He checked twice—the police had made no progress. And with the murder case demanding manpower, they couldn't spare more resources.
Marcus Shaw searched for Nora in the area but couldn't find her. A terrible certainty settled in: she'd fallen into the kidnappers' hands too.
It felt as though his heart were being seared in a wok, needles in his back, agonizing in every position.
By six-thirty that afternoon, a text finally arrived from the kidnapper: "Bring the money. Seven o'clock sharp, to this address for your father and wife. Not a minute late."
Nora had gone to trade herself.
The address was in Kuan Chengzi, on the city's outskirts, by the ring highway. Only forty minutes remained. The evening rush was past, but traffic was unpredictable.
Marcus Shaw cursed under his breath but didn't dare waste a second. He grabbed the money bag, said goodbye to his mother, and peeled out.
Warm evening breeze swept over him. Moonlight washed the asphalt, making it shimmer like water. The Beetle became a flying fish, gliding across the surface.
Midway, Viktor Dunn called to ask how things were going. He said he couldn't break away yet but would come as soon as he finished.
"Not yet. This kidnapper is extremely cunning—we can't even lock onto his signal. I'm worried that if he finds out I've reported this, he'll kill the hostages."
Viktor Dunn's voice dropped. "What do we do?"
Marcus Shaw thought for a moment. "Here: I'll set up a one-touch location ping on my phone. When I see the hostages with my own eyes, I'll secretly send you my position. You come when you're finished. If you're not finished, don't worry about it."
"I'm coming. I promise."
Thankfully, traffic wasn't too bad. At four minutes to seven, Marcus Shaw reached the designated address: an abandoned scrap yard.
The yard was large, overgrown with chest-high weeds. By the entrance lay a pile of moldy, weathered cardboard, alongside stacks of dusty rubber tire scraps dumped haphazardly. Somewhere nearby—perhaps a restaurant or homes—people had also been using the place as a dumping ground. Garlic clusters of garbage dotted the scrub, flies buzzed, the stench was constant. It looked like a graveyard of mismatched mounds.
The silence was oppressive, as if even the crickets didn't dare sing.
Marcus Shaw paced the entrance, searching. No one in sight. He swept his flashlight across the weed patches, the beam poking one dirty hole after another into the dark.
He was about to grumble when his phone rang—he expected the kidnapper, but it was his mother.
She was worried, calling to check in.
"I'm fine. I can handle this. Stay home and wait. I'll bring them both back."
She was still talking, so he cut in: "It's almost time. He might call any second. I have to go." He hung up.
He checked the time: seven-oh-two.
He texted the kidnapper: "I've been here for a while. Where are you? I'm not late—don't blame me."
Minutes passed. No reply.
Marcus Shaw stood beneath a crooked old tree on higher ground, scanning the surroundings with the money bag in hand, but there wasn't a soul to be seen. The night breeze rustled through the branches, and the tree seemed to breathe, to sigh.
A sudden itch on the back of his neck—he reached up and plucked off a stinging caterpillar. Cold sweat prickled his skin. He stepped away from the tree.
As frustration mounted, the kidnapper's phone call came through.
A man's voice—flat, dry, like a piece of stale date cake left out too long. Neither the timbre nor the tone matched Dominic Hale.
"Location changed. Oriental Square, Guanghua College night market. You have until seven forty-five."
"Are you kidding? That's all the way across town, and I've got no time!"
A brief silence, then a cold, flat instruction: "Come or don't. Consequences are yours. If you go to the police or try anything, we'll have some fun with your wife first."
Marcus Shaw started to shout, but the line went dead.
Nora's terrified face flashed before his eyes—and then shattered.
He drove.
On the road, he called the technician via Bluetooth.
"Last call was too short—couldn't get a location. But about ten minutes ago, the kidnapper made another call. The position kept jumping around, so I didn't notify you."
"That's fine. Thanks for staying on it. You must be about to go off shift."
"It's fine—this is urgent. I swapped shifts with someone, staying tonight. Probably won't make much difference, but I'll keep watching. Just in case, right?"
"Good, good."
With two streets to go, traffic locked up. A narrow street, somehow still two-way, cars inching forward, nosing in, honking, neither side yielding.
Marcus Shaw checked the time: under two minutes left. He laid on the horn. The car ahead didn't budge.
Just as he was grinding his teeth, the phone rang again—the kidnapper, demanding: "Where are you?"
"Almost there! I'm stuck in traffic. Give me a few more minutes."
"Not possible. Not one minute late. Come late, and you'll be identifying bodies." He hung up before Marcus Shaw could say another word.
Marcus Shaw saw the gridlock in front of him, grabbed the money bag and his backpack, and bolted from the car. His lungs felt like they were about to explode; every footfall drove them straight into the pavement.
He bumped into several pedestrians in his rush and finally stood at the bridge by the night market entrance.
He checked the time: seconds left.
Still no one approached.
Because it was near a university, the crowd was mostly students—groups of friends, couples holding hands, their faces flushed with greasy food and laughter.
Marcus Shaw stood on tiptoe, scanning faces, ignoring the shiny, happy ones, his neck cramping from the effort, but no suspicious figure emerged.
He swore inwardly. All that rushing, all that exhaustion—just to be played for a fool.
The night market roared around him. Vendors called out, people laughed, food sizzled on grills, everything merging into a wall of noise that drowned out every thought. The smell of takoyaki made Marcus Shaw realize he was starving. He promised himself: once this was over, he'd bring Nora here and they'd eat their fill.
As his neck began to ache, a realization hit: even if they were here, they'd have the hostages locked in a vehicle.
He scanned the parked cars. A minibus looked suspicious. He jogged over—oil-stained ground, shoes sticking with every step.
Just a vendor's vehicle.
Then his phone buzzed. With the money bag under his arm, Marcus Shaw cupped his hands over his ears to hear. The voice on the other end was unmistakably angry, drawing out each syllable: "I told you to stay in one place—why the hell are you wandering around—"
They could see him!
Panic spiked. He twisted his neck to scan the crowd but couldn't spot anyone.
"Don't bother looking. You won't find me."
Before Marcus Shaw could respond, the voice continued: "You have thirty minutes. Go to Shengtai Avenue, intersection of Tianqing Road. There's a building materials factory. You can't miss it."
Marcus Shaw shouted: "Are you fucking done jerking me around?! There are no cops with me, it's just me. Stop playing games."
More threats. He had to swallow his anger and comply.
He hung up and sprinted back to where his Beetle sat trapped in traffic.