Gift Horse
by
Shannon Tighe

There it was, sitting on the table. A large, brown-leather suitcase containing the five hundred thousand dollars in unmarked, used hundred-dollar bills. 
	It was the cash I would need to pay as the ransom demand for my daughter. 
	I had previously collected the money, money I has stashed away for emergency purposes – but, I once touched wood, nothing like this – from a safe-deposit box at my bank. It was only to be with-drawn in the event of a crisis, and what had taken place was nothing short of calamity.
	Louise had been abducted while shopping with her mother at the mall. Louise is ten years old and approximately five-feet tall. That is what I told police when they received my call of distress that   afternoon. My wife and I always wanted to have children, but I never thought that my job as CEO of Haste Media, the most prominent news and television network on the eastern seaboard, would serve to endanger my family and I.
	That afternoon, Thursday passed, was when I realised that Louise was not to return from the mall. My wife telephoned the office and reported that Louise had been snatched out of her arms at gunpoint in the food-court in front of everybody. A store-security officer did his best to apprehend the abduc-tors, but was cut down in a short fire-fight. I was to know these people didn’t mess around.
	I waited for Louise’s call all night, to no avail. That is, until a little after midnight when I was awoken by the telephone. I answered to hear a distorted voice inform of my daughter’s condition   (unharmed), and of the ransom demand ($500,000) for her safe return.
	Luckily, this man’s call hadn’t been the first I’d received that night. No, my frantic calls to NYPD had produced a result. They were willing to help. But I had to help them first. They set up all kinds of recording equipment in my lounge, and to the telephones. When that call came through, they were all listening and the tapes were rolling.
	The lead detective’s name was Bill Preston, and I was to learn that he had served the city of New York for over twenty-five years. He insisted that he was by far the best in his field: hostage negotia-tion, and a former Special Weapons and Tactics (SWAT) instructor. For most of the next day, Friday, Bill had his NYPD analysts examine the recording for investigative purposes, and he assured me and my wife Candice that he would bring the extortionist to justice.
	I woke up Saturday morning to another telephone call. I picked up the receiver to once again hear the voice of the kidnapper, a voice distorted by a speech-disguising gadget, Preston believed.
	“Good morning, Mr. Haste. I trust you slept well?” he asked.
	“Well enough to know that you’ll regret this!” I replied, letting my anger get the better of me.
	“Have you decided to accept our more than generous offer, or do I need to inflict harm on Louise?” the kidnapper asked slyly.
	“You leave Louise alone, you scum!” I shouted. “And anything I give you would be outrageous.”
	“Consider this, Mr. Haste: you happen to own a multi-billion dollar news company. Don’t you think I could have demanded that much?” said the kidnapper.
	“I suppose it is somewhat reasonable,” I said, “but we will have to arrange how the money will reach you.”
	“Ah… Even with this you are still businesslike,” the kidnapper laughed. I was unsettled by this. “The money will consist of used, untraceable hundreds only and will be delivered by you. Under-stand? I will be waiting nearby with Louise with my people.
	“Oh, and by the way,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “If I see any trace of police whatever, the deal is through and I walk away with Louise. Hear me when I say that one or two of my friends aren’t the sort of people you’d want alone with your kids. It won’t be pleasant for either of us.”
	I swallowed hard and felt the dry lump in my throat. “Where do you want to do this?” I asked.
	“There is an abandoned train depot in the Little Italy Industrial Park that you would know of. I’ve seen a few of your reporters broadcast from their several times. It’s been in the news recently, I under-stand. The city wants it shut down for good.
	“We shall make the exchange on open ground at midday tomorrow and we’ll both walk away with what we want most – no strings attached.” Somehow, I detected a hint on insincerity in his tone.
	With that, the kidnapper ended the call and I was left with the dilemma of collecting the money from the bank. If I hurried, I’d still make it before closing time, but tomorrow, Sunday, I wouldn’t be able to do a thing. Jesus, this guy really wanted me to work fast!
	When I entered the State Savings Bank, I was welcomed by a man in an immaculate business suit, a real executive type. Like me, I guess. He asked me what I would like to do today, and I told him that I needed to open my safe-deposit box. The gentleman and I both walked into the vault with the com-pany of an armed bank security guard, through a door 35 centimetres thick and constructed of solid stainless-steel.
	It was here that I was presented with a large, gold key, and I whipped my own out of my pocket. Simultaneously, as was procedure, we pushed our keys into the designated keyholes and the small door in the wall opened. I took out the safe-deposit box and was ushered into a private viewing cubicle outside the vault. Inside the box, I was to find the $500,000, which I had changed into used hundreds. Also, which I had forgotten about, was a K-frame Smith & Wesson revolver. A six-shooter.
	I left the bank with both of these items and gave the gentleman a fifty dollar bill out of my own   wallet for his time and trouble.
	Sleep came with difficulty that night. I thought about the revolver, and what I intended to do with it. I figured it would be found right away by these guys I had to see the following afternoon, and our deal would be null and void. I thought about leaving it at home and going in unarmed.

Sunday. 11:30 A.M. 
	The NYPD investigators on the case collected me in an unmarked police van. It took us a quarter of an hour to reach the abandoned train depot and we parked fifty metres from the chain-link fence out front. The kidnappers, I thought, would have to be excruciatingly clever to realise that I was with   police. Bill Preston had decided to assist with the safe return of Louise, but was unable to travel with us in the van. He said he’d make it in his civilian Buick.
	At 11:55 I took the large brown suitcase in my left hand and made my way to the entrance. A man in black with a balaclava pulled over his face and a pump-action shotgun in his hands kicked the door open and scoured the area for police before allowing me to enter. He frisked me for a wire and weapon. I was holding my breath and closed my eyes. I was sure he was going to find the .44 in my breast pocket. But, by some turn of fate, he was interrupted and I was shoved forward.
	As I was led along through the murky entrails of the depot, I saw that there were three men posted around the overhead catwalks and gantries, each wielding a shotgun and as anonymous as the man with the muzzle of his shotgun pressed to my spine.
	The man walking behind me shouted to one of the others and suddenly a tall man in a fawn over-coat and balaclava entered my line of vision from the darkness. I noticed one particular thing about this man: he carried Louise in his arms.
	“I’m glad to see that you made it on time,” intoned the kidnapper. “I trust that there are police out-side on standby, Jack. Go on and see, will you?”
	With that, one of the men to my right racked the slide on his shotgun and ran outside.
	“I’ve got the money!” I shouted. “Bring me Louise and it’s yours. It’s just like you asked, you can see for yourself.”
	“Yes. About that…” the kidnapper trailed on. “There’re certain things we need to do with that cash you have. But we’ll need more. So, what can you do about that?”
	“How much more?” I asked, not believing what I was hearing.
	“Enough to get away for good. Say, a million.”
	“You want a million bucks from me on a Sunday? Banks don’t open on Sunday.”
	“Yours will. That is, if you want to take Louise home with you, Johnny. You’ll just have to find a way,” the kidnapper said, stroking Louise’s golden hair.
	“Never look a gift horse in the mouth,” I mumbled.
	“What did you say?” the kidnapper inquired. “Speak up!”
	“Never look a gift horse in the mouth,” I repeated.
	At that moment, I removed the .44 from my breast pocket and swung the barrel hard to the left. The man behind me took the cold steel in the face and dropped like a sack of potatoes. I frantically cocked the hammer and brought the pistol up, drawing a bead on the centre of the fawn overcoat above. I squeezed the trigger twice, and the man’s chest erupted in a mass of pulped flesh. He dropped Louise to the floor of the catwalk an fell off his podium from a height of roughly 15 metres to his death.
	Jack stormed through a side door, his shotgun raised and ready for action, but he was shot by a shouting man from behind, and a moment later three uniformed police officers entered the depot. I cocked the Smith & Wesson once again and took aim at the kidnapper’s accomplices above. Louise clambered to her feet and ran down a rickety flight of steps to my side. She appeared to be unharmed, but she was crying.
	When the gunfight ceased, and the accomplices were subdued, I stumbled over to the line of rigid corpses and removed the balaclava from the head of the man in the fawn overcoat.
	Detective Bill Preston, very dead.
	The other minions were identified by police as escaped convicts, all brought to justice by Preston. But the last was not. She was my wife, Candice. And apparently I had shot her. She survived, and was taken away by paramedics without ado.
	I gathered the suitcase and climbed into the police van with Louise after I had time to settle. We were taken home by police once the debriefing at Police Plaza had finished, but they were still unsure, it seemed, as to why Candice had played a role in the abduction and extortion. I said I didn’t know why, either. It was a real mystery. And a tremendous let-down for Louise. But this was not the first kidnapping this group had been responsible for, I was told. And police believed Preston was raising money for some kind of criminal syndicate that was too much for me to understand. But I was con-gratulated for having a hand in putting a stop to this. But there would always be those who would be affected by my actions this day. And should they confront me or Louise in future, I would always carry the .44. Let them try again – I’d encourage it.