They seemed much the worse for wear; the once-dapper lightweight suit was rumpled, filthy, torn at the knees and elbows. The captive's tie was loose and unknotted, his shirt torn open. His hands were tied behind his back. He was weak at the knees and unsteady at his feet, which were bare.
The masked man on his left, the behemoth, held him by the upper arm, supporting him. His other hand held a gun to the side of the hooded man's head.
The masked man on the captive's right held a cell phone to his ear, as though listening to instructions.
Sears guessed that neither masked man was in charge; they were henchmen, taking orders from their chief, who must be hidden somewhere nearby, where he could watch the scene as it developed.
The trio approached the far side of the bridge. The hooded captive shuffled along, uncertain, stumbling. The big masked man gripped him one-handed, half-carrying, half-dragging him, all the while holding the gun to his head.
Sears's men, hidden off-scene, had their guns trained on the masked men; Sears suspected that the abductors had several hidden gunmen keeping him in their sights.
The mechanized voice of the kidnap band's chief came rasping through Sears's cell.
He said, 'Here is how we will proceed, Mr. Sears. One of my men will go midway to the bridge. He will lay down a bag and withdraw. You will go there with the briefcase and empty the money into the bag. That will ensure that you are not passing any extras along with the money, such as dye packs or tracking devices.'
Sears said, 'I'm not.'
The chief said, 'Do as you're told.'
'All right.'
'Remain standing there with the money bag. My man will cross the bridge with Garros, meeting you at the middle. You will give him the bag, he will give you Garros. You will take Garros to your side of the bridge. Our transaction will be concluded.'
Sears said, 'Not so fast.'
The chief said, 'This is a very bad time for you to be making any conditions — a bad time for you and Garros.'
Sears said, 'If it is Garros. Take off his hood and show me his face.'
'You are in no position to make demands… '
'Like hell! We're not buying a pig in a poke. I have to be sure it's Garros and not some ringer you're trying to pass off as the real thing.'
Was that a chuckle at the other end? 'You are a suspicious man, Mr. Sears. However, I suppose if I were in your position I would do the same thing. Very well.'
A pause on Sears's end of the cell, presumably while the chief passed along the word.
The henchman holding a cell received his instructions. He pulled the hood off, unmasking the captive.
It was Raoul Garros. His hair was disheveled, his face was bruised and cut, and his eyes bulged over two strips of duct tape that had been pasted in an X-shape across his mouth. He was unused to the light and squeezed his eyes shut against it. He sagged, knees folding.
The other henchman, the big man, pressed the gun barrel hard against the underside of Garros's jaw, exerting a steadying effect.
The kidnap chief came back on the cell. 'Satisfied, Mr. Sears?'
Sears said, 'Let's get to it. And no tricks.'
'The same applies to you.'
The masked man holding the cell put his gun away, sticking it in the top of his waistband. He set foot on the bridge, carrying an empty knapsack. He halted at the midpoint of the bridge, set the knapsack down on the wooden plank bed, and went back to the east side of the bridge.
The chief said, 'Now you, Mr. Sears.'
Sears said, 'Wait a minute. I'm unarmed.' Holding his arms out from his sides — briefcase in one hand, cell in the other — he did a slow 360-degree turn to show that he carried no weapon.
He got back on the cell. 'Tell your man to leave his gun behind.'
The chief said, 'He does not need a gun. At the first sign of treachery, he will snap Garros's neck like a twig.'
More cross-talk followed between the off-scene chief and his henchmen. The big masked man, the behemoth, made a show of handing his gun to his partner. He grabbed Garros by the neck with one big hand, giving it a little squeeze. Garros's eyes popped open, bulging, as if about to start from his head.
Sears said in an aside to Deauville, 'Here's where I start earning my salary.' He took a deep breath, exhaled, and started walking, a briefcase full of money in hand.
Across the bridge, the more modest-sized masked man, the one not holding Garros by the neck, held a gun pointed at Sears. Sears wondered how many other guns were being leveled at him, by gunmen he couldn't see.
Unconsciously squaring his shoulders, he went toward the center of the bridge. Walking not too fast, not too slow, his movements deliberate. He halted at the span's midpoint, the empty knapsack at his feet.
He went down on one knee. This wasn't the kind of operation he could carry out standing up, trying to juggle the briefcase with one hand and the knapsack with the other.
He set the briefcase down on the planks, facing the masked men. Opened the lid, holding the attache case so those on the opposite bank could see the stacked money packs lining the inside of the case to the rim.
Setting the briefcase down on the bridge, he began transferring the cash into the knapsack, feeding packets into the bag's open mouth. Continuing until the briefcase was empty and the knapsack full.
Done, he lifted the briefcase, turning it upside down and shaking it to show that it held no more money.
He could have tossed it over the handrail into the water but decided against it. Too much violent motion might spook the other side. He closed the briefcase, leaving it on the planks. Gripped the knapsack by one of the straps and rose, standing up.
With a sideswipe of his foot, he half-kicked, half-slid the briefcase across the planks and over the edge, into the water. It raised a splash. It didn't sink but floated downstream on the slow, idling current.
The masked behemoth holding Garros by the neck started forward, bringing the captive along with him. Garros staggered along like a drunkard. He looked ghastly. Under his tan, his skin was taut, sallow. Shiny with sweat. Cold sweat.
Sears wondered if he looked any better; he could feel some of that cold sweat rolling off himself, too.
Captor and captive neared the midpoint of the bridge. Where Sears waited.
A red bandana covered the kidnapper's face below the eyes, like an old-time Western bad man. He was so close that Sears could see his thick, bushy eyebrows that almost but not quite met over the bridge of his wide, flat nose. His eyes were dark brown, a warm chestnut color.
He halted within arm's-reach of Sears, holding out his free hand, the one that wasn't holding Garros by the neck.
Sears handed him the knapsack by the strap. The other hooked it with a pawlike hand and released Garros, giving him a hard shove forward. Garros stumbled, getting tangled up in his own bare feet.
Sears caught him to keep him from falling. Garros stank, a rank smell of fear and stale sweat wafting off him.
Sears gave him a quick once-over, pat-down frisk, checking to make sure that he hadn't been wired with hidden explosives that would have turned him into a human bomb. That would have been a cute trick, an added refinement in the theory and practice of terror.
He found none. This wasn't about terror, it was about crime and profit. Ransom money.
The masked man turned, holding the knapsack by the strap, and walked away, unhurried, ambling along.
Sears turned toward the west end of the footbridge, feeling like he had a big bull's-eye drawn right between his shoulder blades. Garros stumbled, almost falling, and for an instant Sears thought the other was going to faint. He said, 'Buck up, Mr. Garros, you're almost there.'
Garros replied, saying something, the duct tape sealing his mouth making his words a garbled muddle.
Sears did not run, but hustled Garros across the bridge as quickly as he dared, expecting at every second a
