Volume I, Chapter 30: The Assault Arrives

In the dead of night, he could no longer resist. Moving quietly, he crept onto the bed, slipping beneath the quilt already warmed by Ame. He embraced her from behind, his chest pressed close against her soft back.

It was so warm that, almost as soon as he closed his eyes, he drifted into sleep.
But sleep did not welcome him. Every few minutes, a nightmare seized him.
A darkness rose on his left; a monster bit into his left arm. In his dream, he waved his hand as if to shoo a fly, yet dared not make a sound.
He would then jolt awake in terror.
After a while, his pager seemed to go off, startling him yet again—only to realize it was just the crickets outside.
Ame lay quietly beside him, her eyes open in the darkness, gazing at the man holding her with a gentle tenderness before reluctantly closing them again.
Each time he woke in fright, he clung tightly to Ame. She curled herself into his arms, hoping her body could bring him a sense of safety.

By midnight, thunder and lightning raged outside.
Mang City lay in the monsoon zone, with heavy, concentrated rainfall. Its low-lying terrain was prone to floods in June, July, and August. The earthquake in 1976 had caused severe soil erosion, making landslides and mudslides all too easy.
This wooden cabin sat on a narrow terrace halfway up the mountain, built mainly for tending the rubber trees on either side. In summer, Ame rarely stayed here.
Now, at the end of April, late spring had only just begun. No one expected such a rare, violent storm to arrive so suddenly—as if fate itself had decreed it.

After who knew how many nightmares, he finally gave up on sleep and rose from bed. Groping in the dark for the matchbox on the nightstand, he lit a cigarette. In the faint flare, he saw the matchbox bore the name “Ya Crossing Guesthouse.”
Behind him, Ame turned and wrapped her arm around his waist. He stroked her hair, and, her eyes dreamy with sleep, she urged him softly: it was time to go.
A young woman of the minority tribes would never let a departing lover lie dreaming beside her until dawn.
He felt a chill emanating from within Ame, seeping through their fevered bodies into his bones, rousing a thread of reason in his nightmare-addled mind.
He would soon realize that this silent dismissal from Ame would be the gesture that saved his life.

His eyes wide open, he could not sleep.
A gust of wind swept in with the pouring rain, flapping the cloth curtain and sending droplets spilling onto the bed.
Exhausted from a day’s labor, Ame slept undisturbed, her gentle snoring rising again.
Apart from the rain, all was quiet—uncannily so.

He sat up quickly and lightly, trusting his instincts, certain that danger was approaching.
He slipped off the bed, hunched, and dressed in the dark.
With each flash of lightning, beams from several flashlights flickered through the cracks in the wooden walls. Judging by how the beams moved, he knew there was more than one group out there.
Flashlight beams swept the left, right, and back of the cabin. He was being surrounded. Only the front door was not lit—but it could well be an ambush.
He moved with utmost care, but still woke Ame. In the darkness, she leapt from the bed and whispered urgently, “Run!”
He reached under the pillow for a cloth pouch containing about three thousand yuan. He took out all the cash, leaving it on the bed. Three small pills tumbled out of the pouch; he swallowed the pale blue one, then wrapped the other two in a small plastic bag and stuffed them in his pocket.
He looked back at Ame. She seemed to sense her life was in danger. Naked and gaunt, her eyes still brimmed with concern for him as she gestured for him to flee.
Gritting his teeth, he bent low and darted out the front door.
Thunder masked the sound of his movement; the front door opened to a cliff and the river below. Tumbling to the ground as he exited, he silently gave thanks that there were no ambushers yet.
Reeking of alcohol in the night, he crept forward on hands and knees, guided by the intermittent flashes of lightning.
He slipped into the trees, glancing back at the small cabin.
In a flash of lightning, he saw seven or eight men approaching from the left, crouched low, carrying submachine guns. Swift and silent, they advanced in cross formation—mercenaries from across the border, he realized.
On the right, a group with pistols, dressed in police uniforms, crawled forward. Clearly, they meant to kill him as a criminal.
To the rear, Ruaya led a horde of local thugs wielding gleaming Thai knives, though lacking heavy weapons.
He dared not linger and stumbled off toward the sloping hillside.
Slipping in the mud, he fell, sprawling on the ground, clutching at the wet grass. He could not help glancing back at the cabin.
He saw flashes of gunfire erupt around it.
Bullets struck the walls, sparking in the storm.
The thunder and rain were so fierce he could not even hear the gunshots.
Shy Ame, who toiled each day in the cane fields, who sang as she tapped rubber, who was only eighteen—Ame was gone before his very eyes.
Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the rain.
Several men burst through the front door, but aside from Ame’s blood-soaked body, found no sign of him.
Dozens more, under Ruaya’s command, fanned out to search, their powerful flashlights scouring the jungle. He hesitated, torn between fleeing and returning to the cabin in a desperate bid.

But seeing the glint of weapons in the lightning, his remaining reason commanded him to run for his life.
Someone spotted him—bullets from pistols and submachine guns kicked up clods of mud all around.
No longer hiding, he did not bother to get up, but dragged himself forward with all his strength, sliding down the muddy slope.
He knew the terrain well—ten meters behind him was a cliff.
Beyond the thirty-meter drop, the Nu River raged below.
A fatal choice—yet his only hope for survival.
If he died here, many would rejoice.
Yannu, whom he had failed to kill, would be the first, followed by Ruaya, who would be glad to see a strong rival gone.
The mole hidden in Beijing would be the happiest of all.
And then there were all the others he had crossed.
But at this moment, he did not want to die.
He could not bear the thought of others raising toasts to celebrate his death.

The slope was steep, but thankfully not rocky, or he would have tumbled to his doom.
The wet earth was thick with wild grass. He slid to the edge of the precipice; here, he could clearly hear the river’s roar below and feel his legs suddenly dangle in the void.
Though he had prepared himself, the sudden drop still tightened his chest with terror.
He had entrusted his life to fate many times before, but never so completely as now.
The downpour swallowed him in utter darkness. The thirty-meter fall lasted only a heartbeat—before fear could even take hold, his body crashed into the riverbed.
Compared to the height, the water was not deep.
In the pitch-black depths, pain exploded through his body from the impact.
He struggled, letting the current carry him to the surface, but before he could draw a full breath, the flood swept him under once more.