“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?”
Park touched his arm.
“Come. We speak elsewhere.”
“Fuck that. I’m not going anywhere.”
He shook off Park’s hand, but Park gripped him again.
“You are not here to die. I am not here to threaten. Walk here. Away from our men, so no one hear.”
Park steered him across the lot to a sleeping flatbed. I followed along with them. Park’s men floated into new positions without being told, securing the area and isolating Ramos’s thugs to give us privacy. Telepathy. Or maybe they were good at their jobs.
We were in the sun, and hot, but alone between the big trucks with their men out of earshot. Ramos shook off Park’s hand again, and squirmed like he thought someone might stab him.
“What the fuck are you doing, bringing your guns? You think you can scare me into returning your money?”
I said, “I can give you the Syrian.”
Just like that. In his face.
It caught him off guard, and took him a moment to catch up. He glanced at Park, then looked over both shoulders as if he expected federal agents to climb out of the trucks.
“What are you talking about?”
“Ghazi al-Diri. The bajadore you call the Syrian. The guy who’s been killing your crews and stealing your pollos.”
“I know who he is. Who are you?”
“I told you. Harlan Green.”
“Bullshit. Are you a cop?”
He glared at Park.
“Did you flip to the Federales?”
“You owe Mr. Park two hundred thousand dollars.”
He was still speaking to Park.
“I told you, we’ll work out something with the money.”
I said, “This guy is stealing your goods and killing your crews, and you haven’t been able to stop him.”
He finally turned back to me.
“What’s this to you?”
Park calmly re-entered the conversation.
“This man has way to Ghazi al-Diri. Will you listen, or will you leave?”
Park held his hand toward Ramos’s car as if showing him the way.
“Listen, leave. Choose, but this man offers way all three may benefit.”
Ramos pooched his lips. He was suspicious that Park was giving him the option to leave. He was trying to figure the trick, but he wanted the Syrian, so he studied me again.
“Harlan Green.”
“I supply unskilled labor to corporations, agribusiness, and small and large businesses here and abroad. I was expecting thirty field workers from Indonesia, but ICE bagged them in San Diego when their boat went down. I’m stuck, my grower is already talking to someone else, and I need a replacement crew as fast as possible.”
He studied me a moment longer, then shook his head.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to. You just have to convince the Syrian.”
I went through the steps, just as I had with Park.
“Mr. Park wants his people. The Syrian has someone I want, too, so Mr. Park and I are in the same boat. You have the two hundred thousand he paid, and you want to keep it, but you probably want the Syrian more than the money. All three of us have these things we want, but the Syrian wants something, too.”
“What?”
“Money. He wants money for the people he’s taken.”
“Park won’t pay.”
“Not Park. Me. I can make an offer that might interest him.”
“Offer to what?”
“To buy them. Park isn’t paying. I will offer to take them off his hands. A flat fee. A purchase.”
Now Ramos wet his lips. He was listening, and hearing me for the first time.
“How can you reach him?”
“A confirmed connection with someone who works for him. Confirmed. If I float an offer, it will reach the Syrian.”
“He ain’t gonna talk to you, man. He don’t know you, why should he talk? You might be a federal agent. You’re nobody.”
“Not if Sinaloa tells him I’m somebody.”
Park said, “This is why we speak. You make him somebody.”
Ramos shook his head, but I could tell he was trying to make it work.
“Long shot.”
“Yes. It’s a long shot.”
“He’s not going to let you get close. There’s no fucking way. How can I help you with that?”
“I’m an unknown. But if he’s tempted by the offer, he will check me out. He’ll ask.”
“He knows I want his head on a plate. You think he’s going to call, ask me what’s up with you?”
“He’ll ask the people he used to work with before you ran him out of business. He will ask, but they haven’t heard of me, either, so they’ll check around, and eventually they’ll ask someone who’s in with Sinaloa.”
Ramos studied me carefully.
“Harlan Green.”
“Harlan Green.”
He looked at Park.
“You will let the money matter go?”
“If I recover my people, your contract is fulfilled.”
Ramos nodded, then glanced back at me. His eyes were the hard, bright eyes of a feral desert dog smelling blood.
“Harlan Green.”
“Yes.”
“All right, Mr. Green. You give me the Syrian, you and I will be friends, I think.”
I stared without responding. After a beat, he motioned to his men, and the three of them returned to his car.
Park said, “You have much balls.”
I went directly to my car, and left.
24
Joe Pike
Pike watched Cole with Park and Ramos by the cab of the long flatbed. Jon Stone was beside him, watching Park’s soldiers, but Pike kept watch over Cole.
They were across the street in a storage room above the transmission shop next door to the taco stand. Close, in case it went south.
Stone eyeballed the scene from a perch on an old desk with an M4 across his legs. Pike was stretched on the neighboring desk, standing sentry through a Zeiss telescopic sighting system mounted to a Remington 700 mountain rifle chambered in 7mm Magnum. Using this scope and rifle, Pike could hit cantaloupes at eight hundred meters.
Next to him, Stone’s voice.
“This is fucked-up shit.”
Pike did not move his eye from the sight picture. Cole, Ramos, Park. The Zeiss was fitted with a laser range finder displaying the range in tiny red numerals in the upper right quadrant of the sight picture. Elvis Cole was forty-two meters away. Overkill.
Stone said, “You know I’m right. He’s going to hang his ass over the edge with these two shitbirds? If I’m lying, I’m dying. I sure as hell wouldn’t.”
Ramos walked away.
“Two.”
“Got him.”
Pike stayed with Cole and Park, letting Stone pick up Ramos. They had designated Park as Target One and Ramos as Target Two. Jon was on Two. If the meet went bad, Jon would drop Ramos and Pike would drop Park. They would then lay down suppressing fire so Cole could escape. If Cole was killed or wounded, they would terminate everyone in the tow yard.
“What I’m saying is, I know time is of the essence an’ all that, but trusting these people to get him inside and keep their pieholes shut is what we in the trade call ‘dubious.’ Two and his boys mounting up. Hasta luego, shitbirds.”
“Rog.”
“Out the gate. Gone.”
“Rog.”
Park and Cole finished their conversation, and separated. Pike stayed with Park.
“One.”
“On it. Cole’s going to his car. One’s joining up with his men.”
Pike saw it as Stone said it. Park met two of his men, spoke briefly, then moved with them to his black Beemer. If Jon gave the word, Pike could and would drop all three in less than two seconds.