Page 15 of Billion-Dollar Ransom

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 was somebody .

And he was. His various business interests often took him away from his beloved TJ, and Five welcomed any opportunity to return.

Even if it was part 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 avoid the 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.

One of the gunmen had the garage-door opener. As Five pulled forward, the door lifted.

“You two okay back there?” Five called over his shoulder.

There were no moans, no grumbles, no nothing. His captives were still unconscious from the knockout drugs.

Good.

Five pulled into the garage and watched as the door began to close behind him.

That was triggered by one of the gunmen, who anticipated Five’s every move.

They were more than a working team. They were like brothers, with a connection thicker than blood.

Sometimes it felt like they shared the same mind.

So, yeah, sure, the mysterious Mr. One didn’t want Five to get anyone else involved in this kidnapping plot. He’d made that very clear:

If you improvise, you will not be paid. If you involve others, you will not be paid.

But Five didn’t work without his brothers. You hired Five, you were hiring all of them.