Page 3 of Billion-Dollar Ransom
Boo said, “You know someone is watching us, right? He’s been watching this whole time. Guy in the green baseball cap, down at the end of the drive. I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”
“He’ll be taken care of. Right after I take care of you.”
“Take care of me how?”
“Don’t worry. This won’t hurt.”
A harsh blast of wetness hit Boo’s mouth and nostrils. It was like being slapped in the face by a wave from an ocean of chemicals. The spray seemed to instantly seal up her airway.
She tried to suck in a breath, but before that could happen and far quicker than she would have thought, her brain stopped recording.
CHAPTER 3
THE MAN IN the green cap standing at the end of the driveway had indeed been watching. He’d been there for a few minutes now and had witnessed pretty mucheverything:
The kidnapper hiding behind the Bentley.
The kidnapper bashing the back of the driver’s skull with a leather sap.
The kidnapper grabbing the blonde and putting his mouth close to her ear as if he were telling her an important secret.
The kidnapper spraying a chemical into her pretty little face.
The blonde passing out instantly, like a puppet with its strings cut.
The kidnapper catching her full weight, then gently lifting her unconscious body and depositing it in the Bentley’s trunk like he was putting away a doll in a fancy toy chest.
All in a matter of, what, thirty seconds? What a thrill to watch a total professional at work! The man in the green capalmost wished he knew the kidnapper’s name for no other reason than that he was now an instant fan.
With his blond victim tucked away, the kidnapper took care of a few details. He felt for the unconscious driver’s pulse. Once satisfied that she was alive, he dragged her to the back wall of the salon—presumably, Green Cap thought, so she’d be out of the way if someone came blasting down the drive. He scanned the asphalt to make sure the pretty blonde hadn’t dropped anything, then climbed behind the wheel of the Bentley and peeled away.
The whole thing was great fun. Almost like a movie—ten out of ten, no notes. Green Cap wished he could rewind it and watch it again.
Alas, now it was his turn to work.
Green Cap pulled a burner phone from his jacket pocket. It was an old-fashioned flip phone with only one contact stored in its memory. He pressed the number. After exactly three rings, someone answered.
Following a moment of silence, Green Cap said: “One hundred percent.”
The listener did not reply, nor was a response expected. The person simply hung up.
Green Cap began strolling toward Burton Way, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. And he didn’t. Well, he wouldn’t—after a few minor tasks. He pulled the battery out of the phone and deposited it in the first trash can he saw. This was improper battery disposal, but he didn’t care. The world was already going to hell. One more cell phone battery wouldn’t make a difference.
Without breaking his stride, Green Cap removed the SIM card from the phone and pocketed it. He snapped the body of the phone in half and tossed the broken pieces in two different trash cans. More fodder for the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
He stopped to buy a small cup of piping-hot coffee from Starbucks, but this was not to drink. This was to drown and destroy the SIM card. Into the coffee it went—plunk—and then he tossed the entire cup into yet another trash can.
Green Cap reached an ATM four minutes after the driveway abduction of the blonde and his follow-up phone call. He pushed in his scratched-up debit card, entered his PIN (the day and month his divorce was finalized), and asked for the balance in his checking account. This morning the balance had been $789.43.
Now it was $25,789.43. He’d earned twenty-five grand for about five minutes’ work.
Not bad at all!
Green Cap decided to celebrate with another purchase from Starbucks, this time a frothy latte he’d get to enjoy. And by God, he’d savor every swallow.
CHAPTER 4
THE KIDNAPPER PILOTED the Bentley west down Sunset toward the Pacific, weaving around other luxury cars, going a good fifteen to twenty miles above the speed limit. No one would stop him. Not in a Bentley. Traffic cops knew it wouldn’t be worth the headache—they wouldn’t stop him unless they saw a screaming old lady being dragged under the chassis. And maybe not even then.
