Taken

23

Park spoke with his uncle first, then Winston Ramos, who controlled the transportation of drugs and human cargo north across the Sinaloa-controlled portions of the border from Tijuana to the Arizona state line. It was Ramos who had accepted the two hundred thousand dollars from Sang Ki Park to transport his people into the United States, and it was Ramos who would be targeted for death if their money and people were lost. This probably was not lost on the man.

Ramos immediately offered a settlement in the matter of the two hundred thousand, but Park explained that a second inbound group was about to arrive in Acapulco, and asked Ramos to discuss their transport into the United States with the trafficker who was bringing them. If all went well, Park suggested he might be willing to negotiate on the matter of the two hundred K. Winston Ramos agreed. The trafficker in this scenario was me.

Three hours later, the Coachella winds were up, carrying sand from the desert to scratch at the glass like sun-baked shrapnel. Sanchez amp; Sons tow yard was still. Rudy had sent their employees home, and he and his two brothers had left. Sang Ki Park and I sat in the office, waiting until Ramos and two other men pulled through the gate in a green Chevy Impala bearing a California license plate. We went outside to meet him.

Winston Ramos was short and flabby, with a round head and round body. His tan short-sleeve shirt drooped over his gut like a tent, and his chinos were baggy. First thing he did when he got out of his car was hitch up his belt.

The other two men were about his age. The heavier man wore cowboy boots, and the thinner man looked like a UFC lightweight retired from an unsuccessful career. The cowboy carried a short black wand a little longer and thicker than a TV remote.

Ramos didn’t bother with pleasantries. He glanced at me, but spoke to Park.

“This your transporter?”

I put out my hand.

“Harlan Green.”

He waved the cowboy toward me without shaking.

“He’s going to check you. You know what to do?”

“I know.”

I stood with my feet apart and arms out.

The wand looked like the wands used by TSA screeners, but this one did not screen for metal. He passed it over my chest, back, arms, and legs, searching for the RF and IR signals emitted by transmitters, recorders, and listening devices. I must have passed, because the cowboy nodded at Ramos.

“Okay, now this one.”

When the cowboy went to Park, Park slapped the wand away with a quick roll of his left hand, and punched him once in the solar plexus and twice in the face with his right fist. The cowboy staggered back and dropped to his knees. By the time he was down, Park was calmly staring at Ramos.

“If you want search me, search me yourself.”

The UFC fighter was two seconds behind the curve, then clawed under his shirt and flashed a garish little Llama. 380.

Neither Park nor I moved to stop him, but by the time the gun was out, Ramos saw Park’s men coming from behind the trucks. A dozen Double Dragon hitters in dark glasses and great suits.

I said, “These guys know how to dress, don’t they?”

Ramos glanced at me, then told the UFC fighter to put away his gun and get the cowboy on his feet. He didn’t look scared.

“I came to do business, and you’re starting this shit?”

Park touched his arm.

“Come. We speak elsewhere.”

“Fuck that. I’m not going anywhere.”

He shook off Park’s hand, but Park gripped him again.

“You are not here to die. I am not here to threaten. Walk here. Away from our men, so no one hear.”

Park steered him across the lot to a sleeping flatbed. I followed along with them. Park’s men floated into new positions without being told, securing the area and isolating Ramos’s thugs to give us privacy. Telepathy. Or maybe they were good at their jobs.

We were in the sun, and hot, but alone between the big trucks with their men out of earshot. Ramos shook off Park’s hand again, and squirmed like he thought someone might stab him.

“What the fuck are you doing, bringing your guns? You think you can scare me into returning your money?”

I said, “I can give you the Syrian.”

Just like that. In his face.

It caught him off guard, and took him a moment to catch up. He glanced at Park, then looked over both shoulders as if he expected federal agents to climb out of the trucks.

“What are you talking about?”

“Ghazi al-Diri. The bajadore you call the Syrian. The guy who’s been killing your crews and stealing your pollos.”

“I know who he is. Who are you?”

“I told you. Harlan Green.”

“Bullshit. Are you a cop?”

He glared at Park.

“Did you flip to the Federales?”

“You owe Mr. Park two hundred thousand dollars.”

He was still speaking to Park.

“I told you, we’ll work out something with the money.”

I said, “This guy is stealing your goods and killing your crews, and you haven’t been able to stop him.”

He finally turned back to me.

“What’s this to you?”

Park calmly re-entered the conversation.

“This man has way to Ghazi al-Diri. Will you listen, or will you leave?”

Park held his hand toward Ramos’s car as if showing him the way.

“Listen, leave. Choose, but this man offers way all three may benefit.”

Ramos pooched his lips. He was suspicious that Park was giving him the option to leave. He was trying to figure the trick, but he wanted the Syrian, so he studied me again.

“Harlan Green.”

“I supply unskilled labor to corporations, agribusiness, and small and large businesses here and abroad. I was expecting thirty field workers from Indonesia, but ICE bagged them in San Diego when their boat went down. I’m stuck, my grower is already talking to someone else, and I need a replacement crew as fast as possible.”

He studied me a moment longer, then shook his head.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to. You just have to convince the Syrian.”

I went through the steps, just as I had with Park.

“Mr. Park wants his people. The Syrian has someone I want, too, so Mr. Park and I are in the same boat. You have the two hundred thousand he paid, and you want to keep it, but you probably want the Syrian more than the money. All three of us have these things we want, but the Syrian wants something, too.”

“What?”

“Money. He wants money for the people he’s taken.”

“Park won’t pay.”

“Not Park. Me. I can make an offer that might interest him.”

“Offer to what?”

“To buy them. Park isn’t paying. I will offer to take them off his hands. A flat fee. A purchase.”

Now Ramos wet his lips. He was listening, and hearing me for the first time.

“How can you reach him?”

“A confirmed connection with someone who works for him. Confirmed. If I float an offer, it will reach the Syrian.”

“He ain’t gonna talk to you, man. He don’t know you, why should he talk? You might be a federal agent. You’re nobody.”

“Not if Sinaloa tells him I’m somebody.”

Park said, “This is why we speak. You make him somebody.”

Ramos shook his head, but I could tell he was trying to make it work.

“Long shot.”

“Yes. It’s a long shot.”

“He’s not going to let you get close. There’s no fucking way. How can I help you with that?”

“I’m an unknown. But if he’s tempted by the offer, he will check me out. He’ll ask.”

“He knows I want his head on a plate. You think he’s going to call, ask me what’s up with you?”

“He’ll ask the people he used to work with before you ran him out of business. He will ask, but they haven’t heard of me, either, so they’ll check around, and eventually they’ll ask someone who’s in with Sinaloa.”

Ramos studied me carefully.

“Harlan Green.”

“Harlan Green.”

He looked at Park.

“You will let the money matter go?”

“If I recover my people, your contract is fulfilled.”

Ramos nodded, then glanced back at me. His eyes were the hard, bright eyes of a feral desert dog smelling blood.

“Harlan Green.”

“Yes.”

“All right, Mr. Green. You give me the Syrian, you and I will be friends, I think.”

I stared without responding. After a beat, he motioned to his men, and the three of them returned to his car.

Park said, “You have much balls.”

I went directly to my car, and left.