Page 38 of Billion-Dollar Ransom

FIVE HAD LIVED on high alert since he was a kid.

Down in TJ, it was practically a requirement. If someone decided to mess with you, you needed to know long before he made the first move. Then you could prepare your defense or maybe even a preemptive strike. Either way, the guy would learn pretty quick that you were not one to be messed with.

Tyler Schraeder was definitely about to mess with Five.

Ever since Five had shown Tyler and Cass to their locked room, Tyler had been exhibiting all the signs: The sudden heat in his eyes. The change in breathing. The tension in his muscles, even though he clearly assumed he was projecting the opposite—cool, utter calm.

Yeah, there was no doubt Rich Kid Tyler had all kinds of action-movie nonsense rattling around in his skull.

Five double-locked the door behind them and prepared himself.

From the dossier that One had provided, Five knew that Tyler Schraeder had extensive martial arts training.

Krav Maga. Brazilian jujitsu. Kickboxing.

Wing Chun. And so on. If it was trendy for even a Hollywood minute, Tyler had studied it.

He didn’t want to be one of those stuffed-shirt producers.

He liked to play around with the actors and the stunt guys.

But as far as anyone knew, Tyler Schraeder had never been in an actual fight.

This became painfully clear to Five when Tyler threw the first punch, which was intended to be devastating. The guy probably thought he was following his version of street rules: Hit first and hit hard enough to end the fight then and there.

Problem was, Tyler was focused on the strength of the punch rather than the stealth of it. The blow was ridiculously telegraphed, to the point where Tyler should have said: Hey, I’m going to try to hit you really, really hard. That might have actually surprised Five.

Instead, Five pivoted a few inches, and Tyler’s fist sailed harmlessly past his face.

The momentum carried him forward and he stumbled over his own feet.

Five had all the time in the world to select his own move.

He opted to deliver a jab powerful enough to crack a rib.

Which, judging from the sound of the blow when he landed it, did just that.

Tyler fell to his knees, already wheezing.

“You really want to do this, rich boy?”

A beast-like growl came out of Tyler’s throat, and he hurled himself at Five.

Tyler Schraeder did have a size and weight advantage. And Five was momentarily caught by surprise; he’d expected some of that fancy Hollywood martial arts nonsense from Tyler, not a full-on NFL-style blitz.

Tyler tackled Five hard enough that when he hit the wall behind him, the framed art hanging there rattled. Then Tyler locked his hands around Five’s neck and squeezed, probably imagining that he could strangle him or snap his spine or some other dumb action-movie nonsense.

Didn’t he realize that Five had been picked on by kids much older, heavier, and meaner than him? Did Tyler think he would be this easy?

Clearly he did, because he had no defense for when Five jackhammered his forehead into the rich boy’s perfect nose.

And, oh, how he screamed.

What did Five enjoy most—the agony, the gore, or the idea that Tyler’s handsome looks would be ruined forever if he didn’t get major reconstructive surgery? Five decided he enjoyed all of it equally.

Tyler deflated and dropped to the ground; his trembling fingers touched his face as if he could put it back together again—if only it didn’t hurt so damn much.

“You’d better be careful,” Five said. “You’re seriously cutting down on your own hostage value. I think they pay less for an abductee with a missing tooth and a broken nose.”

Rich boy rolled over, spat blood, and in a mumble began to suggest that Five should have carnal relations with himself.

Five kicked Tyler in the stomach before he could finish the thought. This guy, man. He doesn’t give up. “Pretty sure your value would go down even more if you were dead,” Five said.

To be honest, Five was wishing for that. As much as he’d like his share of the treasure, it would be supremely satisfying to watch the life drain from this spoiled asshole’s face, his eyes all wide, with his girlfriend’s terrified screams the last thing he heard on this earth.

Hell, he might kill him even if the money did come through. One would be pissed, but so what?

Then Tyler Schraeder said something that genuinely surprised Five.

He turned over, snuffling blood and trembling, rested on his elbows, gave Five his most defiant sneer yet, and said, “Here’s what you don’t get. The last thing my father would ever do is pay a ransom for me.”