If You Could See the Sun (73)

Numbers flash by me as I make my way down flight after flight of stairs.

Level Fifteen.

Level Twelve.

Ten.

Seven.

“Alice!”

I stumble to a stop. Whip my head around, half certain I’m hallucinating.

But there’s Henry, standing only a few steps above me, the neon exit sign casting a red glow over his features. His eyes are dark with concern.

“I was looking everywhere for you,” he says, coming down toward me, his footsteps light and swift. “I managed to get away from Rainie and...” He pauses, his gaze raking over my face. “What happened? Did they hurt you?”

I shake my head, too winded to speak at first.

My lungs and legs feel like lead, and there’s an awful knife-sharp stitch in my side. It takes everything I have not to double over.

“They—they took Peter—” I finally manage, my voice a dry croak. “We have to—save him—”

I wait for the barrage of questions, the moment of disbelief, but Henry doesn’t even look surprised at this dramatic turn of events. He simply rolls up his sleeves and says, “Okay. Let’s go.”

I can’t believe I ever wanted to push this boy off a stage.

Somehow, with Henry by my side, it’s a little easier to run down the remaining stairs. And by easier, I mean it doesn’t feel quite like I’m dying a slow, excruciating death. Still, white dots have started to dance over my vision by the time we reach the entrance to the parking lot.

The air is colder underground, wet and dense with the stench of petrol fumes. I try not to choke as we hide behind a half-open door, our backs to the wall, and listen. I try not to entertain the possibility that we might be too late.

But then I hear it—

The angry squeak of shoes, of rubber against concrete. Male voices bouncing off the walls, amplified by the open space. The loud slam of a car trunk.

Henry and I exchange a quick look.

We’ve pulled off enough Beijing Ghost tasks together to know what needs to happen next.

I watch as Henry adjusts his posture, straightening so that he looks even taller than usual, fixes his shirt collar, and smooths his hair with one hand. In an instant, he’s no longer just Henry, but Henry Li, son of a self-made billionaire, someone who wears their privileged upbringing and powerful connections like a badge. Someone untouchable.

But that doesn’t stop my stomach from knotting over and over with worry when he strides out the door.

“Hey,” he calls in flawless Mandarin. Even his voice sounds deeper, older, which is good. If the kidnappers don’t take him seriously, we’re pretty much screwed.

His appearance is met with abrupt silence.

The tension makes my skin itch.

I hold my breath and count to fourteen before someone grunts, “Who are you?” They sound closer than I expected—no more than twenty feet away from the door.

“I should be asking you that,” comes Henry’s smooth reply. “What are you wearing masks for?”

“None of your business.”

“It is my business, actually,” Henry says, and I imagine him tilting his head to the side, his brows raised, condescension written all over his face. “My father owns this hotel, see, and I’m sure he’d like to know why there are three strange, masked men sneaking around our unused parking lot in the middle of the night. If you don’t want to tell me, maybe I can invite him or the hotel manager over to—”

“Fine,” the man snaps. “If you must know, we’re headed to a nightclub, that’s all. Didn’t want our wives catching us.”

Despite myself, I almost roll my eyes. Even their excuses make them sound like complete assholes.

“Can we go now?” another one of the kidnappers demands.

“No, you cannot,” Henry says. “Since your car is here, you need to pay for parking.”

“But—”

“Payment is nonnegotiable. Of course, you can use WeChat Pay if you’d prefer, or scan this QR code on my phone, or get a discount by signing into your hotel account, then registering through one of our five affiliates...”

While Henry rambles on about hotel policies and bank sponsors and viable memberships, I sneak out through the door. The scene that greets me looks like something out of a low-budget action film: the parking lot is empty, save for an old dust-covered van rotting away in the far corner and a sleek black vehicle that’s surrounded by three men. All of them have their backs toward me, their attention on Henry.

Henry, who’s positioned his body directly in front of the car, has rested both hands on the hood, so they’d have to run over him just to drive away.

It’s a good strategy, I reason with myself, fighting the strong compulsion to push Henry out of the way, to protect him. They wouldn’t want to—wouldn’t dare—kill the son of the hotel owner. It’d get far too messy.

I just have to rescue Peter before the kidnappers lose their patience, and their ability to think rationally.

Careful not to make a sound, I duck my head and creep closer to the car trunk, heart pounding in my throat. Then I get a good look at the license plate: N150Q4. Sear it into my brain.

Henry is still talking. “...Bank of China is actually offering a limited-time promotion on the app—”

“Wait,” the man at the front interrupts, and the shift in his tone—from annoyance to something else, something like suspicion—leaves my mouth dry. I glance up.