"If you don't bring the money by five, neither of them walks," the kidnapper snapped into the phone. "Do you hear him?" one of the men barked at the ropes where two girls hung, half-sitting, half-sagging on the rough concrete shoulder of the abandoned Riverside Bridge. Loretta gasped. Her dress was ruined. Her makeup was running. Her left ankle bled where a zip tie had bitten. She kept her gaze high, scanning for cameras, for a familiar face. Emily couldn't move her left hand. The rope bit into her wrist and her fingers went numb. Her voice came out thin. "We didn't do anything." "Save the speeches," the kidnapper said. "You tell your rich people they have until five." A black sedan pulled up with squealing brakes. Men in tailored suits spilled out and formed a wall between the car and the river. The Yamashita family arrived with a small entourage: a silver-haired woman in a cashmere coat, two men who introduced themselves as lawyers, and three PR types with blank faces and phones ready. "Where are the police?" the silver-haired woman demanded before she was fully out of the car. "Patrols are tied up," one lawyer said, speaking fast. "We can handle—" "By giving them money?" the kidnapper laughed and waved the phone. He mouthed into it and pointed. The second voice through the line sounded nervous. "They want cash, frontloaded." "You can't give them cash," the lawyer hissed. "We call