"Roger that," Jack replied.
"Destination is the paper mill. Approach with caution."
"Copy."
I pulled the van into the parking lot of the old warehouse. A chain-link fence surrounded the perimeter. I drove the van up to the loading dock, put it in park, then killed the engine.
The old four-story brick building was tagged with graffiti, like most of the abandoned warehouses in the area.
The white Impala behind us followed us into the lot and stopped about 20 feet behind the van, headlights shining bright.
“That concludes this portion of the journey," the kidnapper said. "Step out of the vehicle and keep your hands in the air.”
I ended the call, handed the phone back to Mickey, and said, "Just follow my lead, and don't do anything stupid.”
We stepped out of the van into the blinding light.
A black sedan pulled into the lot and parked not far from the Impala. A mercury vapor light buzzed across the street, illuminating the area with a pale glow.
Two thugs had emerged from the Impala. They had Mac 10s aimed at us.
A gentleman in his early 60s climbed out of the backseat of the town car. He had untamed raven hair, narrow puffy eyes, and a mustache and goatee. He stood about 6’1” and commanded some authority.
"That's Pedro," Mickey muttered.
Another gentleman with him exited the car, and they moved toward us. This guy was about the same age. His long black hair was pulled tight in a ponytail. He had a long mustache, a bulbous nose, and cheeks pocked with acne scars. He was a little taller than Pedro and was definitely the muscle.
Pedro pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook one out, and put it between his lips. He tugged it the rest of the way, put the pack back in his coat pocket, and flicked a Zippo with a clang. The cherry glowed as he pulled a breath. With the cigarette lit, he snapped the Zippo shut and slipped it into his pocket. After a satisfying drag, Pedro smiled at Mickey. "It's been a long time, my friend."
Mickey said nothing. He just glared at the man.
Pedro exhaled, and the smoke drifted away with the breeze.
Mickey asked, "Where's Kendra?”
Pedro chuckled. "Down to business. No reunion. No small talk. I like that.”
"I want my daughter.”
"And I want my father's money and 40 years of my life back.” Pedro’s smile faded, and the two glared at each other. Pedro continued. “40 years is a long time. It seems you’ve been having fun, playing celebrity, writing books, doing movie deals, banging hot ass. I’ve been humping my fist for 40 years.”
Mickey looked like he wanted to make a smart-ass comment, but he bit his tongue.
“I should put a bullet in you right now,” Pedro said.
“The money’s in the van,” I said. “All of it. $150 million. Give us Kendra, take the money, and we can all go about our lives.”
Pedro’s beady eyes narrowed at me. “Who are you?”
“I’m just a guy helping out a friend.”
Pedro nodded to Ponytail. He approached, frisked me, and took my gun. That was two I had lost today. I was smart enough to leave my badge at home.
Ponytail frisked Mickey, then signaled to Pedro that we were no longer a threat.
“Check the van,” Pedro commanded as he took another drag.
Ponytail pulled open the back cargo doors and took in the stacks of black duffel bags. He pulled one aside, unzipped it, and yanked out a brick. With a switchblade, he cut through the plastic wrap, exposing the bills. He pried out a stack of $10,000 and flipped through the hundred-dollar bills. After removing one, he held it up to the light. He examined a few of the bills, then said to Pedro, "This is the real deal.”
