Taken by Robert Crais Read Free Book Online Page B

here. Where are you?”
    They were forced deeper into the cavern as more people boarded until the container was crowded with sweating bodies. Then the big sliding door rattled down to chop off the last faint shreds of light. The darkness was a deep, pure black, and the close air rich with the bad smells of body odor and urine. Jack saw nothing, not even a shape or line or shadow. He heard a lock being snapped into place, and whispered.
    “They locked us in.”
    Krista pressed herself closer, invisible in the blackness. Outside, the cab doors slammed shut, and the engine rumbled. The big truck lurched, and moved.
    Jack didn’t know what to do. All around them, people wept, and others spoke in voices too low to hear. A woman on the other side of the truck wailed, then Jack decided he wasn’t sure if it was a woman or not. The body odor smells were so strong, Jack tried not to breathe. He held Krista tight, and spoke into her hair.
    “Anyone here know where they’re taking us?”
    Krista spoke more Spanish, and this time a man’s voice answered. A woman joined in, but their conversation was short, and then Krista switched to English.
    “They say we’re going to be sold. That’s what
bajadores
do, and they’ve heard stories about the
bajadores
.”
    “What does that mean, sold? Like slaves?”
    “No, more like ransomed. I think he meant ransomed. They kidnap people, and try to get ransom.”
    “Where are they taking us?”
    She spoke more Spanish, and translated as the man answered.
    “A house, a camp, a barn. He doesn’t know. We might even be kept in this truck. He’s worried because he has no money to pay. He gave all his money to the coyote.”
    The truck lurched as it rolled over brush and dropped off up-thrust rocks. Five minutes ago, Jack had been freezing. Now, trapped with thirty frightened people in the black belly of the truck, he was sweating, and thought he might throw up.
    Krista traded more Spanish, then switched to English.
    “They’ll want to know who we are. Don’t tell them, baby. Lie. We can’t tell them who you are.”
    “Maybe they’ll let us go.”
    “Just don’t. You can’t.”
    “I can pay them.”
    “Don’t. Promise me, Jack. Don’t even try.”
    Jack put his arms around her, and held on as they bounced slowly across the desert. A few minutes later, they were on a road, and the truck picked up speed. Jack checked the time on his digital watch. Fifteen minutes later, the road became paved. Twenty-two minutes after they reached pavement, the truck slowed, backed up, then stopped. A drive this short meant they were still in the desert.
    The lock was removed, and the door rose with a ratcheting clatter, filling the truck with grim red shadows. Jack checked the time. 2:55 A.M. The people ahead of them started to move.
    Krista’s whisper drifted over her shoulder.
    “Don’t tell them who you are.”
    Jack and Krista followed the others into a world the color of blood.

Elvis Cole:
    six days after they were taken

7.
    Six minutes after Nita Morales drove away with her fears on that warm morning, I got into my car, phoned the Information operator, and asked if they had a listing for Jack Berman in Brentwood, California.
    “No, sir. Nothing in Brentwood for a Jack Berman.”
    “How about Westwood, West Hollywood, or Santa Monica?”
    The communities surrounding Brentwood.
    “No, sir. No Jacks there, either, nor anywhere in Los Angeles. We have several Johns, a Jason, a Jarrod, a Jonah, a lot of Jameses—”
    “How many Bermans altogether?”
    “Fifty or sixty, at least.”
    “Okay. Thanks for checking.”
    I killed the call, then dialed a police officer I know named Carol Starkey. Starkey works as an LAPD homicide detective in Hollywood, and likes me enough to do the occasional favor.
    First thing she said was, “Weren’t you going to cook dinner for me? I’m waiting.”
    “Soon. Can you pull a DMV registration for me?”
    “That’s what you said last time. I think