Page 12 of Billion-Dollar Ransom
“Quarter of a million dollars later,” Nicky said, “she was safely returned to her home in Hope Ranch. She was unable to identify her abductor, who I’ve come to believe was a male working with a partner who was not present at the scene.”
Another tap, and another photo appeared: a school bus in downtown San Diego surrounded by uniformed police, FBI, and dozens of terrified parents hugging their elementary-school-age children.
“Three months later, the twin daughters of a very successful comic-book artist were taken from their school bus. The children were returned safely, but not until the artist had been forced to essentially liquidate his own art collection to come up with the half-million ransom demand.”
Jeff Penney asked, “Same male abductor?”
“No,” Nicky replied. “The twins said they were taken by a man and a woman, possibly a couple, the twins said, based on how they spoke to each other.”
“Then why do you think it’s the same team of kidnappers?”
“I’ll get to that,” Before Jeff could interrupt again, Nicky tapped her cell phone.
A screen grab from a comedy show with a middle-agedcomic twisting his face into a display of faux agony appeared on a monitor.
“Six months ago, this comedian and his new bride, who is twenty-six years his junior, were taken from their remote cabin in Big Sur. Their families struggled to put together a million bucks to secure their release.”
“I caught that guy’s act once,” Mike Hardy said. “He’s famous for being a total dick to pretty much everybody.”
The mayor shook her head in annoyance. If Mike Hardy weren’t so incredibly good at his job, Nicky thought, he would have been fired a long time ago. He wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.
“Were they released unharmed?” the mayor asked.
“Not this time. The comedian was severely beaten. He claimed that he’d been assaulted by a couple of gangbangers who were clearly working for someone else. He assumed they were hired by his former management, but that turned out to be a dead end.”
The mayor didn’t seem all that impressed with Nicky’s theory. “Different people, different perps… I agree with Captain Penney. Why do you think these three cases are related?”
“For many reasons, Madam Mayor,” Nicky said. “The smooth, well-practiced abductions. The escalation in ransom money as well as increasingly ambitious targets. And the ease with which they were able to secure the ransom money in all three cases suggests a group of individualsextremelyfamiliar with our protocols.”
Mike Hardy smirked. “You think they have a cop on their team.”
“Or a former cop,” Nicky said. “But the most important reason is that the three cases I’ve just presented seem to be dry runs forexactlywhat happened to the Schraeders this afternoon.”
CHAPTER 15
Wednesday, 4:27 p.m.
FIVE WAS BORN in Tijuana.
And when he dreamed, he wandered the crowded streets of TJ, breathing in the aroma of grilled carne and chili peppers, lost in the pulsing music, and enjoying the stares from the curious girls up and down Avenida Revolución, who could sense he wassomebody. And he was. His various business interests often took him away from his beloved TJ, and Five welcomed any opportunity to return.
Even if itwaspart of a massive kidnapping plot that could bring way too much attention to his hometown.
But there was no other way. Five felt safe here. He knew every inch of his little neighborhood, which was tucked away from the usual tourist snares. His home was fortified with all kinds of security features, both obvious and secret. Plus, Five knew the escape routes, the hiding places, the ways to avoidthe cops… well, the cops who weren’t paid off. Which was a very small number.
Those clandestine routes were good to know, especially when the Federales decided to do a showcase bust for American media.
Or when you had two famous people in the back of your truck, and you wanted to slip through the city undetected.
The radio in his Ford Bronco was tuned to a classic rock station in San Diego. Five was happy when reception finally improved; after winding his way up through Baja California, his speakers came alive with ZZ Top, Van Halen, Led Zeppelin, Santana—all that classic 1970s and ’80s rock his papa used to listen to when disassembling cars in the garage.
The closer he was to home, the more relaxed he felt.
The more confident.
Five took a hard left onto the street where he grew up, and right away, he could see them: Men with guns. Four of them. Two keeping their eyes on the street; two training their gun sights on the house halfway up the block. Five’s house. The one he’d grown up in and inherited after his mother passed away from the lung cancer that had ravaged her body and taken her from him much too soon.
Five nodded at the two shooters guarding the front. They nodded in response. Hard men who would never crack a smile in public. They were all tight with Five and had been since they were all kids.
