Page 89 of Billion-Dollar Ransom

RANDOLPH SCHRAEDER’S PRIVATE plane arrived at Sargent Field just before the three a.m. deadline.

It was a minor miracle that the plane had made it on time, even in the middle of the night, when air traffic was quieter. But One must have known precisely how long it would take. They had considered every detail, every possible factor.

Kidnappers usually planned these things down to the second.

Sargent Field was a decommissioned World War II–era airstrip on the outskirts of Palmdale, California.

The site had been intended for use as postwar housing until developers realized that there wasn’t exactly a demand for homes in the high desert so far away from Los Angeles.

All that remained now was a ghostly grid of almost-streets and a few sample bungalows that had been taken over by desert squatters.

This was where Jeff Penney and a small elite unit of SWAT officers holed up, about three phantom blocks away from the airstrip. Nicky prayed none of One’s spotters had watched them move into position.

The moment the location was given, all available FBI and LAPD forces gathered around that dusty scrap of an airstrip.

In the bright light of day, the airstrip looked like it had been made by a bored giant scraping a fingernail along the desert floor.

At night, it was barely noticeable. You had to know it was there.

Yes, Nicky Gordon was well aware that One had warned them not to watch the handoff. But One had to know they would be watching anyway. Nobody just drops a billion dollars in the desert, shrugs, and walks away.

Nicky had stayed back in the Sandbox with Mike Hardy, Ross Lindbergh, and Hope Alonso, who were busy gathering all possible eyes on that tiny strip of desert.

LAPD air support, the National Guard—whoever was available at this ungodly hour.

But when Schraeder’s private plane landed, all they had was Jeff Penney’s SWAT video feed from three blocks away.

“I need more eyes online,” Nicky told Hope.

“We’re working on it,” she said. “There’s just not much out there.”

One most definitely knew that too. And the wide-open desert spaces meant that it would be easy to spot any law hanging around. His choice of a handoff location was brilliant, Nicky had to admit.

“How about some eyes inside Schraeder’s plane?” Nicky asked. “Even a FaceTime from Virgil Tighe’s cell phone would be useful. Hope, can you get him on the line? And where the hell did Haller go?”

“He said he was taking some time in the conference room to regroup,” Hardy said. “I know, I know. I’m also pretty bummed he didn’t kiss us good night.”

“Are you still trying Tighe, Hope?”

“He’s not answering his phone,” Hope said.

Keeping his eyes fixed on all those pallets of cash, no doubt.

Virgil Tighe remained unreachable right up until the plane landed, when he sent a terse message to the task force: We’re here.

Touchdown was a lot rougher than anyone had anticipated. Nicky watched as the plane skittered down the tarmac like a wobbly stone across the surface of a pond. She didn’t realize how nervous she was until she released her grip on the arms of her chair.

The plane braked to a complete stop mere seconds before the deadline.

Virgil and three Capital employees made quick work of unloading the four pallets and single jewelry case. The cargo door, unfortunately, was on the opposite side of the video feed, so Nicky didn’t lay eyes on the ransom until Virgil and the others returned to the plane and took flight once again.

Leaving a billion dollars on the dusty tarmac in the middle of the high desert.

How easy would it be, Nicky thought, to just speed in with an ATV and scoop up that jewelry container? More than half a billion dollars for a tank of gas and about a hundred and twenty seconds of effort.

Was this part of One’s plan? Scoop up the gems and leave behind the cash as if it were pocket change, a sick kind of gratuity?

She wouldn’t know until the kidnappers finally showed up to collect their prize.