Volume One, Chapter Nineteen: Infiltration and Assassination

The flying squirrel emptied the four boxes of tacks he’d bought during the day into two plastic bags, then returned to the corridor. He screwed the bulb back into its plastic socket and finally used packing tape to bind the mouths of the plastic bags tightly to the dangling electrical wires.

The trap was set—crude, but deadly.

He knew a group of self-assured hunters would walk right into his snare, becoming his prey. A satisfied smile played at his lips.

At eight in the evening, the flying squirrel appeared by a manhole cover about a hundred meters outside the main yard of Yannuo. He stripped off all his clothes except for a pair of straight-cut underwear, rolled the clothes into a bundle, and hid them in the weeds—this was his only set of clothes.

He picked up a sturdy little cloth bag containing fishhooks tied according to his specifications, slung it over his shoulder. He hesitated about whether to remove his shoes, worried about sharp glass in the water below, but finally decided to keep them on.

Gripping the iron cover with both hands, he heaved it open. A rank stench assaulted him. He crouched, gripped the rim, let himself down, and slowly lowered his feet into the water.

At first, his eyes couldn’t adjust to the darkness of the sewer. After a while, he made out a faint glow from a hole ahead where the last light of dusk filtered in. In the dank, cold sewer, the methane stung his nose and eyes. Covering his mouth, he coughed in silence, his right hand steadying himself on the clammy, cold concrete wall as he waded, bent nearly double, through the filthy water that rose to his chest.

Animal droppings floated past in the sewage. Two fat rats swam nearby, their beady eyes scanning him as if sizing up a larger cousin. The flying squirrel loathed these filthy, agile rodents. The thought of his body submerged with theirs nearly overwhelmed him with nausea, his face contorted in agony as he fought the urge to retch.

Dirty water dripped from the arched stone ceiling, plastering his hair to his scalp. Every so often, he wiped his face with his sleeve, stumbling forward. The faint light ahead seemed the farthest thing in the world.

The sewer floor sloped upward, the overhead height unchanged, so that the farther he went, the more he had to stoop, until his face was nearly brushing the water.

According to his informant’s map, he crept through the sewage to the outlet beneath Yu Wener’s bamboo house, strained to lift the iron grate, and climbed out.

In the dimness, he strained his eyes to search for the row of dragon bamboos. He could just make out the gently swaying azalea bushes—tall and lush. He could distinguish the fragrance of roses, summer chrysanthemums, and Milan jasmine. As his eyes adjusted, he found the line of dragon bamboos standing guard around the bamboo house, whose second floor was ringed by a white railing.

Night had fallen, and the air was cool. His thin body, soaked with sewage, shivered uncontrollably.

He had fifteen minutes to set the trap.

When it was triggered, Ru Aya had already stumbled into another snare; it was the weakest moment for Yannuo’s defenses. Ru Aya had a few men run ahead, positioned himself in the middle, and the rest followed behind. Suddenly, he felt the stairwell was very cramped, and there were no lights.

The first man to rush up fumbled for the second-floor light switch cord. In that instant, Ru Aya was seized by a sudden intuition: they had walked into a trap.

The switch’s current ran straight to the incandescent lamp, but the rewired circuit also connected to another bulb at the stairway landing. The lamps never had a chance to shine; special gunpowder inside both bulbs ignited with a muffled explosion, and the tacks packed around the bulbs were blasted from the plastic bags. Some embedded themselves in the faces of the young thugs.

As the yellow flare from the bulb burst forth, Ru Aya reacted instantly, turning his face to the wall—still, pain flared across his back.

In the darkness, those who fell tumbled down the stairs, dragging others with them. In the end, seven or eight men lay in a heap at the landing, wounded by the second lamp’s explosion and the flying tacks. Their screams echoed through the stairwell, panicking the waitress on the first floor, who fled into the street.

Yannuo had left the main building and was crossing the yard to the bamboo house, still mulling over how to deal with Sha Ma. He was not a cruel man, but as a boss, mercy spelled disaster.

He paused beneath the bamboo house, smoked a cigarette to steady his nerves, then climbed the wooden stairs to the second-floor balcony.

When Yu Wener heard his familiar footsteps, she came out to greet him. As Yannuo stepped onto the balcony, he sensed something was wrong—the bamboo plank underfoot suddenly gave way, his balance lost, and he pitched forward.

Above him came a rustling of bamboo leaves; several thick dragon bamboos snapped upward, and the catch holding the fishhooks released. Nearly three hundred hooks, propelled by the bamboo’s force, shot at him like a net of glinting stars.

He felt himself swept up by a shining web—some hooks catching his eyes, tearing both out, others rending the arteries in his neck and thighs, unleashing fine jets of blood. His body swung from the bamboo’s recoil, the hooks embedded in his flesh tugging with every sway, deepening his agony. The drug lord’s wretched, furious howl pierced the night.

Yu Wener, frozen in terror at the door, had no time to react before several hooks, swinging on elastic cords, grazed her fair, lovely face.

Nearby, a chill summer wind swept through, and the bamboo grove murmured in the darkness.

Bullfrogs and crickets called to one another, their songs rising and falling. Both animals were exquisitely sensitive—if they sensed anything foreign, they would fall instantly silent.

The bullfrog’s call, deep and resonant like an ox, gave the animal its name. The cricket’s song, piercing and bright as a contralto.

But neither sensed the human who had lain motionless for so long in the wild banana grove.

In the darkness, the flying squirrel, using a makeshift telescope fashioned from a reading glass and a dry bamboo tube, could see everything unfolding in the brightly lit room across the way.

He watched Yannuo’s body swing in midair, heard the mingled screams of man and woman.

The trap he’d set more than an hour before had worked. He congratulated himself on his luck—if Yannuo hadn’t gone to the bamboo house tonight, he truly would have been out of tricks.

The flying squirrel loved to plan, but hated routine. In his line of work, from a self-preservation standpoint, routine was an engraved invitation to the enemy. Conversely, when the enemy became the target, their predictable habits were the best opportunities to exploit.

Before entering Mang City, he’d already learned from his informant that Yannuo would visit Yu Wener’s room every night before she slept. Yu Wener entered her room through the front door—the first floor was her living room, where she watched TV, drank, played games.

The second floor had a special passage and a small door just for her, probably doubling as an emergency exit. Two fire extinguishers stood outside; only Yannuo and a few of her close friends ever used this door.

That small door led to the external stairs of the bamboo house.

Every night, Yannuo said goodnight to his daughter—by the side door.