The Professionals (38 page)

It was a bad plan, and Pender knew it. It was a desperate plan. But he couldn’t
figure out anything better, and he’d be damned if he was going to let Marie rot in prison while he walked free.

If everything went right, Pender thought, this would be the last crummy motel room they would ever sleep in. If everything went right, their next beds would be beachside hammocks.

Pender glanced at the television and sat up on the bed. His face was on screen, and then so was Sawyer’s. Sawyer was on the beach with a bottle of Corona and a big goofy grin. Pender was with Marie in the San Juans. He still got a chill when he saw that picture. The heading on the TV screen read, “Coming to Detroit.”

Well, it wasn’t surprising. Haley had talked, like he’d known she would. The girl was shell-shocked and beaten when they left her, and he suspected she felt closer to D’Antonio than she did to anyone else.

Pender turned up the volume just in time to hear the anchor make the case for their green Ford Explorer with Florida plates. So that’s a plus, he thought. Sawyer had swapped the Florida tags for Michigan plates courtesy of a beat-up Nissan Altima in a Super Kmart parking lot the day they rolled into town. It would take some time for the police to catch up to the change.

“All right, listen,” Sawyer was telling his sister. “I gotta go.” Christ, Pender thought. The guy sounds close to tears.

“No, I gotta go,” he said. “I’ll be fine, Tess. Don’t worry.” He paused. “Look, I love you, okay? Whatever happens.”

Then he hung up the phone. He stared at it for a minute, and then he sighed and straightened his shoulders. He turned to face Pender, his expression unreadable. “Goddamn,” he said, his voice back to normal. “That was really fucking hard, man.”

J
ason Cardinal’s house was a vast redbrick mansion on a quiet street three blocks from Lake St. Clair. It sat on acres of land: plenty of trees and a football field front lawn, a fitting house for a millionaire movie producer.

Cardinal left for his office at quarter to nine, commuting alone in a bright red vintage Jaguar. Sawyer’s eyes goggled when he saw it. “What the hell is he thinking?” he said. “Driving that thing at this time of year. That car’s worth a hundred grand, easy.”

“So he’s careless with money,” Tiffany said. “He’ll pay the ransom just fine.”

“It’s not the ransom I’m worried about,” Pender replied, pulling the truck into the street behind the Jag.

They followed Cardinal into a modern industrial park and to his office, a nondescript warehouse marked Cardinal Rule Studios. Then they drove to get breakfast and came back and parked across the street outside an electronics plant. They turned on the radio and settled in to wait.

After seven or eight hours of talk radio, cheap tacos, warm Cokes, and glossy magazines, the studio doors opened and Jason Cardinal walked out again. He climbed into the Jaguar, fired up the engine, and
reversed out of his parking space. Sawyer tapped Pender on the arm. “See that?”

The Jag was halfway down the block by the time they pulled out, and Pender was half afraid they weren’t going to catch up in time. But he stood on the accelerator and pulled alongside Cardinal a couple miles down the road, and then he beat a yellow light a couple blocks farther, leaving the Jaguar staring at red.

Pender drove back to Cardinal’s neighborhood. He brought the truck to the curb a half block down from the producer’s house, and Sawyer jumped out. He opened the rear door and reached into the back of the truck for the. 45.

Pender watched Sawyer tuck the gun into his waistband and walk casually to the end of the block. Then Pender put the truck in gear and pulled into a driveway a few houses down from Cardinal’s. He turned to Tiffany. “Grab a gun,” he said. “Another pistol if we’ve got one. Sawyer’s going to throw him in the back and you keep your gun trained on him, cool?”

Tiffany nodded. “Cool.”

Pender stared out the window at Sawyer, who loitered on the corner doing his nonchalant act. Sawyer checked his watch and then perked up. He glanced back at the Explorer and nodded, and Pender turned the key in the ignition. The truck rumbled to life, and he backed it out of the driveway and into the street, angling it so it blocked any access but would still allow them to get away clean.

A couple seconds later, Pender heard the Jaguar’s engine behind him and saw the car pull into the street, as red as a fresh strawberry in the gray winter backdrop, Cardinal’s head poking up above the windshield.

The Jag slowed to a stop about ten feet behind the Explorer, and Cardinal peered out at the truck. He glanced in the mirror and looked ready to lean on the horn when Sawyer showed up on the driver’s side, waving the Glock in his face.

The producer went pale as Sawyer wrenched open the door. He dragged Cardinal out of the car and hustled him over to the Explorer
and into the backseat. Tiffany flashed him her teeth and showed him the pistol. “Hello,” she said. “Please don’t try anything stupid.”

“Who are you?” said Cardinal. “What do you want with me?”

Tiffany gestured with the gun. “Buckle up.”

Sawyer ran back to the Jaguar and parked it by the curb. Then he came back to the truck and climbed in the shotgun seat, and Pender hit the gas. Sawyer let Cardinal watch his house disappear and then twisted around to face him. “So listen,” he said, holding the Glock aimed steady at the producer’s face. “This is a kidnapping, bud. How soon can you get five million dollars?”

W
indermere stared at the phone on her side of the desk. On his side, Stevens had booted up the ancient desktop and was using every bit of RAM to search the Internet for model train sets for his son. Christmas and toy trains, he thought. Does anyone still do that?

Suddenly, Windermere sat up in her chair, startling Stevens away from his search. “Hall,” she yelled. “Get in here!”

They had been sitting in their crummy office for almost two days, waiting on Arthur Pender to make a move. Security was doubled downstairs, and Detroit PD had a tactical team on standby. There was a helicopter waiting on the roof and plainclothesmen posted at the airport and train station. The green Explorer was all over the news, and there was nothing to do, thought Stevens, but wait.

Agent Hall appeared in the doorway. He flashed Stevens a grin and then turned to Windermere. “What’s up?”

“I’m bored, Hall,” she said. “Tell me we’re making progress.”

Hall shrugged. “We got maybe ten reports of Ford Explorers. Half of them green. None with Florida plates. We got people all over the
map phoning in sightings of these kids, especially the blond girl. I bet every blonde in Michigan is pissed as hell at Tiffany Prentice right now.”

“That’s all?”

“Not quite,” said Hall. “Talked to Amtrak in Cincinnati about that Stirzaker thing. Picked up that fourth envelope just like you called it. Passport, credit card, birth certificate, and driver’s license. Stirzaker’s face, but the name was Adam Goulding.”

“What about the shipping address?” said Stevens.

“Shipped from Buffalo. We’re tracking down the shipper as we speak.”

“Okay,” said Windermere. “Keep us posted.”

When Hall was gone, Windermere turned to Stevens. “Goddamn it, Stevens. I feel like Christmas Eve over here. Where are those kids?”

“Savor the anticipation,” said Stevens, but he was feeling it, too. Antsy and restless.

Hall poked his face back in the room a minute later. “Hey,” he said. He gave Stevens a strange look. “You guys have a phone call. Line Two. Some guy asking for the special agent in charge of the Marie McAllister case.”

“No kidding.” Stevens looked down at the phone where line two was lit up and blinking. He felt his heart start to pound. “He say what he wants?”

Hall shook his head. “Just wanted to talk to you guys.”

Stevens glanced at Windermere. “You want it?”

“You go ahead,” she said. “You have the people skills around here.”

Stevens inhaled for as long as he could and then slowly let his breath out. He reached for a notepad and gestured for Windermere to listen in on her extension. Then he picked up the phone. “This is Agent Stevens,” he said. “Who am I talking to?”

The man’s voice was clear and calm. He sounded like he was ordering a pizza. “Hello, Agent Stevens. You’re in charge of Marie McAllister?”

Stevens glanced at Windermere. “That’s correct. Who is this?”

“This is Arthur Pender. I’d like to make a deal with you.”

Windermere was up and scrambling, gesturing at Hall for a tape recorder, reaching for her own legal pad. Stevens cleared his throat. “Okay, Arthur,” he said. “Where are you right now? Are you in Detroit?”

“Earlier today my team kidnapped a man named Jason Cardinal from the street outside his home,” Pender said. “If our demands are not met within forty-eight hours, we are prepared to kill our hostage.”

Jason Cardinal. Jason Cardinal. Stevens searched his brain. He shrugged at Windermere, who scribbled something on her notepad: Movie producer. Big-time.

“Okay,” said Stevens, feeling the blood start to pound in his temples. “What exactly are you looking for here, Arthur?”

“Mr. Cardinal’s ransom is five million dollars, to be wired to a bank account of my specification. This is what we demand from Mr. Cardinal’s family to ensure his safe return. We’ve already informed his wife of the situation.”

“Five million dollars,” said Stevens. “Okay. We’ll work on that, Arthur.”

“I’m not finished, Agent Stevens. From the United States government, we demand the release and safe passage of Marie McAllister to a nonextradition treaty country of our specification. Ms. McAllister will be safe on the ground within forty-eight hours or we will execute Mr. Cardinal.”

“Now, hold on,” said Stevens. “That’s going to take some doing.”

“I will communicate with you and you alone,” said Pender. “I trust our demands are clear. I’ll contact you again in twenty-four hours with further instructions.”

Pender hung up the phone. Stevens and Windermere turned immediately to Hall. “Can we trace it?”

“Already done,” said Hall. “Pay phone in St. Clair Shores. We have Detroit PD units on the way.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Windermere. “The balls on that kid.”

Stevens let out a long sigh, his heart still pounding. “They’re desperate.”

“He has to know we’re not giving up McAllister.”

“If he knew that, he’d be gone already.” Stevens stared down at the telephone. “He thinks he has a chance.”

J
ason Cardinal’s whole block was a zoo. The producer’s long driveway was choked with police cruisers, and the street beyond was equally clogged, filled with civilian machinery and a flotilla of mobile news broadcast trucks. Windermere leaned on the horn as she crept the unmarked car up the street, blaring the siren in vain at the swarms of looky-loos who had taken to the night. “Shit,” she said finally, giving up a half block from the epicenter. “I guess we walk from here.”

They pulled up to the curb behind a vintage Jaguar convertible. Stevens cast an admiring glance as he got out of the car.

“That’s Cardinal’s ride,” said a uniform nearby, a young St. Clair Shores cop with a buzz cut and excitement in his eyes. “Pretty sweet.”