Chapter One: A Secret Struggle in the Woods

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Summer of 1995, on the Thai-Burmese border.

In the depths of a remote tropical rainforest, not even the brightest moonlight could do more than filter through the dense canopy in slender threads, bringing only a faint glimmer to the boundless darkness.

The silence of the wild was abruptly shattered by the roar of an engine.

A Toyota HiAce 2Y van, its headlights barely illuminating the scant two meters ahead, hurtled through the blackness at breakneck speed, blending seamlessly into the night. The uneven terrain and low visibility did nothing to slow the vehicle, a testament to the driver’s extraordinary skill.

Inside the jostling van were seven people, six of whom, by their attire and manner, were clearly a well-armed and highly coordinated tactical unit.

“Flying Squirrel” wore large, thick-rimmed glasses and clenched a Marlboro cigarette between his lips, his anxious gaze making those around him uneasy.

In the passenger seat sat “Crow,” the commander of this kidnapping operation. As a fellow member of the team, he could sense Flying Squirrel’s growing unrest. Flying Squirrel was always cautious, but with the mission nearly accomplished, Crow couldn’t fathom why he was still so worried.

Crow teased, “Don’t look so grim. The mission went off without a hitch—lighten up a little.”

Flying Squirrel’s brows remained furrowed. “That’s exactly why I’m worried. There are still thirty-two kilometers to the border—who knows what might happen ahead.”

Crow shrugged, his relaxed facade belied by the constant glances in the rearview mirror, ever alert to what lay behind.

The van’s long rear compartment held three rows of seats. The other four team members sat in the back: three men—Lone Wolf, Big Bear, and Water Snake—and the only woman, “Magpie.” Amid the jolting ride, some rested their eyes, others stared out the window, but every finger was poised on a trigger.

In the very last row slumped a man with his hands bound by hemp rope—Yu Wen-sheng, nicknamed “Black Cat,” the most notorious arms smuggler on the border, a name that inspired dread. But tonight, he was merely the prey of the other six.

In the fervor of 1969’s “Down to the Countryside” campaign, just two years after Che Guevara was executed in Bolivia, Yu Wen-sheng, a Shanghai youth seasoned by bloody street fights, was swept up by the revolutionary zeal of the time. Inspired by official calls to “liberate all mankind” and “export revolution,” he crossed the Yangtze with his comrades to join the Burmese Communist insurgents in their great and perilous “world revolution.” That brutal guerrilla life ended abruptly when Ne Win’s government reconciled with China. Until the Burmese Communists dissolved in 1989, they entrenched themselves in the Golden Triangle, fueling war with opium.

In the past three years, the shrewd Yu Wen-sheng left behind poppy fields and heroin labs, forging a new path in the arms trade. He recalled the American Gold Rush, where few prospectors struck it rich, but those who sold water and jeans made fortunes. Compared to his old comrades in the drug trade, he earned everyone’s respect through ruthless methods, meticulous cunning, and an instinct to seek profit while avoiding risk.

But from now on, all of that belonged to the past.

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Two hours earlier, “Black Cat” had been captured on his own turf by Crow and his team. The woman called “Magpie,” in disguise, was a beauty who could rival the fabled Daji. It was those bewitching eyes that entranced him in the bar—despite all his experience with women, he had never met anyone as beautiful and refined. Her face was cold, but when she smiled at him, it was like a chill wind slicing straight to a man’s bones, leaving him both aroused and afraid. In the haze of confusion, the thin man called Water Snake pressed an ether-soaked cloth over his mouth.

When Black Cat awoke, he found himself in the bar’s back courtyard. He still remembered their brutal, animalistic handling of him, as if he weren’t even human. The short, stocky one had struck his neck with a swift but measured chop—his body below the neck seemed to freeze, and he collapsed, mind still conscious, only to be hefted effortlessly by the burly man and thrown into the van’s second row. He didn’t know that Lone Wolf’s blow had precisely targeted a nerve; with the wrong force, it could have been fatal.

Yu Wen-sheng was squat and swarthy. He had no idea who these sudden kidnappers were or why they wanted him. Trembling, his hands tightly bound, he began to plead in Mandarin with a thick Shanghai accent once he realized his captors spoke Chinese.

Crow turned and laughed, “Stop whining. You’re being arrested by six top agents—what an honor!”

The more Crow joked, the more terrified he became, until Lone Wolf knocked him out with a punch, leaving him sprawled like a dead dog in the back seat.

A few more kilometers and they would reach the border. Crow, who had been feigning ease, finally allowed a satisfied smile to show. He took swigs from a whisky bottle, humming Cantonese pop songs in delight.

The thrill of success had the young team in high spirits, passing around a bottle of Japanese Yamazaki whisky.

Though they had left the most dangerous zone, the mission was not truly over. Flying Squirrel’s frown lingered; he disapproved of celebrating prematurely. As Crow offered him the whisky and Flying Squirrel was about to refuse, a sudden burst of submachine gun fire shattered the darkness, bullets slamming into the van’s tires.

The pattern of fire made it clear—the attackers weren’t here to silence them, but to rescue someone.

Flying Squirrel slammed on the accelerator, searching for a route to break out or a spot to make a stand. Luckily, just before the left front tire was destroyed, he found suitable terrain for an ambush. As the van veered, about to roll, he switched off the headlights, adjusted the steering, and with a heavy thud, crashed the van into a tree, bringing it to a halt.

With the headlights out and engine dead, silence reclaimed the darkness. The ambushers, unsure of their target’s status, dared not move.

Flying Squirrel and Crow scrambled from the tipped van. Crow clapped Flying Squirrel on the shoulder, visibly pleased with his handling of the emergency.

The rest of the team swiftly formed a defensive perimeter around the van, blending seamlessly with the terrain. The silence was so oppressive that even the insects and frogs seemed cowed into silence.

The team carried suppressed AK submachine guns, wore field uniforms and high-top military boots, and slung canvas military satchels. Inside were compasses, flashlights, extra magazines, and a pistol—the newly issued 92/5.8. Their belts bristled with radios and Type-91 dagger guns, each equipped with four barrels and firing powerful 7.62mm rounds, effective up to ten meters.

Their eyes had adjusted enough to make out each other’s shapes. Flying Squirrel saw Crow gesture him forward; he responded with a silent thumbs-up.

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Crow issued a terse order in the dark: “Prepare for combat.”

Flying Squirrel dashed two steps toward the van and fired twice toward the ambushers, taking cover behind a rock.

The ambushers responded with shouts and the shifting of weapons, unleashing a barrage on Flying Squirrel’s position. Judging by the sound, their numbers were few, but they wielded heavy firepower.

Unfortunately, the ambushers’ lack of combat experience betrayed them—their continuous fire and shouting exposed their positions.

In the flickering muzzle flashes, Black Cat stared in terror through the van window. The others had their guns trained on the attackers, but Flying Squirrel, crouched behind the shattered windshield, kept his pistol aimed squarely at Black Cat.

Bullets thudded into earth, rock, trees, and the undercarriage of the van. Black Cat knew that if his side lost the firefight, Flying Squirrel would not hesitate to kill him. What he did not know was that Flying Squirrel was the only one among the six who had never killed before. The other five remained motionless behind cover, their eyes locked ahead. Years of teamwork meant everyone knew their role; each tracked a different target in the muzzle flashes.

When the ambushers emptied their magazines almost simultaneously, the gunfire ceased, leaving only the echoes in the forest.

Seizing the moment as their foes reloaded, the team’s five gun barrels flared in unison. The counterattack was swift and precise—a few short bursts, and five drug-addled soldiers were dead before they hit the ground.

Crow crouched by the windshield, shining a military flashlight on Yu Wen-sheng’s curled-up form. From his bag, he drew a pistol and, with two quick shots, shattered the window. Yu Wen-sheng was shot in the head at close range; the arms dealer who survived the jungle revolution died, baffled, at the hands of unknown young men.

Crow stood and said, “Hauling him around was dead weight!” He swept his flashlight across the five stunned faces, then said calmly, “Black Cat has used up his nine lives.”

Flying Squirrel cursed, “Maniac!”