Taken

35

Wander Lawrence Gomez told me we were about to stop, but to leave on the pillowcase. We slowed, turned, crunched over gravel, then braked again.

A door rattled as it lifted, the van eased forward, and the door rattled again. Wander pulled away the pillowcase as the van’s front passenger door and side door opened. A black man was pointing a shotgun at me. A Latin guy in the passenger seat had a pistol locked out in a two-hand combat grip.

I blinked at the black man.

“Are you the Syrian?”

“Boy, I’m from Compton. The man ain’t here. We gonna search you again, and get you back on the road.”

“Why do you have to search me again?”

“Coz that’s the way we do things. Get your ass out of there.”

Wander gave me the ugly smile, which he probably took to be encouraging.

“You checked out fine, bro. Everything’s copacetic.”

The black guy stepped back so I could get out in the tight space between the van and a dark green Ford Explorer. They brought me into an empty house to search me, but Wander stayed with the van. It was the last time I saw him.

A few minutes later they loaded me into the Explorer’s back seat, bagged my head, and brought me to another house. The man from Compton drove. This time when the hood came off, we were wedged into a garage with a black Cadillac Escalade.

Two Latin men stood by an open door at the head of the garage, looking at us. One of the Latin guys was built burly and strong, and the other had a badly fixed cleft lip. I tried to sound jaded, as if I was so familiar with the world of human trafficking, this kind of thing was yesterday’s news.

“Those people aren’t Syrian. Is the man here or not? If we’re not going to do business, fuckit.”

“He’s here. You’re gonna meet him now.”

The two men stepped aside to let us pass, then continued into the garage. They hooked up with the man who rode shotgun in the Explorer.

My driver led me through a utility room and a kitchen, and then to a living room. The house smelled like a cross between sour cabbage and a bus station men’s room. Two guards eyed me from a hall, and another from a futon in the living room. Two futons, a couple of folding chairs, and three table lamps were the only furniture. One of the hall guards went down the hall.

I said, “Nice digs.”

Heavy plywood had been screwed over every window and outside door like armor plate. Even the front door and the sliders. So far as I could see, the only way in or out was through the garage. The house had been converted to a bunker.

Ghazi al-Diri and another man emerged from the back of the house. Al-Diri was a tall, muscular man with dark skin, black eyes, and a frown line between his eyebrows. His black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. He wore stonewashed jeans, a lime-colored knit shirt, and three narrow gold rings on his left hand. The other man was shorter, with tiny eyes and a pocked face.

Al-Diri smiled cordially, and offered his hand.

“Welcome, Mr. Green. I am Ghazi. This is my associate, Vasco Medina.”

Medina showed teeth that looked like a horror-film prop.

“Harlan. I understand you may be able to help me out.”

“This is true. Forgive me, I would offer a seat, but there are no seats to offer.”

“No worries. Is the labor here for me to inspect?”

My heart rate was up, but I tried to appear calm. If the Koreans were here, it was likely the people captured with them would also be here, but there was no certainty.

I was all business and ready to get to it, but al-Diri wasn’t so anxious. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets, and ignored my question.

“I am told you supply labor. Your interest is agribusiness?”

I gave him the same bullshit I fed Winston Ramos.

“I offer career opportunities to people from emerging nations by supplying low-cost labor to firms open to a workers with untested credentials.”

Al-Diri frowned at me as if he didn’t know whether I was joking, so I pressed ahead.

“Agribusiness. Yes. This is why I have to inspect these people. Age and health are important. Gender, not so much. Are we talking young studs or frail old men? I have to see them before I can give you a price.”

Al-Diri finally nodded as if this made perfect sense, and gestured toward the hall.

“The workers you wish to see are here.”

“Perfect.”

We made cordial conversation as if we weren’t in a drop house reeking of urine where people were tortured and murdered.

He said, “I understand you will not work with the Sinaloas.”

“We had a misunderstanding.”

“They have misunderstandings with many people.”

“Yourself?”

He clapped me on the back.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Here, see what I have for you.”

A guard standing post by a locked door unlocked it as we approached. Al-Diri opened the door, but Medina went inside first. The smell of urine, feces, and unwashed people rolled out of the room like an acid fog. My eyes watered, but al-Diri and Medina didn’t seem to notice.

“We have twenty-three workers I wish to sell. Fourteen men, and nine are women. Three of the men are older, but healthy and still strong. Three speak Spanish, four have some English, but are not fluent. Most have only Korean. You want to touch them? Feel their strength. Some of the women are attractive.”

The room was crowded with people sitting or lying on the floor, but none were Krista Morales or Jack Berman. Most were Asian, but several were Latin, and all of them watched me with sorrowful eyes. They were unwashed, soiled, and the men were unshaven. I tried not to breathe.

I said, “We are speaking of the Koreans?”

“Yes. Only the Koreans.”

“There aren’t twenty-three.”

“There are more in another room. I show you.”

“I was told you had twenty-six.”

Medina flashed the picket-fence teeth.

“You always lose some. Shit happens.”

When Medina opened the second door, Krista Morales and Jack Berman were the first people I saw. They were on the floor against the far wall, and Berman appeared to be sleeping. I saw them, and ignored them. I gave the room a cursory glance, then turned to Ghazi al-Diri.

“I need thirty.”

Al-Diri shook his head.

“Only twenty-three are for sale.”

“I understand, but I need thirty. I lost thirty farmers in San Diego. My buyer needs and expects thirty. These other pollos will do.”

I drifted through the room as if I were assessing their suitability. I glanced at Krista and Jack, and realized Berman wasn’t sleeping. His eyes flagged, opened, rolled, and closed. A dark crust had built up around his ear.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Are you American? Can you help him? He’s hurt.”

She was scared. She was so scared she sounded completely different than she had on the phone.

I squatted as if I was looking more closely at Berman, but I looked at her instead and lowered my voice.

“Don’t forget your accent. You’re playing a Mexican.”

She stared as if I had slapped her, but I stood before she could respond and turned to al-Diri.

“What the hell? Are these people injured and sick?”

Medina said, “He ain’t sick. I kicked his ass. You have to do that sometime.”

I stared at Medina, and smiled.

“Yeah. Some people need their ass kicked.”

I turned to al-Diri.

“I deal with injuries all the time. You want me to take a look?”

Al-Diri stepped into the hall, and motioned me to join him.

“This is not important. We have business. Come.”

I glanced back at Krista, and found her still staring at me. I wanted to tell her she was only minutes away from being out of this hell, but I joined al-Diri in the hall.

The burly man from the garage and an Anglo with large hands were in the kitchen when we reached the entry. The burly man motioned Medina over. Al-Diri told me to wait in the living room, and joined their conversation. The four men spoke quietly, which left me feeling alone.

After a while, Medina came over and stood nearby with his arms crossed.

I said, “What’s going on?”

“Fuckin’ Orlato always has some bullshit.”

Orlato was the man with the stomach.

Al-Diri followed Orlato into the kitchen, and the Anglo came over and stood behind me. I tried to watch him and ignore him at the same time.

Thirty seconds later, al-Diri returned from the kitchen, and now a gun dangled alongside his leg.

I said, “What’s the problem?”

Al-Diri raised the gun.

“You.”

Then the Anglo took one step away, and he pointed a gun at me, too.

Orlato came back from the kitchen with a smaller man who looked like a UFC fighter with a loser’s face. He was Winston Ramos’s bodyguard, and had been with us in Rudy Sanchez’s tow.

The Syrian glanced at him, then waved his gun.

“Is this the man?”

“Thas him. He ain’t who he say he is. He’s friends with Ramos.”

Vasco Medina showed me the teeth, then punched me in the face.