Taken

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 guy 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.”

Pike glanced at Stone in the rearview.

“Where’d you get this?”

Stone had more of the kimchee.

“A couple of ex-ROK paratroops at a soju bar over here a few weeks ago. Double Dragons have these twin dragons inked on their arms, and these two assholes wanted to impress me with their ink. Hence, they gave up the farm.”

Stone grinned.

“Too much soju. Just like those shitbirds in Africa.”

We followed the Beemer only six blocks until it made a left, went two more blocks, and pulled to the curb outside a soju bar.

Stone broke into an even nastier smile.

“Is this too perfect or what? That’s the place right there-where I talked up the ROKs.”

The big guy stayed in the car, and Park went inside. He stayed for almost twenty minutes before he and another man came out. The other man was much older, with a leathery face, steel gray hair, and his eyes almost hidden by wrinkles. He didn’t look happy, and neither did Sang Ki Park.

Stone tapped the air with his chopstick.

“That would be the uncle, Young Min Park.”

“The boss?”

“That’s the man. This was the first bar the Dragons took over. He owns it.”

I twisted around, and looked at him. Stone shrugged.

“Those ROK guys wouldn’t shut up, bro. They just could not stop talking. You hear shit, you tuck it away, you never know.”

I turned back to the Beemer.

Jon Stone looked like a demented surfer with his spiky, bleached hair and pierced ear, but I knew his background with Delta. Sometimes you forget what that means. Most people think Delta, they’re thinking of Rambo, with the big gun and even bigger muscles. D-boys are deadly warriors, for sure, but you won’t find many who look like Rambo. This is because you can’t rescue hostages or snatch high-value targets from hostile villages unless you find them, so D-boys are also selected to gather intelligence. They are off-the-charts smart, look ordinary, and are trained to blend in anywhere with anyone. This is why D-boys are called operators. Jon Stone had worked the two drunk ex-ROK gangsters for no other reason than gathering intelligence was in his nature.

As we watched, the older man shook his finger angrily under Sang Ki Park’s nose. Park didn’t like it, but took it. The old man steadily grew more angry until the finger wasn’t enough. He slapped Park’s face hard, then stormed back into his bar.

Stone said, “The old man isn’t liking his nephew so much these days.”

Pike said, “What were they saying?”

“Couldn’t hear, but it’s an easy guess. The nephew here just lost two hundred thousand and a boatload of workers. They probably weren’t talking about a promotion.”

Their next stop was a large two-level strip mall on Vermont. The strip mall was in the final stages of being remodeled, with a club and a restaurant taking up most of the upper level and what looked like another bar and a karaoke lounge on the lower level. A large sign in Korean script and English hung across the front of the karaoke

lounge: OPENING SOON.

Stone said, “Y’see? This is what I was talking about. You can’t open for business without the right staff.”

I liked it. Under construction was good. Opening soon was good. The more pressure Park felt to recover his people, the more desperately he would look for ways to do so.

We stopped at two more strip malls and a large commercial building on Western Avenue. Park met people at each site, and toured the properties as if checking their progress, but no one looked happy, especially Park.

One hour and thirty-six minutes later, we followed his Beemer eleven blocks north to a small Craftsman home between Beverly and Melrose, not far from Paramount Studios. The house and front yard were small, but neat and clean with an attractive flower bed surrounding a crepe myrtle tree. A black Porsche Cabriolet was parked in the drive. The Beemer pulled in behind it, and parked. The drive was so short, the Beemer’s tail hung over the sidewalk.

Park got out, went to the front door, and let himself in without a key. The big man rolled down both front windows, and stayed in the car. He would be there for a while.

I said, “Here we go.”

Pike stopped in front of the neighboring house, and the three of us got out quickly and quietly. We crossed the neighbor’s drive and walked directly to the Beemer, Stone to the passenger side, and Pike and I to the driver’s side.

The big man glimpsed movement, and turned, but by then I had my pistol out.

“Remember me?”

He jerked sideways, but grew still when he saw the gun.

From the other side of the car, Jon Stone spoke Korean. The big man gripped the wheel, both hands, ten and two. Stone slipped into the passenger side, holding a. 45 caliber service automatic. They had a brief conversation, then Jon explained.

“He’s seeing a girlfriend. I’m good here. Go.”

“Does she have kids?”

Stone spoke again.

“No kids. Go.”

Pike and I went to the front door and quietly let ourselves into a classic Craftsman living room. The wood floors and doors and trim around the windows were so dark the wood was almost black, so we followed their voices. I thought we would find them in her bedroom, but they were in a sunroom at the end of the hall.

Sang Ki Park and a young woman were sitting at a small round table framed in a glass bay window looking out at an avocado tree. The woman was slender, Asian, and probably in her twenties. Park had taken off his suit coat, and rolled his sleeves. She was laughing at something he said, and Park was smiling. Then I stepped inside, and their laughing stopped. The girl made a surprised gasp, and Park pushed to his feet. He was smart enough not to reach for a weapon, but he grew angry, squared himself, and shouted a belligerent stream of Korean. I held my gun to the side, pointing away.

“Take it easy. We’re here to talk.”

Pike entered and moved to the right. I drifted left, and pointed my gun at the ceiling. Then I let it fall free on my index finger to hang upside down, telling him he had nothing to fear.

“We owe you three guns. We brought them back.”

Pike placed the three guns on a small wicker love seat.

Sang Ki Park watched him, then glanced at my pistol. I put it under my shirt and showed my empty hands.

“Okay?”

His rage had turned to suspicion, leaving him watchful, but curious.

“Why you here?”

“You lost two hundred thousand dollars to the Sinaloa cartel.”

He stared, but said nothing.

“The Sanchez brothers don’t have it, so you can’t get it from them. The Sinaloas have it, but you’ll have to fight them for it.”

“Yes.”

“They will probably negotiate a settlement with you, go in halves, but you still won’t have your money or your people. I think you want your people.”

Park nodded once, such a small nod his head barely moved, so I went on.

“A man named Ghazi al-Diri has them. He is demanding a ransom.”

“We will not pay.”

“They will die.”

“We do not pay.”

He was hard and immutable, which was good.

“Just as well. He will milk you until the money stops, then kill them. That is what he does. He will not free them.”

His left eye flickered, which was the first sign of strain to escape from his fortress. He wanted his people. He needed them more than he needed the money, and I wondered if some among them were closer than hired staff.

“He has someone I want, too. I want to show you something. I’m going to reach into my pocket, okay?”

The nod.

I took the picture of Krista Morales from my pocket. He studied it for a long moment, then looked up.

“Is this your woman?”

I put away the picture without answering.

“The Syrian has her and a boy. I’m going to get them back.”

“Not pay?”

“Not pay. There is no paying. I’m going to take them.”

“Where are they?”

“With the Syrian. He has them in what we call a drop house. Prisoners. How many people were you bringing in?”

He thought for a moment, probably figuring out how to say it in English.

“Twenty-six.”

“Your people will be there, too.”

“Where is this house?”

“Don’t know, but I will.”

“How you do this?”

“With your help, the Syrian will take me to your people, and mine, and you and I will have what we want. I can do this, but I need your help.”

“Why?”

“I have a way to contact the Syrian, but he doesn’t know me. He’s not going to take me to see a house filled with kidnap victims just because I offer to buy them. He will check me out. He will need to believe he can trust me, and I am who I say I am. This is where we need the Sinaloas. If they believe I am a legitimate buyer, he will believe I’m a legitimate buyer. I need you to deliver the Sinaloas.”

He nodded again, but he wasn’t looking at me, and wasn’t nodding at me.

“I will discuss this with my uncle.”

“I understand.”

“No, you not understand. One of people we bring is my cousin. My uncle’s youngest grandson.”

“Now I understand.”

“Yes. Now you understand better.”

Sang Ki Park took a step back, and spoke softly to the woman. She immediately stood, and moved to the far side of the room. He gestured at the chair where the woman had been sitting.

“Sit here now. We will talk.”

I sat.

We talked.

We worked out an offer for the Syrian and a game plan for the cartel, and then he made the calls. I was now in business with a Korean gang known for extortion, brutality, and violence, and about to put my trust into a drug cartel known for torture and mass murder. I told myself it was worth it. I told myself I had no choice. I lied to myself, and knew I was lying, but chose to believe the lies.