Page 2 of Billion-Dollar Ransom
ELIZABETH “BOO” SCHRAEDER couldn’t help but smile as she settled the tab at her favorite Beverly Hills salon.
The salon was arguably the most exclusive in LA.
Their hair-extension work was unparalleled, and appointments with their stylists were among the most highly coveted on the West Coast. The real draw to potential customers, however, was the salon’s clientele, a list of million-dollar names: Kim.
Taylor. Chrissy. Zendaya. What you had done to your hair was not as important as who might be sitting in the next chair.
But Boo didn’t patronize this salon for any of those reasons.
She honestly just got a kick out of the place.
The Style Circus, she called it when gossiping with friends back home in Arkansas.
Only here could some of the world’s most important faces be seen at their most unguarded and vulnerable.
The sheer spectacle cracked Boo up, especially as she got a little wine-drunk in the early afternoon.
Now that her two-hour appointment was over, Boo emerged back into reality through the shaded private back entrance behind Burton Way, where her car—an onyx Bentley—would be waiting.
Boo had finally gotten used to the idea of having a driver.
She’d resisted for months, but eventually Randolph had put his foot down.
Yes, her husband understood that Boo was a woman fully capable of taking care of herself on the mean streets of Beverly Hills.
“That’s one of the many reasons I married you,” he’d said.
But Randolph also reminded her that being his wife came with all kinds of attention.
Some of it was the kind of attention no one wants.
And Randolph, as he liked to remind people, was a man with many enemies.
And Boo had to admit it was nice to be driven home after enjoying a glass (or three) of a 2017 Chateau Lafite while relaxing in the styling chair.
It helped that Boo genuinely liked her driver, Emily, the epitome of chill .
LA’s notorious traffic, which spiked the blood pressure of even the most seasoned drivers, didn’t seem to faze Emily.
She didn’t waste time with small talk but was happy to engage in a chat.
Not quite the same as talking smack with her besties from Fort Smith, Boo knew, but sometimes she was simply grateful for the companionship.
Emily climbed out of the driver’s seat the moment she saw Boo. She smiled and moved to open the back door. “See anybody cool this afternoon?” the driver asked with a playful smirk. “Queen Bey, perhaps? She’s playing at SoFi Stadium tonight.”
Emily didn’t see the hulking form crouched behind the Bentley. The form rose, quick as a shadow, a dark object dangling from his right gloved hand.
Boo shouted a warning. “Behind you!”
But it was too late.
The figure whipped a leather sap across the back of Emily’s skull. Her body bounced off the side of the car and collapsed on the pavement. The attack lasted all of three seconds.
Boo spun around and grabbed the handle of the salon’s back door. But it was locked. Guests had to be buzzed in, just like at the front entrance.
Deep down she’d known this, but she had to try anyway.
Before Boo could reach into her purse for her industrial-strength mace—an item that Randolph insisted she carry—the attacker had his burly arms around her upper torso, squeezing tight, letting her know he was in charge.
“Mrs. Schraeder, stay calm.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is what I know about you,” he said in a tone that was grave yet controlled. “For instance, I know you were army, Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment. You have training and know how to defend yourself.”
“You want a demonstration, asshole?”
“That won’t help you now, so please be cool. Last thing I want to do is hurt you.”
Boo said, “Like you hurt my driver?”
“Your driver will be fine.”
“I don’t know. You hit her pretty hard.”
“I needed the keys.”
“Wait… all of this just so you can steal my Bentley? You’re an idiot, whoever you are.”
Boo tried to turn and get a closer look at the assailant. He was wearing some kind of sheer mask. The material resembled the mesh of a stocking, but the construction was something more advanced—it looked thin, yet it was substantial enough to twist and distort his features.
Boo’s attacker placed his hand on her chin and, as gently as a doctor examining a patient, moved her head so she was facing forward. Then he whispered hot against her cheek: “That’s not what this is.”
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.