Volume One, Chapter Fifty-Six: A Narrow Encounter

Yesterday, when he parked, he'd already bought a case of beer and left it on the passenger seat. Now, driving, he pulled out a bottle, popped the cap off with his teeth, and poured it down his throat in one gulp.

His exhausted body finally felt something; the light ahead blurred into a haze, and apart from the winding mountain road, he could no longer distinguish people from objects.

"This is the feeling I want."

The Flying Squirrel knew he wasn't brave; he needed outside help to muster courage. He thought of his son at home, cracked open another bottle, and drank it down, a thick fog settling over his sight.

To survive—even if living like a stray dog—he had to keep going.

He stopped the car at the foot of the mountain, turned sideways, and with his right hand sliced a slanted edge into the neatly stacked newspapers on the passenger seat, making them easier to grab later. The empty beer bottles were wedged between the newspapers and the seat back.

He drew his pistol from the waistband at his back, placed it in the beer case, then turned to scrutinize the child. The boy still slept, so deeply it seemed as if he were dead, but the gentle, even rise and fall of his chest showed he was unhurt. The Flying Squirrel always felt something was off about the child.

He released the handbrake, pressed the clutch, shifted gears, and stepped on the gas in one fluid motion.

Now, the car, facing the dazzling sunrise, spiraled into the winding mountain road and plunged into the great forest. Like a frail boat drifting into the sea, it entered the primordial woods.

Mist shrouded the forest; the trees swallowed him whole.

Though he hoped it wouldn't happen, he reluctantly admitted that another fierce battle lay ahead.

Golden gleams flickered in the woods. He knew those were the distant, scattered spires of Buddhist pagodas.

If only everyone in the world believed in Buddha and goodness, perhaps things wouldn't have turned out like this.

When the car turned into the third gorge, he saw, in the morning mist, the flashing of police lights. What was bound to happen had finally arrived.

Next to a police car stood several armed paramilitary officers and countless plainclothes agents. Freshly cut timber from the mountain had been fashioned into a barricade blocking the mountain road.

He had no doubt it was meant for him. Now labeled a murderer, the official manhunt had begun. Among the plainclothes there might be real police; the paramilitaries were certainly genuine. All must have received shoot-to-kill orders regarding him.

The Flying Squirrel slowed the car, feigning readiness for inspection.

Once those in the mist saw it was him, he shifted gears and stomped hard on the accelerator. No one expected he'd charge through under the barrels of their guns; as they shouted and scrambled aside, his car smashed the wooden barricade, sending a log spinning into someone's waist, hurling him against the mountainside.

Only then did the gunfire erupt. He shifted into third, released the clutch, gently tapped the brakes, and floored the gas. The car fishtailed and drifted past, leaving the pursuers in a cloud of dust.

He glanced at the rearview mirror. The child, strapped in by the seatbelt, swayed with the car's motion, still fast asleep.

Bursting through the checkpoint, the Flying Squirrel revved the engine, speeding toward the mountain pass. Behind him, sirens blared. On the winding road, with a sharp turn every twenty meters or so, he saw five identical black Toyota Crown sedans tailing a police car in pursuit.

Rounding the second tight curve, a gaunt donkey suddenly rolled down from the cliff. Such things were common in Sarro—locals let donkeys graze on the slopes. The Flying Squirrel swerved to avoid it, but the pursuing police car lacked his reflexes, crashing into the donkey; both tumbled down the slope.

The black Crown sedans pressed on, gunfire rattling behind him. Luckily, not a single bullet hit the Santana.

He maneuvered the car as much as possible, wary of the cliffs. Fighting back was out of the question—shooting while racing was a myth only found in Hollywood.

On a sharp right bend, he steered with his left hand, his long, monkey-like right hand reaching for a stack of newspapers on the passenger seat, then grabbed a few empty rice wine bottles, swinging his arm to fling them out the window.

Hundreds of newspapers fluttered wildly in the mountain wind, some slapping onto the windshield of the leading sedan. A tire burst echoed from behind.

One car plunged into the ravine, another smashed into the mountainside. Heavy collisions thundered through the valley, mingled with the screech of brakes, and then the gunfire ceased.

He sped to the mountaintop, turning to see chaos along the mountainside—green uniforms and black short sleeves tangled together. The crashed car blocked all passage, and the one that fell burned below, black smoke rising through the green forest and into the sky.

He raced up to the summit, where a broad plain suddenly opened before him, and the clamor below fell silent. He sensed immense danger ahead, so he brought the Santana to a slow stop.

On the flat road, he saw a white Toyota pickup parked about four hundred meters ahead, sunlight flooding the barren, golden plain. The face of Ruaya in the driver's seat was clearly visible.

The Toyota Hilux roared across the plain. Its exhaust, originally at the rear, had been moved above the passenger side—a modification for deep-water crossings. Blue-tinted white smoke billowed from the pipe.

Just by the sound, he knew the original gasoline engine had been swapped for a powerful diesel. The chassis had been raised nearly double its height, and the vibrating engine made the massive vehicle sway like a beast, looming over the small, black Santana. The gleaming front bumper reflected a cold glare, like a saber ready to cleave the little bug-like car before it.

Ruaya, seated behind the wheel, faced the Flying Squirrel for the first time. Through the window, his own face looked gaunt and haggard, utterly spent. The robust Ruaya wore an expression of disdain; when it came to courage and ferocity, he'd never met a rival.

The Ang people, a scattered, small ethnic group, numbered fewer than twenty thousand, yet were spread across nine counties in Sarro Province, dwelling alongside the Jingpo, Han, Lisu, and Wa peoples. History's larger tribes had never missed an opportunity to bully them, but the Ang—once called the "Banglong people"—never feared the strong; the tougher the enemy, the braver they became.

Ruaya was renowned among the Ang for his strength and dominance. Nearby, that Han man, sly and treacherous like a rat, had ambushed his boss; today would be his death day.

The Flying Squirrel poked his head out the window. Behind him, the narrow, steep mountain road was filled with pursuers, now regrouped and ready to attack on foot, armed with all sorts of weapons.

He had nowhere left to run.

He calculated the distance and speed, glanced at the Hilux whose raised chassis made its center of gravity dangerously high. He shifted into second gear, pressed the clutch with his left foot, floored the accelerator with his right. The Santana let out a strained cry of defiance.

In answer, the Hilux roared even louder and deeper.

Both released their clutches at once. The Santana, quicker off the line and in acceleration, shot forward like an arrow. Ruaya’s vehicle sped up to meet him, lumbering but powerful, intent on smashing and crushing the audacious little car.

The two vehicles closed in rapidly, their faces growing ever clearer to each other. After nearly ten seconds, they were about to collide head-on, and a chorus of shouts erupted from the mountainside.