Page 4 of Billion-Dollar Ransom

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.

Anyone who could afford a Bentley could easily afford a lawyer who’d make a moving violation disappear in an instant.

The kidnapper didn’t keep the Bentley on Sunset very long. He made a sudden right on Linden Drive, tires screaming, executed a perfect K-turn, and reversed until he was trunk to trunk with a black Audi parked in a security-camera dead zone.

The kidnapper’s code name was Two, and from this point on, his life would never be the same.

To be honest, this version was much more exciting.

He should have considered a life of crime years ago.

Two opened both trunks with simultaneous presses of the two key fobs.

Both lids opened at the same time, like a beetle expanding its wings to take flight.

Inside the trunk of the Audi was a soft oversize blanket.

Two tucked the blanket around Boo Schraeder’s unconscious body, wrapping her like a breakfast burrito, then moved her from the trunk of the Bentley to the trunk of the Audi.

Two removed a glove and pressed fingers to her carotid artery. Her pulse was slow but steady.

Her freshly coiffed hair was in disarray. Two fixed it as best he could, but he wasn’t a stylist. Pretty far from it.

Trunk lids slammed shut, Two chucked the Bentley’s key fob down a storm drain and climbed behind the wheel of the Audi. This would be his new ride.

For exactly 2.3 miles.

On a quiet side street near UCLA, Two repeated the routine, this time with a black BMW 7 Series. And several miles later, on the fringes of the Pacific Palisades, Two transferred his captive to still another black Audi. The cars were as clean as the plates on the front and rear bumpers.

The whole time, Boo Schraeder never stirred.

The chemical he’d sprayed in her face was a potent one, a proprietary and long-acting form of halothane.

Two had tried it on himself a few days ago.

Probably the best sleep he’d had in over a year.

He knew she’d enjoy the rest of the ride in ignorant bliss.

How she’d feel when she woke up, however, was another story.