The Professionals (31 page)

“Fine.” He checked his watch. Ten minutes to two. Forty minutes to showtime.

They swung back to the motel, and Pender and Sawyer dragged Mouse out into the minivan. They laid him across the backseat, and then Sawyer got behind the wheel. “Tiffany,” said Pender. “Ride shotgun.”

Tiffany glanced back at Mouse. “Why?”

“Just do it,” said Sawyer, and Tiffany frowned and got in the front seat.

Pender climbed in back with Mouse, his heart like a drum machine as Sawyer started the van and they pulled out of the motel lot. They were at the McDonald’s in what seemed like half a minute, though the clock said it had taken fifteen.

These drives never take long enough, thought Pender. He felt good now, caught up in the nitrous oxide rush, the crazy burst of adrenaline that always came before the job. I’d forgotten how good this feels, he realized.

They drove around the block, scoping out the McDonald’s and peering down alleys for half-hidden radio cars and unmarked units lying in wait. They found nothing.

The McDonald’s faced out into the street, with a drive-thru track that made a giant U-turn around the property along the inside of the parking lot. The dumpster was in back, across the parking lot and up against a corner of heavy green fencing. Pender soured on the scene as soon as he saw it. If anyone called the cops, they would be easily trapped by a couple of cruisers out on the main road, no matter what exit they chose. “Shit,” he said. “Let’s hope this guy’s as good as his word.”

“He’ll be here,” said Tiffany.

A couple of minutes later, she pointed out the front window. “There’s my dad’s car,” she said, sitting up in her seat and pointing to where a gray Bentley was pulling into the McDonald’s lot, as incongruous as a stripper at an inauguration ball. Pender watched the big car disappear into the back of the parking lot. “You told him drop the bag off, then leave, right?”

Tiffany nodded. “I told him everything you told me.”

After maybe five minutes, the Bentley appeared on the other side of the building. Pender watched the driver, a very calm-looking middle-aged
man, peer out into traffic and then make a right-hand turn. He drove to the end of the block, made another right, and disappeared. “This is it,” said Pender.

Sawyer pulled into the parking lot. “Let’s get paid.”

The bag was sitting exactly where Tiffany had instructed, a glorious green plastic garbage bag playing cool at the base of the dumpster. Pender saw it and felt his heart start to race. Shut up, shut
up
, he told himself. You haven’t done anything yet.

Sawyer pulled the van up to the dumpster, and Pender slid open the rear door. He reached out and grabbed the bag, hefting it into the back of the minivan. It felt heavier than normal, bulkier. A million bucks is a lot more paper than we’re used to, he reminded himself, and he set the bag on the floor to examine its contents.

Sawyer looked over at Tiffany. “Okay, get out.”

“What?”

“Your dad paid the ransom. It’s time to go. Beat it.”

Sawyer reached across to try and open the passenger door. Tiffany struggled with him. “Sawyer,
quit it
,” she said. “This wasn’t the plan. We got the damn money. Let’s jet.”

“We don’t have the damn money,” said Pender. He looked up from the bag, now wide open on the floor of the van, its contents a cargo of sweaters and T-shirts and blue jeans: laundry. “We don’t have shit.”

Tiffany slammed her door closed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Maybe that’s not the right bag,” said Sawyer. “You see another bag around?”

Pender went to the side door, searched the ground around the dumpster. No bags, anywhere. Then his heart went cold. Sirens. Over the crush of traffic and the mumble from the drive-thru, he could hear the wail of sirens, maybe a coincidence and more than likely not. “We got sirens, Sawyer,” he said, climbing into the van.

Tiffany was reaching into the garbage bag, examining the clothes inside. She pulled out a vintage Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. “We got the right bag,” she said. “This is my shirt.”

“This is bullshit,” said Sawyer. “Where’s the goddamn money?”

“We got sirens, Sawyer,” said Pender. “We gotta go, now.”

Tiffany glanced up at Pender. “Maybe the money’s underneath.”

“There’s no money,” said Pender. “Forget it. We got played. Now drive.”

Sawyer stared at Tiffany for a long moment and then stomped on the accelerator and the minivan leapt forward with a roar. Pender slammed the side door shut, and Sawyer steered down the side corridor of the lot, cutting off a Buick coming out of the drive-thru line and pulling out into traffic just as the first police cruiser rounded the corner, lights blazing, siren
loud
.

“Go,”
Pender told him. Sawyer nodded, found a hole in traffic and aimed for it, the van’s engine howling as Sawyer kept his foot on the gas.

They ran a red light and kept driving, Tiffany laughing—
laughing
—in the front seat, hysterical, and Sawyer staying calm, picking his spots and changing lanes, one eye on the rearview mirror and the other plotting his course.

Pender glanced back toward the McDonald’s and saw a light show of red and blue out front of the restaurant, two cruisers and an unmarked sedan angled across traffic, blocking the parking lot and nobody even looking in their direction. “Slow down,” said Pender. “Make a turn, and, for Christ’s sake, slow down.”

“Slow down?”

“Blend in. Make for the highway. I don’t think they saw us.”

Sawyer took his foot off the gas, and Pender let himself breathe. Even Tiffany was quiet, both hands gripped tight on the armrests. “Holy crap,” she said, gasping. “That was
fun
.”

Sawyer and Pender ignored her. “How did they not see us?” Sawyer asked. “Either they’re blind or they’re running game.”

Pender looked down at the laundry bag, the pile of useless clothes. “Somebody’s running game,” he said. “I just have no idea what it means.”

S
awyer got them on the highway and kept the van moving, hovering just above the speed limit and blending into traffic. He caught Pender’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Where are we going?”

“Drive,” Pender told him. “We’ll figure it out on the way.”

Sawyer nodded and turned back to the road. Tiffany twisted in her seat. “What are we going to do?” she asked Pender.

“I need to think,” he said. He looked up at her. “What does all this laundry mean?”

Tiffany shook her head. “Maybe it’s a joke.”

“Some joke,” said Pender. “This is your life he’s playing with.”

He picked up the garbage bag and spilled the contents onto the floor of the van. Clothes. Mostly sweaters and a couple pairs of pants. No explanation given. He thought about it a moment, realized, this isn’t so bad. “I think we’re in pretty good shape here,” he said.

Sawyer found him in the rearview. “How do you figure?”

“The guy set a trap. We got out. We got his daughter, and he knows he pissed us off. He’s going to be eager to settle. All we have to do is get a hold of him and let him know how mad we are. Double the ransom. He won’t screw up again.”

“It’s good,” said Tiffany. “Only this time, don’t expect me to leave once you boys have the money.”

“Are you kidding?” said Sawyer. “You’re the goddamn hostage.”

“I’m part of your
team
,” she said. “I’m nobody’s hostage.”

Sawyer glanced in the rearview. “Boss?”

Tiffany twisted back in her seat. “Don’t listen to him, Pender. I’m one of the bad guys now.”

Pender was barely listening. He’d spotted something in the pile of laundry. Something small and metallic, about the size of an old film canister. He unwrapped it from a faded warm-up jacket and untangled it: an MP3 player, the cheap kind that comes free with your fifth oil change or the purchase of a DVD player. Headphones attached. Pender held it up, showed it to Tiffany. “This look familiar?”

Tiffany shook her head. “I have an iPod.”

“You’ve never seen this before in your life.”

“I told you no, didn’t I?”

“Anything on it?” said Sawyer.

Pender pressed the on switch. The thing came to life, its little LCD display firing up radioactive green. One track. Pender put the headphones to his ears and pressed Play.

Sounded like a telephone call. A girl’s voice. “Hello,” she said, her voice calm. “Mr. Prentice, this message is for Tiffany. It’s, uh, Haley Whittaker from school, and I’m kind of in trouble. Tiffany’s hooked up with these dangerous guys, these, uh, kidnappers. They’ve pissed a bunch of people off and one of those people is standing right next to me and he wants to know where Tiffany’s friends are.”

The girl paused for a moment, then came back on. “Um, please don’t call the police,” she said. “They promised they won’t hurt Tiffany if she just gives up her friends. But the guy said he’d hurt me if Tiffany’s friends didn’t show up in the next two days. So I’m really hoping you’ll pass this along and tell Tiffany to check her e-mail soon. Okay. Thank you. I’m sorry for all this. What?”

There was another pause. “Oh. Oh yeah,” she said. “Um, please,
please
don’t call the police. He said he’ll kill me if you do. Okay. I’m
sorry. Bye.” There was the click of the phone hanging up, and then the file ended.

Sawyer was staring at him in the rearview mirror. Pender took off the headphones. “What do we got, boss?”

“Tiffany,” said Pender. “Who’s Haley Whittaker?”

Tiffany frowned. “She’s my friend. She came to South Beach with me. Why?”

Pender stared down at the pile of laundry. Haley Whittaker. Andrew Prentice. The guy wanted the police to catch us, he realized. But he put this message in here just in case we got away clean. Is it legit? Who would have kidnapped this girl?

Donald Beneteau’s people, obviously. The same people who shot up the hotel on South Beach. They lost our trail, so they reached out for whatever they could find to get us back. They snatched up Tiffany’s friend, and now they’re holding her for ransom. And
we’re
the goddamn ransom.

He handed over the MP3 player, and Tiffany put the headphones in her ears. Pender watched her in profile as she played the message, her eyes getting wide and her hand moving to her throat. Sawyer turned back to Pender. “Jesus, boss. What’s up?”

“Beneteau’s people snatched her friend to bait us.”

“How the hell did they find her?”

“Damned if I know,” said Pender. “She was on South Beach, too.”

Tiffany put down the headphones. “I need to check my e-mail. Now.”

“We’ll find a place as soon as possible,” said Pender. “We gotta figure some things out first.”

“We’re going to get her, right?”

Pender didn’t answer. “Boss,” said Sawyer. “What the hell are we doing?”

Pender shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. There was no chance of getting money from Andrew Prentice now that he knew the score. They
had
to get Mouse to a doctor, and they had to save Marie, too. Could they afford to go running after Haley Whittaker just so
Beneteau’s people could settle the beef? “We need cash,” he told Sawyer. “We need it now.”

Tiffany sat up. “Haley’s got fifty thousand dollars,” she said. “From her grandmother. Graduation present. Will that help?”

“Will she pay us?”

“If we save her life,” said Tiffany. “Of course she will.”

Sawyer glanced at Pender. “We could fix up Mouse with
half
that money.”

Tiffany nodded. “Exactly. The minute we get Haley free we’ll get Mouse to a doctor. You can use the rest to help Marie.”

Sawyer and Pender swapped looks. They needed money, and they needed it yesterday. For fifty grand, Pender would have built a rocket and flown to the moon. “All right,” he told Tiffany. “We’re in. We gotta get that money, though.”

“No problem,” said Tiffany. “But I gotta check my e-mail. Now.”

Pender nodded, and Sawyer flicked on the turn signal, cutting across three lanes of traffic toward an off-ramp and a stack of neon motel signs in the distance. Fifty grand, Pender thought. I guess we’re in business again.

Y
ou’re never going to believe this,” Windermere told Stevens, handing him a coffee. “Tiffany Prentice tried to hold herself for ransom.”