Taken

36

The Anglo shouted across the top of his pistol.

“ Down. Get on the fuckin’ floor now.”

Medina strapped my wrists with a plasticuff when I was down. He punched me in the back twice and once on the side of my neck, then the two men pulled me up until I was on my knees.

Al-Diri walked over and put away his gun.

“Who are you?”

“Harlan Green. Jesus, what are you doing?”

“I am thinking you are a federal agent.”

I glared at the UFC fighter.

“Are you crazy, listening to this turd? You checked me out. Why did you bring me here, if you didn’t check me out?”

Al-Diri glanced at the UFC fighter, and said something in Spanish. Orlato took the UFC fighter’s arm and led him out through the kitchen. I wondered if Pike had seen him arrive, or would see him leave, and would realize something was wrong.

Al-Diri turned back to me.

“I know what I hear, but now I am told you are friends with my enemies by someone who should know. This makes me think I have not heard right things.”

“You got ripped off. That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“He has never been wrong before.”

“He’s sure as hell wrong now, and he’s costing you money.”

I made my voice calm. Krista Morales and Jack Berman were twenty feet away, and needed me. Calm is good when you’re trying to appear as if you have more control than you do.

“Your snitch saw me with Winston Ramos and Sang Ki Park of the Double Dragon gang. Winston Ramos is the prick who wants me dead. The Dragons came as my security, or did your snitch not mention Park knocked his buddy on his ass, and humiliated him in front of his boss?”

The Syrian arched his eyebrows, surprised at my admission.

“You met with a man who wishes you dead?”

“Bet your ass. I don’t want a price on my head. I put together that tete-a-tete to patch up our differences. The Dragons signed on because they don’t like Ramos, either, thanks to you. These Koreans you have are Park’s people. Listening to Park and Ramos go on is where I got the idea to buy them from you. You’re not making any money off them. You let me have them cheap, we both make money.”

Ghazi al-Diri stared at me. If he had spoken with people inside Sinaloa who knew why Ramos had met with Park, what he learned would give my version of events credibility.

I said, “Do your homework. Find someone who knows what Ramos and I discussed at our meeting.”

The Syrian ran his hand over his head and along the length of his ponytail. It revealed his anxiety, which meant he believed me enough to weigh his desire for profit against the quality of his informant.

He said, “You would buy these workers if I sell?”

“Thirty. I need thirty to keep my buyer happy. But after this bullshit, I’m only going to pay you half as much as I would have.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I have many buyers.”

“So sell your pollos to them, and turn me the hell loose. I have to find thirty stiffs to lay off on my buyer.”

The frown line between his eyes deepened, but then Orlato hurried back from the kitchen. Orlato was holding a phone, and looked even more frantic than before. They had a brief conversation in Spanish, but no one was speaking softly. Al-Diri spun around, and barked orders to Medina and his other men. They hurried away in different directions, shouting to each other.

Al-Diri abruptly turned back to me.

“I will look into this further, and decide whether you can be trusted. Now, we must leave. The pollos have to be moved.”

“Fine. Call when you figure out what you want to do, but don’t wait too long.”

The Syrian made a lizard’s smile.

“There will be no call. You will be my guest until these matters are settled.”

He snapped out a harsh string of commands to Medina, then swirled away. Medina and the big Anglo pulled me to my feet, shoved me toward the garage, and bagged my head again.

Twenty-five minutes later, the bag came off, and they led me from a different garage into a different kitchen where a nervous Indian woman with a red bindi on her forehead stirred a pot of soup. It smelled of turnips.

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.