Page 49 of Billion-Dollar Ransom

IAN COUGHLIN HAD one card to play—and he wasn’t going to use it until he received exactly what he wanted. If what he suspected was true, his life literally depended on him getting it.

He swore and vowed to repeat this to himself until the end of time: There is no such thing as easy money.

“Listen, like I said, it was completely anonymous. But I might have heard a name. One I wasn’t supposed to hear.”

“Go on.”

“No, Hardy. You and I know how this works. I want something in return.”

“That all depends on the name.”

Here was the tricky part. Ian Coughlin suspected that cops were behind this whole triple kidnapping.

It was the only thing that made sense. Only two types of people knew to reach out to Ian in the first place: cops and career criminals.

The follow-home robbers in his circle were nowhere near ambitious enough to pull off something like this; they were either junkies looking for a quick score or gang members looking for bragging rights.

That left one other option: the cops.

Ian’s first thought when the original text showed up on his phone was This is Entrapment with a capital E.

I mean, who else would make such a ludicrous proposal? Twenty-five grand for watching a back alley in Beverly Hills?

But the mystery texter had offered to send a small good-faith payment. Only five grand, but at the time, Ian was flat broke (after months of being watched by Hardy’s stupid task force), and even if it was the LAPD messing with him, he really needed the rent money.

“Ian?” Mike said now. “You still with me? Just give me a name and we’ll take it from there.”

This was the problem, though. Since Ian was convinced cops were somehow involved in this whole crazy scheme, the question was: Was Hardy one of those cops? Ian didn’t think so, otherwise Hardy wouldn’t look so frustrated.

“Ian? Come on, man! Innocent lives are on the line. You’re about sixty seconds away from being completely useless to me.”

Ian stared up at his interrogator. “But can I trust you? Because you’re probably not going to like the name in my head.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Ian stared at him. Then: “Tim Dowd.”

Mike stared right back at him. “Nice try. I know Sergeant Dowd.”

“Yeah,” Ian said, not breaking eye contact, as if he were trying to tell him something by telepathy. “I know you do.”

Mike Hardy stood there looking like a stupid ox, and Ian was relieved. This could have gone a very different way. He could have spoken Dowd’s name and taken a bullet to the face for knowing too much.

“Look, Hardy, I know how this sounds, but I’m completely serious. I don’t think I was supposed to know his real name. Everyone uses code numbers.”

“What was your secret code number?”

“I didn’t have a secret code number. I was just a spotter.”

“So how did you hear that name?”

“Here’s how it worked. The guy in charge is called One. That’s the only thing I know about him, other than that he’s a him. And everyone is terrified of him. But One let me listen in during some calls with Two, so I’d be up to speed and know what to look for.”

“You recognize One’s voice?”

“No, but I recognized Two’s voice. It was Dowd. That asshole grilled me for hours once—I’d know his voice anywhere. He’s got this tough-guy-actor voice, like he thinks he’s a cop in a TV show or something.”

The way Hardy was pacing the room, like he was wrestling with the idea, confirmed for Ian that his suspicions were correct: Cops were involved in this thing. Hopefully none of them were this cop.

“Sit tight, Ian,” Mike said, then left the room with his manila folder.

Like Ian had a choice? But he’d made the only move he had. Something told him when all this was over, One was going to clear the game board. He didn’t know how many spotters there were, but he was pretty sure none of them would live to spend much of their money.

After all, there could be only one One.