“Get out, get in the car,” Zhao Guangyuan said, his face grim, speaking to the driver and Jiang Luo. “Go straight to He Xu.”
Jiang Luo didn’t need to ask—he knew the provincial authorities hadn’t been cooperative.
“Go to He Xu,” he told the local driver the secretary had specially arranged. “Leave now.”
Two mid-sized cars, carrying ten people in total, immediately set off for He Xu.
The driver, speaking in accented Mandarin, warned as he drove: “It’s deep in the mountains, very far, and the roads aren’t good. Are you sure you really want to go?”
“Drive your car. Won’t cost you a penny less,” the secretary replied softly from the passenger seat.
“Alright,” the driver said, falling silent.
Jiang Luo made several calls after departure—checking on the cash transport truck and on Xiao Lu, who had been sent to Beijing.
The truck was on the road, with drivers rotating continuously, but still far from the province.
Xiao Lu reported success: “I delivered the company package to No. 61. They know what’s happened. I couldn’t enter myself, they wouldn’t let me. I didn’t see anyone. But they said to tell you they know and will arrange people for He Mu. They also asked me to give you one more message…”
“Go on,” Jiang Luo said calmly, holding the phone to his ear.
“Don’t act impulsively, no matter what happens.”
“Understood,” Jiang Luo said evenly.
The city portion of the drive went smoothly, but soon the road narrowed into mountainous terrain, and their speed dropped. Jiang Luo decisively told the driver to stop, took the driver’s seat while the driver gave directions from the passenger side.
Zhao Guangyuan warned, “Stay calm now.”
Jiang Luo remained composed. Sitting idle made his thoughts drift uncontrollably to Huo Zongzuo—what might be happening to him, whether he was being beaten or tortured. He forced himself to focus on driving instead.
The road was rough, jarring both cars. The secretary, unused to such conditions, vomited into a plastic bag. Jiang Luo gripped the wheel, eyes fixed ahead, pushing the vehicles forward as fast as possible, though the winding mountain roads seemed endless.
He drove for eight straight hours. Night fell, but they were still far from their destination. The driver relieved him, but Jiang Luo didn’t rest—leaning back in the passenger seat, eyes unblinking, already pale from two sleepless days, yet wide awake.
Zhao Guangyuan leaned over from the back, offering water and food, reassuring: “They demand such a sum because they know Huo Zongzuo’s identity and wealth. They want money, not trouble. They won’t overstep.”
Jiang Luo took the water, drinking mechanically, his voice as flat as his expression: “That’s normal logic. But no one can guarantee we’re dealing with normal people.”
“No,” he corrected, “they’re bold enough—they are not normal. If they aren’t normal, we can’t expect them to have a conscience.”
He didn’t say aloud that he’d already prepared for the worst.
Deep into the night, the mountain darkness was oppressive. The car lights illuminated little, forcing them to slow. Xiao Lu now drove, the original driver and others asleep. Jiang Luo couldn’t sleep, thinking only of Huo Zongzuo—his appearance, expression, voice.
A chill ran through him, bone-deep. He decided he would never again eat pickled tofu or drink Sanhua wine. He would avoid this province entirely in the future and never let Huo Zongzuo bring him any local specialties. The regret was sharp.
Soon, cellphone signal disappeared entirely. Jiang Luo understood why those men could act so brazenly—here, no one would know what happened. Kidnapping was trivial; killing someone without burial would remain unnoticed. His heart froze further.
At dawn, the driver resumed, then Jiang Luo again. Hours passed. Just as everyone thought the exhausting rotation would continue indefinitely, the road ahead suddenly presented an obstacle: a high dirt mound blocking half the road. On the remaining side, three casually dressed men waved cars forward.
Jiang Luo stopped, assessing the mound and the men. His suspicion confirmed—they were prepared and wouldn’t allow the full group to proceed.
“What’s going on?” someone in the second car asked.
“One person only,” a man said in accented Mandarin. “One person. People go, car cannot.”
Jiang Luo unbuckled and prepared to exit.
Zhao Guangyuan caught his arm from the back seat, whispering: “They’re likely police, armed. They want money, not to hurt you. You go first. We’ll follow.”
“Alright,” Jiang Luo replied, stepping out.
He went to the car’s trunk, lifting two heavy cash bags—one in each hand—and walked past the mound toward the men. They searched the bags and patted him down, found nothing, then let him pass.
Behind him, Zhao Guangyuan and the others watched, some offering cigarettes to the three men, pretending to chat.
Jiang Luo reached a nearby pickup truck, quickly tossing the bags into its open bed, then opened the passenger door and climbed in. The truck moved, and through the rearview mirror he saw Zhao Guangyuan’s group trailing behind. He guessed that more checkpoints awaited along the way.
Indeed, forty minutes later, another checkpoint appeared. The men recognized the vehicle and driver, waved them through.
Jiang Luo observed men by the roadside—guns holstered, radios on belts—whether local “bandits” or formal security forces, all heavily prepared. He knew he was outmatched.
He had no intention to resist, nor did he hope to easily escape the mountains. His sole goal was to get Huo Zongzuo out safely.
After an unknown duration, the truck stopped at a small cluster of village-like houses. The driver, speaking harsh Mandarin, instructed Jiang Luo to exit. He did, grabbing his bags. The driver retrieved the bags from the pickup bed and handed them to him.
Pushed toward a nearby building, Jiang Luo let the driver shove him through the door. A chain lock clicked outside.
He remained calm, setting the bags down and checking his phone—signal returned. Likely not He Xu, but close.
As expected, a call came from an unknown number. Jiang Luo answered without a word.
A male voice asked: “Where’s the money you brought?”
Jiang Luo replied evenly: “Where’s the person?”
The voice paused, then: “Don’t worry. Once the money arrives, you’ll be released.”
Jiang Luo’s voice remained calm: “If you keep me here, there will be no 60 million U.S. dollars. The money is en route, in the truck, already in the province—but the truck only listens to me.”