Touch & Go (Tessa Leoni, #2)(76)

Radar was already at the table, perched on the edge of a metal stool. He had a slightly glazed-over look on his face and was staring at the cinnamon rolls as if they were the last drop of water in a desert. But he remained still, hands at his side.

Z took in the table, still advancing steadily. Now his gaze flickered to me, where I stood next to my waiting stool, as did Justin and Ashlyn.

He smiled and I could tell he saw right through me, understood completely every step I’d just taken and why.

Z dished up first. Two rolls, half a plate of eggs, half a dozen pieces of bacon. He passed each platter to Radar, who filled his plate, then dished up a plate for Mick, presumably working the control room, before returning the remaining food to the middle of the table. I hadn’t been around last night, but Justin and Ashlyn seemed to be waiting for something.

“Eat,” Z ordered at last, and they each took a seat.

A reminder of who was in charge. I wasn’t concerned. Second bite of the cinnamon roll, Z’s eyes fluttered down, the quick rush of buttery pastry and gooey cinnamon sugar hitting his bloodstream, intoxicating his senses.

I wondered what he was remembering right now. A mother, a grandmother, even just a moment in time when Z had felt warm, safe and loved. The true power of comfort food. It didn’t just fill one’s belly, it evoked a mood. And now, my food was triggering Z’s memory, forming an association between my handmade rolls and his own sense of well-being that would be difficult to break. Hence the past eighteen years I’d spent making homemade treats for Justin and his build crew. Because nothing earned undying devotion faster than freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Then, even the toughest of the tough turned instantaneously into a little boy, savoring a childhood treat while gazing upon the provider of that treat with fresh adoration.

I could use some adoration right about now.

My family was already eating. I picked at my own food, avoiding the greasy bacon, nibbling on a single roll. I should eat to build my strength, but I didn’t completely trust my stomach yet. Not to mention Z and his crew had commandeered the majority of the food. I didn’t want to take even more away from my daughter and husband.

“You’re going to ask for something,” Z said after the second cinnamon bun, while reaching for a third. “You anticipate my mind will be so muddled by your homemade rolls, my senses so overwhelmed by this lovely display of domesticity that I will say yes.”

“We’re not going to ask for something, we’re going to give you something.”

“You have nothing to give. And you’re wrong about the rolls. Cooking as good as this…now I have even less incentive to let you go.” His gaze flickered to my husband and there was a look on his face I didn’t understand.

“You’ve invested a lot of time in this operation,” I stated evenly. “Time, money, resources. I’m sure you and your team don’t want to walk away empty-handed.”

“Not about money. Didn’t I already say that?” Z glanced at Justin, my husband’s battered face, swollen eye.

“Mom.” Ashlyn nudged me, voice low. For the moment, I ignored her.

Z pulled his attention away from Justin long enough to eye me skeptically. “Besides, hasn’t your husband told you everything yet? That business isn’t going so well? That he no longer takes a salary? That, in fact, you don’t have money to offer?”

My face didn’t change expression. I had just learned these things, of course, but it surprised me that Z knew such details as well.

“Did he tell you about all the pressure he’s under?” Z continued in a bored voice. “Use that as his excuse for all of his extracurriculars. Poor Justin, just trying to feel like a big man.”

Justin flinched. I could feel his leg tensing up next to mine, preparing to stand. And do what? Pound the table? Take on the bigger guy with the cobra tattoo?

“Mom.” Ashlyn again, voice still low. She’d pushed away her red tray, her shoulders hunched as if with trepidation.

“Nine million dollars,” I said, ignoring both my family members.

For the first time, I could tell that I’d caught Z off guard. His face froze, the green cobra tattoo staring at me with twin beady eyes. Radar was less circumspect. He did a short double take, jaw hanging open, before quickly composing himself.

“We start today,” I continued calmly, “and it can be wired to the account of your choice by three P.M. tomorrow. We do the work. You get the money. But the demand has to be delivered today, and you have to let us go. Price of ransom. The victims must be recovered safe and sound.”

Z frowned at me, which, in fact, made the cobra’s fanged mouth move in unsettling ways around his left eye.

“Nine million dollars,” I repeated. “Guaranteed payday. You’ll leave this prison rich men. Not bad for a few days’ work.”

Z didn’t immediately say no. Almost absently, he pulled apart his third roll, biting into one half, flaky pastry catching around the corner of his hard-set mouth.

“How?” he asked.

“Insurance policy. On Justin, but also Ashlyn and me.”

“Company policy?”

“Yes. Perk of being an owner. Justin might not currently draw a salary, but he still gets great benefits.”

“They’ll pay?”

“That’s why you carry insurance.”