Robert Crais - Taken

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.

“We have to get this kid to a hospital. Krista, you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

I nodded at Pike.

“Let’s get out of here before we get hung up with the police.”

Pike closed the door, and Ghazi al-Diri stepped from behind the old truck. He carried a short black shotgun, and his ponytail had come untied. His hair hung loose at his shoulders.

I said, “Joe, this is Ghazi al-Diri, the Syrian.”

He raised the shotgun.

“Put down the keys and walk away. I want the vehicle.”

His men must have taken his car and left him with nothing.

Krista said, “Fuck you. We have to take my boyfriend to the hospital.”

The Syrian jerked the gun to his shoulder, and shouted.

“Move or I kill you!”

A loud roar of automatic fire kicked up debris from the ground at his feet, and the shotgun spun lazily away.

Then the roar stopped, and Jon Stone ran up, put al-Diri facedown in the dirt, and parked a knee on his neck.

Stone nodded at me.

“You good?”

“I’m good.”

“Where’s the boy?”

“Jeep. We have to get him to a doctor.”

Stone touched the M4’s muzzle to the back of al-Diri’s head.

“Go. This one’s mine. See after Mr. Berman.”

We did.

Nancie Stendahl

The black dot did not move. Nancie hoped this was a good sign. Stone was probably parked, and if Stone was close to Jack, this meant she was close to Jack.

Mo said, “Two miles, heading zero-eight-zero.”

The five people on the helicopter looked in the same direction at the same time. Farms. Rectangles of green painted on the gray desert sand.

“One mile. Right in front of us.”

The pilot tipped the nose and dropped to three hundred feet.

Stan Uhlman said, “Anyone sees a red Jeep, please raise your hand.”

“Quarter mile. Three, two, one, we’re on top of it.”

JT said, “What is that, palm trees?”

Mo said, “It’s a date farm. It looks deserted.”

Nancie said, “Lower.”

The pilot dropped to two hundred feet and made a slow pass. They saw no people or movement or life. They saw no bodies.

Mo said, “We’re right on top of it. You see that building? It’s parked in that building.”

Nancie said, “I see five buildings. Which one?”

“On the end. First one in from the entrance.”

Nancie said, “Land.”

The pilot touched down on a flat area to the west of the orchard, and safely away from the trees. Nancie, Mo, JT, and Stan walked back together as the rotor spun down. The pilot stayed with her ship.

They were thirty yards from the building when Nancie’s cell phone buzzed. She answered automatically.

“Nancie Stendahl.”

“Keep walking.”

“Who is this?”

“You know who! I’m too cute to forget.”

She couldn’t help herself.

“Jon Stone.”

“Jack’s safe.”

Nancie stopped, causing Mo and Stan Uhlman to bump into her.

“Talk to me. Where is he?”

“He was delivered to the Coachella Regional Medical Center about an hour ago. Emergency room. Go see him when you finish here. Take him home.”

Nancie looked at the building.

“What do you mean, finish here? What’s here?”

“Present. You find my first present?”

“Did you kill those people?”

“No, ma’am, I did not. Keep walkin’.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Who killed those people?”

“Walk. I’ll call back in a bit, fill in some blanks.”

“How’d you get this number? This is my personal number.”

“Go see. From me to you.”

She lowered her phone and walked to the building, picking up speed, but stopped cold when she reached the door. A bound man was on the floor. His hands, arms, legs, and ankles were bound, and a strip of duct tape covered his mouth. He had long black hair bunched around his face, and he stared at her with angry eyes. She stared back, then slowly walked over.