those sneakers. Their meaning had become too well known among law enforcement.
Now they were reserved for certain situations. When you wanted to flaunt affiliation. Or let someone else know who you were with.
As Ty waited for his food, Lock decided to move things along. The kid watched Lock coming toward him. He didn’t get up, but he did take a last forkful of food.
“Where you going?” said Ty.
“It’s cool. Just checking something out.”
Lock reached the bench. He pulled out a chair and sat down close by, careful to keep an eye on the boy’s hands in case he reached for a weapon. The kid’s body language shifted. He turned his plastic fork over in his hand. He threw it down on his half-finished meal. Finally, he picked up his plate, and stood up. He slid the tray over so that it was in front of Lock, the white paper receipt from his order turned over.
On the back an address was scrawled in blue pen. Lock picked it up as the kid dumped his plate in the trash and took off.
Lock got up and walked back to Ty. “Let’s go.”
Ty looked pleadingly at the young man who was making his sandwich. “Hold that for me, would you?” he said.
“Sorry, dude,” said Lock, as they walked back past the flower stalls and out onto the street.
“This job’s going to give me an ulcer,” complained Ty. “It’s not good for your stomach to think it’s getting some food and then it doesn’t. All those juices floating around with nothing to digest.”
Lock was checking the address. It was four blocks away. He dodged across the street back toward the alley where he’d left the Audi. The good news was that it was still there. The bad news was that two teenage hood rats were already scoping out the rims.
“Sweet ride,” said one of the kids, seeing Lock walk up on them.
“Thanks,” said Lock, shouldering past them.
One of the hood rats must have caught a glimpse of Lock’s holstered SIG. He nudged his buddy. “Let’s bounce.”
They swaggered off down the alley, fading into the concrete gloom of the nearby buildings.
The Audi chirped, and Lock opened the driver’s door. Looking over the top of the car, he saw Ty’s stance change. He had one foot planted behind the other, and was standing side on to the street, like he was ready to throw down.
The kid who’d left his tray for Lock was walking toward them. He had a posse of four others with him. They looked like they meant business.
Lock reached for his SIG, ready to draw. The kid held his hand up.
“Chill, ese. We’re your escort.”
“I think I can find it,” said Lock.
“No car,” said the kid. “We have to walk there.”
Ty took a step forward. The kids visibly shrank back. Ty had that effect on people.
“I wouldn’t mess with him,” Lock told them. “He’s pissed that he didn’t get his chicken.”
The kid looped his thumbs into his pants. “I don’t make the rules. Don’t worry about your car.” He turned to one of his compatriots. “You stay here. Make sure no one messes with it.”
One of the kids peeled off, and took up position next to the Audi, arms folded.
Lock didn’t like that. He wanted to have his car to extract Emily and Charlie when the time came. But he wasn’t in a position to dictate terms.
This was a power-play. An effective one.
He took in the kid standing sentry over the Audi. He clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“So much as a scratch when I get back and I’ll find you. You hear me?”
55
The Red Tiger sat in the backseat, next to Shotcaller’s son. He had felt bad about the trick he’d played with the water in the acid container. Then he had thought about the people he was dealing with. The man at the steering wheel, the one they called Shotcaller, would have used acid and thought nothing of it.
He packed away his guilt and eased back into the seat.
It was a good trick. He used it sparingly, saving it for people he suspected would be difficult to break down. Those who were used to dealing with fear and intimidation.
With those people, the secret was to find what they cared about. Usually it was a child, or children. Most people would withstand a threat to themselves. They would be able to work through their own physical pain. But hurting someone they loved more than anything? That was a different proposition.
He leaned forward. “This is where they’ll be?” he asked.
Shotcaller glanced at him in the rearview. “That’s what they told me.”
“How close are we?”
“Close. It’s just down here,” said Shotcaller.
The Red Tiger sat back, satisfied, as Shotcaller made a right turn.
This street was quieter. Abandoned warehouses ran either side.
“This was the old garment district,” said Shotcaller. “We use these places a lot.”
A car honked behind them. The Red Tiger twisted round, his gun still aimed at the man’s son. A huge steel grille loomed behind him, and the vehicle passed them at speed. It was a large black SUV, like the one Red Tiger had seen at the ranch-house.
Just before it pulled out to pass them, he glimpsed the people sitting in back through the front windshield. One was a young Asian man, the other a young Asian woman. They were sandwiched between two large Hispanic men with tattoos.
His heart surged. Panic, recognition and longing swelled in him all at the same time.
The girl. It was her. It was his daughter.
