The Billion-Dollar Ransom

by James Patterson, Duane Swierczynski

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Which one of us is worth a billion dollars? 

Five people with ties to a Los Angeles billionaire suddenly disappear from their daily lives. His two youngest children are taken from their school bus. His oldest son is taken with his movie-star girlfriend during a romantic getaway. His wife is taken while leaving a spa.

The kidnappers demand a one billion dollars, an astronomical price higher than that commanded for the Lindbergh baby, Patty Hearst, or John Paul Getty III. The gamble: is such a ransom even possible to pay? 

FBI Special Agent Nicky Gordon leads the urgent search to locate the captors and victims—until a risky information exchange alters the calculations on both sides.  

Release date: September 1, 2025

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 400

Sample

Transcript of audio conversation (recovered from private Macao-based server)

ONE: Listen to my voice very closely. That is your only job right now. If you have any questions, please wait until the end of my short presentation. I will answer what is relevant.

[No response.]

ONE: Excellent. No names, even fictitious ones, will be used at any point during this operation. And that includes this briefing session, the only one we’ll have as a group. All of you have been assigned code numbers. They will appear on your home screens. You may refer to me as One.

[No response.]

ONE: To set your minds at ease, please know that your voices have all been digitally scrambled. You may answer in the affirmative when I ask you a question directly. Do you understand, Two?

TWO: Stay silent until the question-and-answer portion of the program.

ONE: Well done. Let’s hear from Three and Four. Understood?

THREE: Yes.

FOUR [Under her breath]: Seriously? [Pause.] Yes, One. Three and I understand.

ONE: How about you, Five?

FIVE: Yeah, I got you.

ONE: And, finally, Six?

SIX: Yes. I understand.

ONE: Goody. Now, some ground rules. First: Your numbered code names will stay with you throughout the mission. No trading numbers or changing them. They were assigned to each of you for a specific reason. If this is unclear, speak up now.

[Pause.]

ONE: Second rule: The plan must be followed precisely. Not a single change will be permitted. If you ignore a step, you will not be paid. If you improvise, you will not be paid. If you involve others, you will not be paid. If you perform a task a minute too early or a minute too late, you will not be paid. You are to perform your tasks at the precise minute—almost to the second. If this is unclear, speak up now.

[Pause.]

ONE: Final rule, and this is more of an expectation than a rule. It is possible, perhaps even likely, that one or more people will be killed at some point during our mission. You must not let this throw you. Some deaths are unavoidable and ultimately may serve the greater plan. If anyone has a problem with this, speak now and you will be relieved of your duties.

[Pause.]

ONE: Now for the pep talk. The one thing I want you to remember, above all else, is that you deserve this. You need to internalize that and truly believe it. You have earned this. Why? Because, like me, you’ve all come from nothing. And you are merely taking what is rightfully yours.

[Pause.]

ONE: When we have completed our mission, this group will have pulled off the most famous kidnapping in history. Nothing else comes close—not the Lindbergh child, not Patricia Campbell Hearst, not John Paul Getty the Third. This is the one they will study in books and films for decades to come. That will be for many reasons, not least of which is the size of the ransom. Which will be the largest ever: one billion dollars.

[On the recording, there are a series of excited and astonished murmurs.]

ONE: Upon successful execution of your part of the plan, you will be paid your share of that one-billion-dollar ransom within forty-eight hours. Then you have the rest of your lives to enjoy what is rightfully yours. If you follow the plan, no one will ever know you were involved. The money will be untraceable, and you will be able to spend it freely anywhere in the world. Are there any questions?

[Pause.]

ONE: Excellent. Now you may applaud.

[There is a confused pause before One breaks out in a hearty laugh, which seems to give permission to the others. They join in the laughter and eventually erupt in a round of applause.]

Wednesday, 3:14 p.m.

ELIZABETH “BOO” SCHRAEDER couldn’t help but smile as she settled the tab at her favorite Beverly Hills salon.

The salon was arguably the most exclusive in LA. Their hair-extension work was unparalleled, and appointments with their stylists were among the most highly coveted on the West Coast. The real draw to potential customers, however, was the salon’s clientele, a list of million-dollar names: Kim. Taylor. Chrissy. Zendaya. What you had done to your hair was not as important as who might be sitting in the next chair.

But Boo didn’t patronize this salon for any of those reasons. She honestly just got a kick out of the place. The Style Circus, she called it when gossiping with friends back home in Arkansas. Only here could some of the world’s most important faces be seen at their most unguarded and vulnerable. The sheer spectacle cracked Boo up, especially as she got a little wine-drunk in the early afternoon.

Now that her two-hour appointment was over, Boo emerged back into reality through the shaded private back entrance behind Burton Way, where her car—an onyx Bentley—would be waiting.

Boo had finally gotten used to the idea of having a driver. She’d resisted for months, but eventually Randolph had put his foot down. Yes, her husband understood that Boo was a woman fully capable of taking care of herself on the mean streets of Beverly Hills. “That’s one of the many reasons I married you,” he’d said. But Randolph also reminded her that being his wife came with all kinds of attention. Some of it was the kind of attention no one wants. And Randolph, as he liked to remind people, was a man with many enemies.

And Boo had to admit it was nice to be driven home after enjoying a glass (or three) of a 2017 Château Lafite while relaxing in the styling chair.

It helped that Boo genuinely liked her driver, Emily, the epitome of chill. LA’s notorious traffic, which spiked the blood pressure of even the most seasoned drivers, didn’t seem to faze Emily. She didn’t waste time with small talk but was happy to engage in a chat. Not quite the same as talking smack with her besties from Fort Smith, Boo knew, but sometimes she was simply grateful for the companionship.

Emily climbed out of the driver’s seat the moment she saw Boo. She smiled and moved to open the back door. “See anybody cool this afternoon?” the driver asked with a playful smirk. “Queen Bey, perhaps? She’s playing at SoFi Stadium tonight.”

Emily didn’t see the hulking form crouched behind the Bentley. The form rose, quick as a shadow, a dark object dangling from his right gloved hand.

Boo shouted a warning. “Behind you!”

But it was too late.

The figure whipped a leather sap across the back of Emily’s skull. Her body bounced off the side of the car and collapsed on the pavement. The attack lasted all of three seconds.

Boo spun around and grabbed the handle of the salon’s back door. But it was locked. Guests had to be buzzed in, just like at the front entrance.

Deep down she’d known this, but she had to try anyway.

Before Boo could reach into her purse for her industrial-strength mace—an item that Randolph insisted she carry—the attacker had his burly arms around her upper torso, squeezing tight, letting her know he was in charge.

“Mrs. Schraeder, stay calm.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is what I know about you,” he said in a tone that was grave yet controlled. “For instance, I know you were army, Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment. You have training and know how to defend yourself.”

“You want a demonstration, asshole?”

“That won’t help you now, so please be cool. Last thing I want to do is hurt you.”

Boo said, “Like you hurt my driver?”

“Your driver will be fine.”

“I don’t know. You hit her pretty hard.”

“I needed the keys.”

“Wait… all of this just so you can steal my Bentley? You’re an idiot, whoever you are.”

Boo tried to turn and get a closer look at the assailant. He was wearing some kind of sheer mask. The material resembled the mesh of a stocking, but the construction was something more advanced—it looked thin, yet it was substantial enough to twist and distort his features.

Boo’s attacker placed his hand on her chin and, as gently as a doctor examining a patient, moved her head so she was facing forward. Then he whispered hot against her cheek: “That’s not what this is.”

Boo said, “You know someone is watching us, right? He’s been watching this whole time. Guy in the green baseball cap, down at the end of the drive. I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

“He’ll be taken care of. Right after I take care of you.”

“Take care of me how?”

“Don’t worry. This won’t hurt.”

A harsh blast of wetness hit Boo’s mouth and nostrils. It was like being slapped in the face by a wave from an ocean of chemicals. The spray seemed to instantly seal up her airway.

She tried to suck in a breath, but before that could happen and far quicker than she would have thought, her brain stopped recording.

THE MAN IN the green cap standing at the end of the driveway had indeed been watching. He’d been there for a few minutes now and had witnessed pretty much everything:

The kidnapper hiding behind the Bentley.

The kidnapper bashing the back of the driver’s skull with a leather sap.

The kidnapper grabbing the blonde and putting his mouth close to her ear as if he were telling her an important secret.

The kidnapper spraying a chemical into her pretty little face.

The blonde passing out instantly, like a puppet with its strings cut.

The kidnapper catching her full weight, then gently lifting her unconscious body and depositing it in the Bentley’s trunk like he was putting away a doll in a fancy toy chest.

All in a matter of, what, thirty seconds? What a thrill to watch a total professional at work! The man in the green cap almost wished he knew the kidnapper’s name for no other reason than that he was now an instant fan.

With his blond victim tucked away, the kidnapper took care of a few details. He felt for the unconscious driver’s pulse. Once satisfied that she was alive, he dragged her to the back wall of the salon—presumably, Green Cap thought, so she’d be out of the way if someone came blasting down the drive. He scanned the asphalt to make sure the pretty blonde hadn’t dropped anything, then climbed behind the wheel of the Bentley and peeled away.

The whole thing was great fun. Almost like a movie—ten out of ten, no notes. Green Cap wished he could rewind it and watch it again.

Alas, now it was his turn to work.

Green Cap pulled a burner phone from his jacket pocket. It was an old-fashioned flip phone with only one contact stored in its memory. He pressed the number. After exactly three rings, someone answered.

Following a moment of silence, Green Cap said: “One hundred percent.”

The listener did not reply, nor was a response expected. The person simply hung up.

Green Cap began strolling toward Burton Way, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. And he didn’t. Well, he wouldn’t—after a few minor tasks. He pulled the battery out of the phone and deposited it in the first trash can he saw. This was improper battery disposal, but he didn’t care. The world was already going to hell. One more cell phone battery wouldn’t make a difference.

Without breaking his stride, Green Cap removed the SIM card from the phone and pocketed it. He snapped the body of the phone in half and tossed the broken pieces in two different trash cans. More fodder for the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

He stopped to buy a small cup of piping-hot coffee from Starbucks, but this was not to drink. This was to drown and destroy the SIM card. Into the coffee it went—plunk—and then he tossed the entire cup into yet another trash can.

Green Cap reached an ATM four minutes after the driveway abduction of the blonde and his follow-up phone call. He pushed in his scratched-up debit card, entered his PIN (the day and month his divorce was finalized), and asked for the balance in his checking account. This morning the balance had been $789.43.

Now it was $25,789.43. He’d earned twenty-five grand for about five minutes’ work.

Not bad at all!

Green Cap decided to celebrate with another purchase from Starbucks, this time a frothy latte he’d get to enjoy. And by God, he’d savor every swallow.

THE KIDNAPPER PILOTED the Bentley west down Sunset toward the Pacific, weaving around other luxury cars, going a good fifteen to twenty miles above the speed limit. No one would stop him. Not in a Bentley. Traffic cops knew it wouldn’t be worth the headache—they wouldn’t stop him unless they saw a screaming old lady being dragged under the chassis. And maybe not even then.

Anyone who could afford a Bentley could easily afford a lawyer who’d make a moving violation disappear in an instant.

The kidnapper didn’t keep the Bentley on Sunset very long. He made a sudden right on Linden Drive, tires screaming, executed a perfect K-turn, and reversed until he was trunk to trunk with a black Audi parked in a security-camera dead zone.

The kidnapper’s code name was Two, and from this point on, his life would never be the same.

To be honest, this version was much more exciting.

He should have considered a life of crime years ago.

Two opened both trunks with simultaneous presses of the two key fobs. Both lids opened at the same time, like a beetle expanding its wings to take flight. Inside the trunk of the Audi was a soft oversize blanket. Two tucked the blanket around Boo Schraeder’s unconscious body, wrapping her like a breakfast burrito, then moved her from the trunk of the Bentley to the trunk of the Audi.

Two removed a glove and pressed fingers to her carotid artery. Her pulse was slow but steady.

Her freshly coiffed hair was in disarray. Two fixed it as best he could, but he wasn’t a stylist. Pretty far from it.

Trunk lids slammed shut, Two chucked the Bentley’s key fob down a storm drain and climbed behind the wheel of the Audi. This would be his new ride.

For exactly 2.3 miles.

On a quiet side street near UCLA, Two repeated the routine, this time with a black BMW 7 Series. And several miles later, on the fringes of the Pacific Palisades, Two transferred his captive to still another black Audi. The cars were as clean as the plates on the front and rear bumpers.

The whole time, Boo Schraeder never stirred. The chemical he’d sprayed in her face was a potent one, a proprietary and long-acting form of halothane. Two had tried it on himself a few days ago. Probably the best sleep he’d had in over a year. He knew she’d enjoy the rest of the ride in ignorant bliss.

How she’d feel when she woke up, however, was another story.

Wednesday, 3:14 p.m.

AT THE PRECISE moment Boo Schraeder was leaving her favorite Beverly Hills salon, a luxury charter bus made a right turn from Mulholland onto Roscomare Road.

Classes at the Curtis School had ended for the day, and the private motor coach was beginning its two-mile route to deposit a dozen children at their homes in Bel Air. The trip was short, but nonetheless, the bus was equipped with everything a child could possibly need for the journey—reclining seats, Wi-Fi, power outlets, and two private restrooms.

The driver glanced in the rearview at her young passengers, none of whom seemed to care about those amenities. All of them were bursting with the energy that only seven- and eight- and nine-year-olds have in the middle of the afternoon.

The driver? Please. She was eager to take a nap. Not that such a thing was likely. She had another gig this evening, ferrying adults around some studio lot until midnight. And then she’d be up again first thing to drive these same kids to school. If she was exhausted now, how would she feel at five a.m. tomorrow? She stifled a yawn, saw the speeding car, and stomped on the brakes at the last possible second.

The white BMW had blasted out of an obscured driveway. The car braked hard, and double screams of rubber on asphalt echoed through the canyon.

The driver yelled for the children to hold on. This vehicle was outfitted with every possible safety feature. The kids would be fine. But the driver was still paying off the loan for this luxury bus, and a wreck right now would be a financial nightmare.

Her first impulse was to scream something at the impatient moron who had almost crashed into a bus containing grade-schoolers. But the moron’s passenger—a woman—was up and out of the car so quickly, the driver reconsidered.

Especially when she saw that the woman was wearing a skintight mask that warped her features, almost like a nylon stocking over a bank robber’s face, and was holding some sort of device.

The driver lunged to lock the hinged loading doors, but the woman was already there, forcing them open with a gloved hand. This seriously can’t be happening. Not with the bus loaded with kids! Whatever this was, this creepy bitch wasn’t setting foot on her bus.

The driver pulled as hard as she could on the handle of the door mechanism. The masked woman forced her weapon through the gap anyway. Oh, no, you don’t, the driver thought and pulled even harder, putting her entire body weight into it, trying to exert so much pressure that the weapon would drop from the woman’s hands.

(That was the last thing the driver would remember. Later—during intense grilling by the FBI—the driver would learn she had been jabbed by two metal barbs and subjected to fifty thousand volts of electricity, at which point there was nothing she could have done to protect those kids. The electricity coursed through her system faster than her brain could commit anything to memory.)

The bus was under the kidnapper’s control now.

THE MASKED KIDNAPPER hurried onto the motor coach, trying hard to ignore the unconscious driver slumped over the wheel. There had been plenty of assurances there would be no long-term damage from this type of Taser, but still, she couldn’t bring herself to look down at the poor woman. And this was no time to get emotional.

“Children?” the kidnapper said, loud enough to cut through their nervous chatter but in a relaxed, friendly tone meant to reassure them.

Her kidnapper code name was Four, and she knew this was the make-or-break moment of the mission. If she didn’t keep these kids calm for the next thirty seconds, things could unravel real fast.

Four lowered the Taser to waist level. She prayed she wouldn’t be forced to use it on one of the children. Using it on the . . .