Page 47 of Billion-Dollar Ransom

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 werethiscop.

“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.

CHAPTER 50

Thursday, 4:21 p.m.

TIM DOWD HAD a decent place in a bad neighborhood. The SWAT team was currently surrounding it.

Dowd lived in a rented bungalow in Atwater Village. Somebody in command was going through the real estate records looking for specs, but it didn’t matter now. The SWAT team was about to enter regardless.

After Jeff Penney announced their presence and gave Dowd ample time to respond—the former police sergeant should know the routine—Jeff ordered the team to breach the doors.

Bam! Bam!

Two enforcers—thick steel battering rams with handles—blasted open the front and back doors. The team fanned out through the bungalow, guns at shoulder level, prepared for any response from a former cop who knew every trick in the book.

Bedroom one—clear.

Bedroom two—clear.

Closet—clear.

Bathroom—clear.

Sitting room—clear.

Crawl space—full of insulation and dust and spiders, but clear.

In under five minutes, Penney’s tough, efficient squad made a thorough sweep and determined one thing with dead certainty: There was no trace of Tim Dowd in this house.

Penney entered and did his own sweep, looking for anything his team might have missed. He was known in certain circles as the “crime scene whisperer”; he found tiny details that often made all the difference. Halfway through this sweep his cell went off. He answered. “Penney.”

“Any sign of Boo Schraeder?” Mike asked.

“There’s no sign of nothing,” Jeff replied. “Hell, I don’t think Dowd’s been here in a while. Mail’s piling up in the box, stuff in the fridge is past its sell-by date.”

“Shit.”