by Sean Black
Lock knew that the emphasis Li placed on the word was there to indicate that, somehow, they were being racist. Lock knew better than to engage with that kind of bullshit.
Chow Yan leaned forward. “Mr. Lock, you are the only people we’ve hired to help us with this. I give you my solemn word on that. But if you don’t trust that we’re being entirely honest with you then perhaps we should reconsider our current arrangement.”
Lock had anticipated something like that. “Mr. Yan, I’m not for a second questioning your desire to have Emily and Charlie returned safely. But I’ve worked many kidnap cases, and if they’re to be resolved it’s vital there aren’t any secrets between us and the client. Secrets are what get people hurt.”
Chow Yan stared across the table at him. “That we can agree on.”
39
The Red Tiger drove one-handed, the Mossberg shotgun resting on his lap, his free hand near the trigger, the hot end of the shotgun pointed at the young Latino woman in the passenger seat.
She was bunched up, knees pulled almost into her chest, her back against the door. Eyes narrowed to slits, she glared at him. For the past hour they’d been driving west and south. Moving in entirely the wrong direction.
Princess had planned on driving east with Joker, away from LA, away from Shotcaller, away from her old life. Only now Joker was dead, executed in cold blood with two shots by the crazy asshole next to her, and all because he couldn’t grasp that ‘Let’s get out here now’ meant just that. Now. This second. Not two or three minutes later.
She shifted her glare from the barrel of the Mossberg to the man holding it. Who the hell was this guy? He wasn’t a gangster. Not like any gangster she’d ever met anyway. Or not here in California. He wasn’t a cop either.
Not a cop and not a gangster. More some kind of natural force.
He’d moved through the house like a hurricane, sweeping all before him, including her. She’d never thought she’d live to see the day where she’d be taken by a man without so much as a peep. Today had been that day.
She’d been so shaken by what he’d done to Joker she’d pretty much checked out. Like she was in a daze. It wasn’t seeing her friend murdered. It was the way it had gone down. No threats, no warnings, just two smooth trigger pulls. Five pounds of pressure per square inch, applied twice.
Whoever he was, he was on some other level. Which, going by the questions he’d been asking her, was bad news for Shotcaller and the others.
Out of nowhere, he hit the brakes, and steered the car into the breakdown lane. It bumped to a stop.
Was this it?
The road they were on now was quiet, long and straight. You could see the approach of other vehicles long before they got to you. He could have her open the door, get out, then shoot her in the back of the head and be on his way.
Part of Princess was already resigned to it ending like this. In a way it made sense that her joke of a life would finish with this kind of a punchline. Mere minutes away from the chance of a new life, a fresh start, only to die face down by the side of a highway, her brains spilling out of her skull.
The man looked at her. “Call your friends. Tell them you want to meet,” he said.
“They’re not my friends, and the next time they see me they’ll kill me.”
Slowly he raised the shotgun so it was pressed into the side of her neck. “Then give me your phone.”
“Okay, I’ll do it.” She moved her head to the side. “You mind?”
He lowered the Mossberg. She fumbled in her pocket, pulled out her cell phone, thumbed down to the number she had for Shotcaller. She hoped it still worked. Shotcaller changed his number every few weeks and Pony was usually the one who gave them the new number.
It was ringing.
He picked up almost immediately. “Why ain’t you dead yet, bitch?”
She hadn’t had any time to think about what she would say to him. She knew that if she came straight out and asked to meet he’d be suspicious, and might not go for it. Or he’d be on his guard and, no matter how much she resented the man who’d murdered Joker, she didn’t hate him any more than she hated Shotcaller. There wasn’t enough real history between them for her to have developed that kind of feeling.
She didn’t say anything. Let Shotcaller fill the silence.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” She tried to gather up a lump in her throat. She needed the hitch in her voice that suggested she’d been crying or was about to.
Her sounding scared would be like throwing a bucket of blood off the coast of Catalina. All you had to do was wait for the sharks to pick it up.
“It was Joker’s idea to take the money,” she said. “I swear.”
At the other end of the call––nothing. She felt bad blaming Joker, even though it was the truth.
“But you went along with it,” said Shotcaller.
“I’ve made it right,” she said.
Shotcaller laughed. “How? How you done that?”
A deep breath. She’d already weighed what she was about to say. Now the moment had arrived, the words were harder to get out of her mouth than she’d anticipated. It wasn’t the lie that bothered her as much as the betrayal.
“I took care of him.”
She had chosen the phrase carefully. Taken care rather than killed. No one in their world would ever say ‘killed’ during a phone call. There was no ambiguity in the word.
“Bullshit.”
The disbelief was genuine. That worked for her. Shotcaller would know that there was no way she would choose to murder Joker. And, of course, he’d be correct. But then––
“You don’t believe me then go take a look for yourself. He’s at the house.”
There was a rustling sound as Shotcaller covered the phone with his hands. She could hear him barking orders at someone in the background. He was verifying what she’d said. He came back on the line. “So?” he asked coldly. “You want a medal?”
“No. I wanted to make things right between us. I don’t want to live my life always looking over my shoulder.”
Another silence.
“I have the money he took. I can bring it to you.”
Now she had laid the ground, he would go for it. If she had offered to meet straight off the bat he would have been suspicious.
He would still want her dead. She knew that much. But she needed his guard lowered, even if it was only a little.
Who knew? Maybe she could find a way to play off the two men against each other. She didn’t know how that would work. Not yet. But it had to be an option. Two stone-cold killers who both wanted the same thing. It had possibilities.
“You’ll bring it to me, huh?”
“No, meet me somewhere. Somewhere public. With people.”
He made a cooing sound. “You think I’m gonna do something to you, Princess?”
“I don’t want to take the chance.”
This was good. If she had any kind of a play she had to be close. And, crucially, Shotcaller had to be off guard. Something that wouldn’t happen if they were in a crowded public place.
“I give you my word. Come with the money, and we can talk.”
She hesitated.
“Okay,” she said. “Where?”
“I’ll text you,” he said. “But if you don’t show . . .”
40
Lock’s cell phone rang as he stepped from the Gulfstream. He recognized the voice, if not the number. It was Orzana, a.k.a. El Mecánico.
“You found me a car yet?” said Lock.
“No, but I have located the other packages you were interested in.”
Lock turned, Ty at his shoulder. They walked back into the cabin. Lock waved at Li and Chow Yan and sank into the closest seat.
Chow Yan and Li hurried from the back of the aircraft to stand next to him. Lock put his finger to his lips, hoping the gesture of calling for silence was universal.
Chow Yan shifted his weight from one foot to the othe
r, the billionaire tycoon gone, replaced by a concerned father.
“That’s good news,” said Lock. “What are they going to run me?”
“Ten,” said Orzana. “A piece.”
Lock didn’t miss a beat. “That’s absurd.”
Chow Yan must have caught enough of the conversation. He half lunged for Lock’s cell phone. Ty placed himself between him and Lock, and patted his shoulder as Lock hit the mute button.
“This is what I do,” said Lock. “Let me do it.”
“But I can pay that. It’s nothing.”
So much for the hard-headed oligarch, thought Lock.
“Hello? You there?” said Orzana.
Lock unmuted the call. “Give me a second. I didn’t realize I was dealing with a bunch of amateurs.”
He hit mute again, and shifted in his seat so that he was facing Chow Yan.
“If we take the first offer they’ll be suspicious. They’ll assume that we either have no intention of paying it or, more likely, that we’re working with the cops. It has to be a manageable number.”
Chow Yan puffed himself, taking in the luxuriously fitted cabin of the plane. “It’s manageable.”
“In their mind, not yours. They’ve pulled a number out of their ass here. It’s a test. You accept the first offer and it sends the wrong signal.”
“This is my daughter’s life we’re talking about,” he pleaded.
“I know, but to them it’s business. That’s how we have to deal with it.”
“And if you’re wrong?” said Li.
It was the question guaranteed to screw a negotiator. Lock wasn’t going there. He couldn’t allow himself to go there. This was a situation where you couldn’t allow yourself to contemplate being wrong. As soon as you did, you were as good as dead.
“The only thing you have to decide is whether or not you want me to handle this,” Lock told them. “Yes or no?”
All eyes settled on Chow Yan.
He nodded.
Lock went back to the call. “Ten’s too rich. The insurance company won’t cover that kind of exposure,” he said.
There was a pause. Lock was almost certain that this was the first time the assholes had heard the word ‘insurance’ in relation to kidnapping.
“So what will they cover?”
“Maximum payout is five hundred K per package,” said Lock, deliberately low-balling.
“Get the hell out of here.”
Lock smiled. That was a fast counter. It was a good sign. They had begun the negotiation without Orzana even knowing that was what he was doing.
“What can I tell you? That’s the ceiling.”
“Then I guess someone will have to cover the excess,” said Orzana. “If you don’t want them damaged in transit.”
Lock said nothing.
“We know you have access to money,” Orzana followed up. “A lot of money.”
“Maybe we can go higher. Cover it out of our own pocket.”
“You’d better,” said Orzana.
“Call me back in five,” said Lock. “Oh, and before this goes any further, we’ll need POL.”
“POL?”
Lock suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Chow Yan and Li were still watching him from a few feet away. “Proof of life.”
“What? You mean like a picture with today’s LA Times?”
Lock swiped a hand over his face. He was going to ask Orzana if he’d ever heard of Photoshop, but he didn’t strike Lock as a man who dealt well with sarcasm.
“I was thinking more of a video call. Skype. Facetime. That kind of thing.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but you’re going to have do a lot better than that chickenshit offer. We’ll need at least two. Each.”
“Call me back,” said Lock, killing the call.
“Give them what they ask for.”
From Li’s agitated body language, Lock could tell that he was not used to seeing his boss like that. Chow Yan stalked up and down the aisle of the plane, his fist pounding into an open hand.
Lock stood with Ty near the exit, and waited for him to settle. “We will, as soon as they decide what they want.”
“They told you,” said Chow Yan, raising his voice.
Lock gestured for Chow Yan to sit down. Reluctantly, and with a loud sigh, he did so. Lock squeezed in across from him. “This may sound counter-intuitive . . .” said Lock
Chow Yan looked confused. Li provided a quick translation of the phrase into Mandarin, then indicated with a nod that Lock should continue.
“. . . but it’s important that the kidnappers feel like there’s been a process. People in their circumstances get jumpy if you give in too readily. Both parties have to work towards the resolution. But we’re very close. We get a phone call, you confirm that Emily and Charlie are alive, we negotiate the final terms and then we make the exchange.”
The man opposite him seemed to be aging in front of Lock’s eyes. His skin was sallow and the bags under his eyes were growing darker as the minutes ticked by. He spread his hands, palm down, on the table. “Okay,” he said. “Do I need to gather the money?”
“No,” said Lock. “We’ll do it electronically. Guys like these don’t like touching cash unless they have to. Cash takes laundering, and laundering cuts into their profit margin.”
“And how do we know they’ll let my daughter go when they have the money?”
It was a good question. There was no definitive answer. Beyond the initial abduction, the exchange was the tensest part of a kidnap-for-ransom case.
“Leave that to me. We can organize it so that it’s as close to simultaneous as it can be.”
“I hope you’re right about all of this,” Chow Yan told him.
So do I, thought Lock. The truth was that there were no guarantees. The only guide was human nature. Or, rather, the worst part of human nature. The part that focused on greed.
Li watched Lock and Ty get into their car, and drive away. When the Audi was out of sight, he walked back into the plane’s cabin. Chow Yan was still slumped at the table. Somehow, rather than giving him hope, the meeting with Lock had deflated him. The phone call between Lock and kidnappers had made the situation real.
Chow Yan looked up as Li approached.
“If this works, it’s better,” said Chow Yan.
Li agreed. A ransom payment for their return was simple. There was less to go wrong. But what they had talked about still hung in the air.
“What about the Red Tiger?” Li asked.
“What about him?”
“He’s still here.”
“So?” said Chow Yan.
Li didn’t understand how his boss could be so matter-of-fact. The man they thought might solve this seemed to be nothing more than a minor detail. But he wasn’t. How could he be?
“You’re not worried about what he might do?”
“The only thing that concerns me is my daughter.”
“But what if he finds her first? Before Mr. Lock can make this arrangement.”
Chow Yan appeared to take a moment to consider the possibility. “They could be anywhere, and this isn’t home. How could he possibly find her here?”
“He’s already found some of the people who took her,” said Li.
41
They turned onto a fire road. The Red Tiger moved the Mossberg from his lap to shove it between his seat and the door. Out of the girl’s reach.
The road surface was too bumpy to risk keeping the barrel pointed at her. All it would take was a deep pothole, and a lapse of concentration on his part, and her innards would be spread all over the inside of the rental car.
He had no intention of harming her. Not unless he had absolutely zero choice in the matter. And not that he wanted her to know that. It was safer, she was safer, if she assumed he was some kind of crazy Chinese psychopath.
She glanced across at him as he moved the shotgun. “Where are we going? Why aren’t we staying on the road?”
She held up her phon
e screen for emphasis, and jabbed a red-polished fingernail at the Google Maps screen. A blue dot showed the address she’d been sent: 17786 Yerba Buena Road. Another dot signified the location of her phone as it inched, pixel by pixel, across the map.
“We arrive on that road, they can see us. This way, they don’t.”
“But they already know I’m coming.”
For a girl with such obvious street smarts, she missed things. It surprised him.
“Yes, they know you’re coming. But they don’t know that I’m with you.”
As soon as the address had arrived, the Red Tiger had done a quick search, pulling up the details of the house from an old sales listing on the Zillow website. Unless it had been remodelled since its last purchase three years ago, it was a six-bedroom, single-story ranch-house set on seven acres of trees. It was positioned near the top of a slope with an excellent 180-degree view of the surrounding area. The closest property was close to a quarter-mile away.
In other words, it was the perfect location to kill someone such as Princess without anyone knowing about it. That also made it the perfect place to stash a couple of kidnap victims out of sight.
The Red Tiger guessed that although the people involved were professionals they wouldn’t have all that many multimillion-dollar Malibu homes at their disposal for delicate matters like this, which required a degree of isolation and privacy.
Princess blew a stray strand of black hair out of her mouth. “They’ll mess you up. You know that, right?”
He didn’t say anything. There was no need.
“It ain’t like you’re walking in on me and Joker. They’re different.”
The road narrowed. A stand of trees closed in on them, branches whipping across the windshield.
“How are they different?” he asked her.
“They’re hardcore. Y’know, OG gangsters.”
“Gangsters,” he repeated.
He’d seen all of the American movies about gangsters living in places like Los Angeles. He found the idea comic. Laughable.
