Page 62 of Billion-Dollar Ransom
“You got it, Gordon,” Jeff said and hung up. Nicky called up a map of that section of Culver City. Right behind the row of houses on Briar was the campus of Culver City Middle School.Nicky didn’t think Dowd would be foolish enough to hole up in a school, but he might have used the campus as a shortcut over to Sepulveda, in which case there might be footprints on the softball field or even signs of a stolen car on the campus—
“Agent Gordon,” said Hope, “I have Virgil Tighe on line one. He insists you’re going to want to take his call.”
CHAPTER 67
“GOT SOMETHING FOR you, Agent Gordon,” Virgil Tighe said. “Something potentially huge.”
“Go on,” Nicky replied. But she was wary; this could be a fishing expedition. No doubt Virgil had heard about the raid on the Culver City property and wanted the inside track on this part of the investigation. Many Capital operatives were former LAPD or FBI. They had a lot of ears to the ground.
“I’ve been working with the Federales,” Virgil said. “They seem certain they know the identity of the man who kidnapped Tyler Schraeder and his actress girlfriend.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“The name they gave me was Ramiro Flores,” Virgil said. “Mexican ex-army. A decorated sergeant, as a matter of fact.”
“Why is he no longer with the Mexican army?”
“Officially? Gross insubordination. Unofficially? I’m hearing that Flores beat the living crap out of his superior officer over the choice of music in their Humvee.”
The name Flores was new to Nicky, but she had to admit he fit the kidnapper profile she was working up. Like Tim Dowd, a law enforcement or military background. And, most important, a fall from professional grace and a need for cash. If you were to handpick collaborators for a plot like this, you’d need people in that sweet spot: talented enough to get the job done and desperate enough to follow specific orders.
“What else do you know about Flores?”
“Our operatives are compiling an extensive file right now,” Virgil said. “But what matters most is that he has a connection with Rubin Padilla.”
The name gave Nicky pause. “Wait… Padilla. Is this the suspect your men killed in Las Vegas earlier today?”
“One and the same.”
“So what’s the connection? Did they serve together?”
“In a manner of speaking…”
Nicky was confused. Was Virgil screwing around with her? “Why don’t you just come out and say it instead of wasting everybody’s time?”
Virgil laughed and offered an apology. “I’m sorry, Agent Gordon,” he said. “What you said struck me as funny. No, Padilla wasn’t in the Mexican army. What he and Flores have in common is time served. And a girlfriend. I don’t know who dated who first—hell, maybe they’re still both banging her. Well, not Padilla. Not anymore. But I’m liking Flores as our guy.”
And Nicky was liking him too.
CHAPTER 68
Thursday, 7:09 p.m.
THE STRIKE TEAM’S first order of business: taking out that goddamned box gun hidden on Little Rami’s patio.
Plenty of locals had shared rumors about Ramiro’s fancy and expensive military toy. They also said Rami had the whole damn place booby-trapped, like some kind of nut. But neither the gun nor the traps were the top priority—the top priority was seizing Rami’s captives.
Still, there was some debate over how to take out the box gun. Some suggested a direct hit; others thought that was too risky. What if Rami was holding the abductees on the second floor? Perhaps the best option would be to send someone up there to disable it quietly and slit the throat of anyone guarding it.
But others dismissed this idea. Rami wasn’t stupid, and one of the captives was famous. The smart play for him would be to lock them out of sight. Which meant keeping them on the firstfloor or, ideally, in a panic room. It took a while, but permission to strike was granted.
The cartel had been adding military weaponry to its arsenal for the past two decades, so it was relatively easy to secure a portable, single-shot, recoilless AT4 and position it across the street in the bedroom of a neighbor who was more than happy to accept payment for the inconvenience.
Finally, at 8:13 p.m., when the rest of the strike force was in position, the order to fire was given.
The thunderclap of the AT4 echoed through the neighborhood. Even if Little Rami’s four armed guards had understood what they were hearing—and, lacking military experience, they did not—they would not have had the time to do more than lift their weapons before the rocket blasted apart the entire upper floor of the house.
One of Rami’s men had been stationed on the balcony, and he disappeared in a haze of fire and smoke and chunks of concrete and body parts.
