Volume One, Chapter Eighteen: The Storm Approaches

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With either genuine concern or deliberate intent, the old courtyard had once offered him a reminder that, in retrospect, Yannu now found insignificant. Yannu knew of several small paths that could be used to cross the border, routes that rarely saw any guards. Alternatively, he could, in broad daylight, climb those low hills, traverse the dense forests and waist-high thickets, and swagger across to the other side of the border—into Burma.

At the time, it never occurred to him that an old man’s casual advice would one day forge a future drug lord. The first time he stood amid the riotous bloom of flowers, pressing his hand against the brown poppy pod to squeeze out a milky sap, his entire body trembled. In the years that followed, no one ever knew how he dealt with the drug barons who planted tens of thousands of acres of heroin, how he gained their absolute trust, and how they became an unbreakable alliance of shared interests.

All those thrilling, cunning, and ruthless experiences were long hidden deep within his memory, shaping the decisive nature that crowned a once-impoverished dentist as the King of the Southwest’s underworld, granting him power over life and death.

He firmly believed that every person has only one fate.

Now, the man who had dominated the southwest for six years needed to fulfill the ordinary duty of a father: to unerringly visit his twenty-year-old daughter, to chat with Yu Wen’er.

Though he knew that a young man nearly twenty years his junior, called Flying Squirrel, was plotting to kill him. One thing was certain: when Flying Squirrel entered, he carried no weapons.

As a drug lord, he could not show the slightest hint of panic. At least, until the “squirrel” was captured, he would remain within this heavily guarded lair where he was absolutely safe.

If his hideout had been exposed, Flying Squirrel might already have been killed by Ru’a’ya, Yannu thought.

The news of Lone Wolf’s death was relayed to their superior by an informant stationed in Mangcheng, using a pager. “No such person,” the superior dispiritedly reported back. Everyone understood this code: Lone Wolf had failed and lost his life in the process. Each of them had their own secret informers—except for Lone Wolf and the superior, no one else knew who the informant for this case was. The superior thus instructed the field team to decide among themselves who would undertake the mission next.

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Because of Lone Wolf’s failure and death, everyone understood that the danger was now far greater than before:

First, Yannu would certainly heighten his security. Though most adversaries would assume the field team wouldn’t act again so soon, anyone knew that it was better to be over-prepared than to risk everything.

Second, Lone Wolf had been the field team’s action man—no one matched his offensive ability.

Lastly, since Yannu had already killed Lone Wolf, whatever method he used, the next killing would be even more ruthless—no mercy, no hesitation.

The other members, including Crow himself, exchanged uneasy glances when they received the directive. Only Flying Squirrel showed no hesitation, volunteering for the mission.

But he raised the same condition once more: retirement after the mission was done.

He’d been repeating this, both in conversation and in written reports, for a year now.

Compared to Lone Wolf, Crow was more concerned that Flying Squirrel might abandon the mission than that he would lose his life. Flying Squirrel was like a chess player who knew when to sacrifice a pawn to save the king; outwardly, he seemed relentless, but in truth, he always set a safety baseline beforehand, anticipating the worst and preparing a response.

To date, no one had ever seen him go “overboard.”

Once, as the field team drank together, lamenting the risks of their profession, he suddenly remarked, “Smart people never take the lead. In history, every pioneer has ended up as a martyr.”

Before anyone could question him, he expounded, “Let me sum up the dynastic changes in China. Those who first rise up never live to see the final victory—in fact, many are trampled by the victors on their way to power. Emperor Gaozu established the Han, but the uprising began with Chen Sheng and Wu Guang, continued by Xiang Yu’s clan, yet it was the small-time hoodlum Liu Bang who ultimately took the throne. The Liu family transitioned from the Western to the Eastern Han, which was essentially a new dynasty. Wang Mang usurped the Han, the chaos was triggered by the Green Forest and Red Eyebrow peasant armies, but Liu Xiu, a middling landlord, seized the moment and took the empire. Wei, Shu, and Wu battled with wits and strength, but in the end, the Sima family unified the land. During the Southern and Northern Dynasties, the Yuwen clan of Northern Zhou nearly unified everything, but Yang Jian, an in-law and power broker, forced the young emperor to abdicate and reaped the rewards. Later, Emperor Yang of Sui provoked rebellion and died miserably; Li Yuan, his distant cousin, established the Tang, but even he was ousted by his own son Li Shimin, who wasn’t even the Crown Prince. Then there’s Zhao Kuangyin—he seemed to rise peacefully, clothed in royal yellow, but if Emperor Shizong of Later Zhou hadn’t died young, Zhao would never have ousted the orphans and widows to take the throne. Strangely enough, his brother Zhao Guangyi also benefited without effort, and after the mysterious candlelit ax murder, the later emperors surnamed Zhao weren’t even Taizu’s descendants. In the Yuan, Ming, and Qing, the pattern was the same—sometimes the usurpers came from within the family, sometimes from without. Look at modern times: none of the early elders of the Tongmenghui enjoyed the fruits of victory. They assassinated and bombed each other while the future leader was still speculating in stocks and running with gangs in Shanghai. The Party hadn’t even been founded yet.”

At this, he toasted his “comrades,” then said, “This line of work is risky, sure, but it’s just a high-paying job—no need to gamble with your life. No one will remember you if you die. For me, staying alive is the most important thing. I’d hate for my wife to find a new husband for my son after I’m gone. If she chose a good man, he still wouldn’t be the boy’s real father. If it was an idiot or a scoundrel, I can’t even imagine what my son would have to endure.”

Crow teased him, “You’re overthinking it. You don’t even have a wife, much less a son.”

Flying Squirrel grinned awkwardly, “Just an example. You’re the one with a wife and kids—you’re the one who needs to be careful.”

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The tactical team was like the Eight Immortals crossing the sea—each had their own unique skills, and Flying Squirrel was not especially outstanding. But all five agreed he was the best-read among them.

Crow couldn’t figure out why the opportunist would risk it alone this time.

At seven o’clock in the evening, Flying Squirrel came down from his room at the Maohan Hotel. The plump girl was absent. He leaned over the counter, grabbed the guestbook wrapped in brown paper, and quickly scanned the latest page.

There were obviously few migrant workers coming into the city this season; the entire second floor had only his room registered. No one else would be checking in at this hour.

The silent afternoon hotel was deserted. He donned insulated rubber gloves, moved his bedside table into the hallway, and used two wires to connect the second-floor corridor light with the one at the stairwell corner. This way, pulling either string would light both bulbs at once.

Standing on tiptoe, he unscrewed both bulbs and took them back to his room. They were screw-in incandescent bulbs; bayonet types would have been more troublesome.

Sitting by the bed, he first loosened the metal screw caps on the bulbs. Gently removing the cap and the filament, he exposed an opening at the top of the glass.

He took out a pack of cigarettes, loosened the tobacco from the seventeen cigarettes packed with gunpowder, and poured all the powder into the box. Holding a bulb in his left hand and the box in his right, he carefully funneled the powder into the bulb’s cavity.

After filling both bulbs with gunpowder, he pressed the screw caps back onto them. Both bulbs were now loaded.

Looking at the two empty, flattened cigarette packs, he suddenly thought: what if Yannu didn’t go to visit Yu Wen’er tonight? Should he have left a pack of powder behind?

But then, there wouldn’t be enough powder here.

A thousand calculations, yet still one may go astray, he thought. The informant had sounded certain, but there were always accidents—he would just have to gamble on luck.