Sang Ki Park raised his hand. The woman stepped from the back seat of his BMW, but came no farther. She was not allowed to come farther.
Park appeared patient as the people he brought from Korea gathered in a small group, but he was not. In truth, he was looking for his cousin, and anxious to be done with this. His uncle was now waiting at the motel, and he did not wish his uncle to wait long. His uncle was not a patient man.
It did not take long to unload twenty-three people. Less than two minutes. Certainly no more than three.
Park frowned. Twenty-two people now milled in a group before him, and none were his cousin.
He was about to say something when two men carried a body from the truck, and placed it on the ground a few feet away.
Sang Ki Park stared at the crushed head of his cousin, Kwan Min Park.
He felt very tired, but at the same time filled with a rage so fierce it might drive the heart of a dragon.
Samuel Rojas said, “May we have the lady now?”
Park glanced at Samuel Rojas, then turned and walked to Megan Orlato. When he reached her, he drew a Sig Sauer pistol from beneath his jacket, and shot her in the head.
Fourteen Ssang Yong Pa soldiers then emerged from their hiding spots and opened up with automatic weapons, killing Samuel Rojas and the seven men who had come with him.
When the killing was done, Park had his twenty-two employees put back aboard the truck along with his cousin’s body, and all of them drove away.
Nancie Stendahl
Eighteen hundred feet above the desert, and homing on Jon Stone’s black dot, Nancie Stendahl adjusted the headset.
“Say again.”
Mo said, “Fly heading two-zero-zero.”
The pilot nudged the helicopter a few degrees to the west, bringing them farther out in the desert on a south by southwest course.
Nancie had four people along on the flight: the pilot and Mo with her magic laptop in the front seats; Nancie, JT, and an SRT coordinator named Stan Uhlman. The two SRT teams were staged twenty miles apart and awaiting direction.
Mo’s voice came through the headsets.
“Six miles.”
Stan Uhlman said, “There’s no roads down there. What’s he driving?”
Nancie said, “Jeep. It’s red.”
Uhlman sounded doubtful.
“I don’t know.”
“Four miles. We should see him soon if he’s here. He’s stopped.”
Mo grinned over her shoulder.
“What’s your bet, boss? We got your boy?”
Nancie said, “You still have a read on the second signal?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
Nancie grinned back.
“Then if Mr. Stone found the bait transmitter and got cute with it, I’m betting he didn’t find the second, and that’s where we’ll find him.”
JT pointed past the pilot.
“There’s a road. I got a road.”
Mo said, “One mile. Less than a mile.”
Nancie peered over Mo’s shoulder to see the little black dot on her laptop, then looked out the window. Out here in the middle of nowhere, the map graphic provided no landmark to help orient the dot. All Nancie saw was the dot.
Stan Uhlman said, “There. What’s that, trucks?”
The pilot tipped the nose over, dropped down to four hundred feet, and picked up speed.
JT said, “Oh my God.”
Nancie said, “Closer.”
The pilot tipped the chopper on its side, sank to two hundred feet, and orbited the scene.
Uhlman said, “I make three pickup trucks and multiple bodies.”
JT said, “Nine. I see eight adult male, one adult female. No Jeep. No red Jeep. Boss?”
“Roll the SRTs. Notify the sheriff ’s to secure the scene.”
“What about us? You want to set down?”
Nancie peered at the bodies through her binoculars. None were Jack, and none were Jon Stone. None were moving, or showed signs of sustainable life.
Nancie said, “What’s the heading for the second signal?”
“One-one-zero.”
“Fly one-one-zero.”
The pilot banked north, and flew toward Coachella.
Elvis Cole
The hall and the commissary were a chaos of running, hiding, crying people. The immigrant prisoners didn’t understand what was happening or where to go, but the guards shared this same confusion, which likely saved us. They didn’t know who was shooting, or why, and most assumed they were being invaded by the feds. At that point, they panicked like the prisoners and thought only of getting away. Only two guards tried to stop us, and both times I pulled the trigger first.
Jack tried hard, but was wobbly and slow. It was clear we needed a vehicle, so we pushed through the commissary toward the garage.
We crossed the commissary past the offices, and had turned toward the garage when Jack Berman fell. I bent to lift him, when Medina lurched from an adjoining hall with a shotgun. He smiled, but now his teeth were gone and his shredded mouth bloody.
He jerked the shotgun to his shoulder, and that’s when Joe Pike stepped around the corner and shot him.
Medina dropped as limp as a string, but Pike shot him again, then dumped his empties, fed in a speed-loader, and finally looked at me.
Pike said, “Got you.”
He wasn’t talking to Medina.
I fought down the smile, and half-carried Jack toward the garage.
“Garage. Only way out.”
Krista said, “Is this your friend?”
“Yes.”
Pike led us past the last few offices into the garage. The guards had taken the cars, and the garage was empty.
“Wheels? This kid can’t walk.”
“Straight ahead and across the street.”
Random gunfire came from the trees. I heard automatic-weapons fire behind us, and wondered if it was Jon Stone.
Pike and I carried Jack Berman between us. We jogged straight down the gravel drive as the gunfire lessened behind us, crossed the street, and made our way to Pike’s Jeep where it was parked beside an old irrigation truck.
Jack said, “I can walk. I’m fine.”
We ignored him.
Pike unlocked the Jeep. Krista opened the back door, and we pushed Jack inside.
