Taken

4

Joe Pike

Pike turned away from the body and walked over to Jon Stone’s prisoner, there in the desert in the fading bronze light. Stone had already strapped the man’s wrists behind his back and his ankles together with plasticuffs. When Pike arrived, Stone lifted the man’s head and peeled back his upper lip.

“Khat runner. Check out these teeth. Fuckers get green teeth from chewing the khat. Ain’t this green rotten?”

“Stop it, Jon.”

Stone laughed, and dropped the man’s head.

Khat was a shrub native to East Africa and the Arabian Peninsula, where people chewed the leaves as a stimulant. Poor man’s speed.

Stone’s prisoner was in his early thirties, with ragged black hair and big eyes crazy with fear. The light was fading and the clock was running. Every passing minute would put Cole farther away or closer to death. Time was everything, and speed was life. Pike wanted to press forward, but needed what this man could give him, and that would take time.

Pike pointed his pistol at the body.

“Do you understand what happened?”

The man spit out Arabic so fast, his voice was distorted. Pike had spent freelance time in Lebanon, Saudi, Somalia, the Sudan, and Iraq. He could get by, but wasn’t fluent.

Pike said, “ Qala Inklizi.”

Telling him to say it in English.

Stone cracked the M4 across the man’s ear, shouted in Arabic, and the man settled down. Jon Stone was fluent.

Pike squatted in front of the man, and lifted his head.

“If you resist, I will kill you. If you lie, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

The man uttered a soft yes.

Pike pulled him into a sitting position.

“Name.”

“I am Khalil Haddad, from Yemen. Please do not kill me. I will do anything you ask.”

Stone stepped away and did a quick three-sixty of the horizon.

“We gotta roll, bro. We don’t want to be here if ICE choppers in.”

ICE. The U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. The U.S.-Mexican border from Tijuana to Brownsville was a hot zone of DEA agents after incoming dope, ATF agents after outgoing guns, and ICE agents trying to stop illegal entry. Pike was good with the heat.

“Check the vehicle.”

Stone trotted to the Escalade as Pike tipped his pistol toward the bodies in the cut.

“These people from India?”

“Yes.”

“Who killed them?”

“We did. Me and Orlato and Ruiz. It is what we do when they cannot pay.”

This was an honest answer. Bajadores were bandits who kidnapped people who were trying to enter the country illegally. The kidnappers would then demand ransom payments from their families or employers. This continued until the families could or would no longer pay, then the victims were murdered. Dead victims could not bear witness.

“Elvis Cole. You know who I’m talking about?”

“The man who came for the boy and the girl.”

“A young Latina. Krista Morales. An Anglo boy named Berman.”

“Yes, the boy and the girl.”

“Are they alive?”

“I believe so, yes, but I cannot be sure. My job was with these Indians.”

“Why were they taken?”

“They were with pollos a Tijuana crew brought north. No one knew they were Americans.”

“Korean pollos?”

Haddad looked surprised.

“How do you know these things?”

Pike struck him with his open palm on the forehead before Haddad finished the sentence. This was not a two-way conversation.

“Yes! Koreans. The Sinaloas stole them from the Tijuanas. The Syrian, he stole them from the Sinaloas.”

Pike felt Haddad was telling the truth. Tijuana, Sinaloa, Zeta, La Familia, on and on-if the U.S. side of the border was a hot zone of law enforcement agencies, the Mexican side was a war zone controlled by cartel factions who fought and stole from each other like rabid dogs. Pike was good with war zones, too. He felt at home.

“Is Cole alive?”

“This morning, yes. He was brought to our house for the Syrian.”

“Your house?”

“Where we kept the Indians.”

Pike hammered back the. 357, and held it to Haddad as he had held it to Orlato.

“What happened to him?”

Haddad cringed, but Pike held him close. Haddad did not want to see what Orlato had seen. He did not want to see his death coming.

“Did the Syrian kill him?”

“I don’t know! Orlato and Ruiz and I, we left with the bodies. The others, they were to hold him for the Syrian.”

Pike pressed the gun hard into Haddad’s forehead.

“A prisoner?”

“Yes!”

“Was the Syrian going to kill him?”

“I don’t know! These men, they told me the Syrian thinks your friend is a federal agent.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Three hours! Maybe four!”

“When was the Syrian coming?”

“I don’t know!”

“Five minutes? Five hours?”

“I don’t know! I can take you to the house! Maybe they still wait!”

Pike studied Haddad, then lowered the gun.

“Yes.”

Stone returned, and shook his head.

“No IDs or credit cards on the stiffs. Thirty-two hundred in cash. I took it. Registration shows the Caddy belongs to a Joan Harrell of San Diego. None of these shitbirds looks like a Joan.”

Haddad said, “Everything is stolen. He has thieves who get cars and trucks for him.”

“Keys?”

Stone held up the keys.

“Yeah, man. Good to go.”

“Drive.”

“We’re taking Mr. Green Teeth?”

“He knows the way.”

Stone ran hard for the Escalade.

Pike clipped the plastic binding Haddad’s ankles, but left his wrists bound. Pike pulled him to his feet.

Haddad said, “You are not killing me?”

“Not yet.”

The big Escalade thundered up in a cloud of dust. Pike pushed Haddad into the back seat, and climbed in behind him.

Stone powered away even as Pike closed the door. Driving hard. Pushing. They bounced over brush and rocks, and neither of them gave a damn if they tore the Escalade apart.

Haddad said, “This is not the way.”

Stone said, “Shut up.”

Pike said, “Faster.”

They ran hard toward the mountains, driving without lights. They had to move fast or Cole would be lost.