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.
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?”
