Page 9 of Billion-Dollar Ransom

PARADISE CAME IN many forms. But the best versions of paradise—at least in Tyler Schraeder’s opinion—were those private Edens that kept out the snakes.

Edens like this insanely exclusive Baja California resort not far from Cabo San Lucas on Mexico’s East Cape.

Spacious villas right on the beach, their kitchens stocked with gourmet food, each with a private pool and spa complete with sauna, mud bath, and jet bath.

For Tyler, the resort’s most attractive feature was its location—over a thousand miles from the nearest Hollywood studio.

Tyler could do whatever he wanted with whomever he wanted, and no one would be photographing him, recording him, or even glancing in his direction.

In fact, since stepping off the private jet earlier this afternoon, Tyler and Cass hadn’t had to deal with a single human being.

Even the journey to their private cottage had been entirely automated.

It was like everyone else on the planet had disappeared, and they enjoyed the place in peace and quiet for once.

“Bring that gorgeous ass over here,” Cass said to Tyler with the come-hither smile she hoped would become her trademark on the big screen.

See, right there—in the real world, Cassandra Bart wouldn’t risk uttering those six words in front of any human being, let alone to a camera.

She wouldn’t even risk sexting those words; that wasn’t her brand.

On-screen, she was an earnest and determined hero who would not stop until she saved the world.

But here in paradise, she could say anything she wanted and just get her freak on.

Cassandra was twenty-six years old and for the past three years had been deftly climbing the action-movie ladder, first in a small but memorable role in a wildly successful franchise, then in a supporting role in a superhero tentpole, and finally in a starring role in an abysmal streamer action-comedy.

That last one was a massive flop, but it had still worked in her favor—critics called her its only redeeming feature and hailed her as the next Margot Robbie.

Now she was on the verge of breaking through in a big way.

It was just a matter of finding the right starring vehicle.

Which had been Tyler’s cue to step in and say: “I can help you with that.”

A genetically gifted beauty like Cass intimidated most mortals, but Tyler Schraeder was not most mortals.

He had all the benefits of a privileged upbringing plus a genetic advantage of his own—he favored his mother, an actress very popular in action movies of the 1980s and ’90s.

You have your mother’s cheekbones and her ruthlessness, his father often told him.

Well, back when he and his father were speaking to each other.

Tyler understood that Cassandra Bart, more than two decades his junior, had crashed into his life for reasons beyond his physical endowments and his incredible wealth.

He’d turned a graduation present from his estranged father into a small production company on the Universal lot that had a knack for launching massive action franchises—the company had launched plenty over the years—and Cassandra was up for the lead in the next one.

Not that this was a casting-couch situation.

Oh, no. The role was hers for the asking.

But Cass was currently playing coy, wondering aloud if she should continue along the action-movie route.

One forgettable summer tentpole, and suddenly no one considers you for prestige roles.

That was her thinking, anyway. Tyler had suggested they go somewhere to discuss.

In depth.

Which was what they were doing now. Deep engagement without any annoying words getting in the way.

Tyler couldn’t believe how thoroughly this woman was throwing herself into the unspoken discussion. Her body demonstrated her athleticism, playfulness, and invention. But the way she continued to lock eyes with him, almost daring him to comment—it was all too delicious.

Best notes meeting ever.

And then she earned herself an Oscar in his mind by somehow turning the most clichéd of phrases into something believable.

“Tyler,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

She breathed in deep for a second, as if she couldn’t believe she was actually going to say these words, then took the plunge: “I love you.”

Tyler Schraeder knew better, but damn if he didn’t completely buy her performance.

“Hell yeah, you do,” he replied.

(Later, Tyler would blame Cass for distracting him at a crucial moment. Had he not been so overwhelmed by her multipronged assault on his senses, he surely would have heard the door to their private villa opening as well as the nearly silent footsteps across the hardwood all the way to their bed.)

A sharp clack roused them both from their passion.

“Do everything I say,” said a man’s voice, “or both of you die.”

For Tyler, the initial shock was immediately replaced by entitled outrage. Serpents weren’t allowed in this paradise—how had this one slithered in?

Even worse, the snake was clutching an AR-15, which Tyler recognized from countless film sets. But this was no set, and the semiautomatic weapon was no prop, and it was pointed at his midsection.

“No,” Tyler said as if negotiating a deal, “this is not happening.”