Volume One, Chapter Eleven: The Death of the Lone Wolf

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The informant’s answer was just as Flying Squirrel had expected.

He returned to folding up the topographical map, then asked, “What about the local police?”

The informant hesitated, as if he wanted to say something but stopped. Flying Squirrel knew he didn’t want to continue. Sometimes silence was an answer in itself, and he wouldn’t press further.

Flying Squirrel packed away the map and, after taking a sip of beer, asked, “How did Lone Wolf die?”

The informant shook his head. “I didn’t see it happen. Yan Nuo heard he was coming to Mang City to deal with him and sent the police to intercept him on the road, but they didn’t catch him. After he got into the city, he checked into a small hotel. Yan Nuo tried to find out where he was staying, but couldn’t.”

Flying Squirrel noted this detail—it meant no one knew or leaked Lone Wolf’s whereabouts at that time.

Without betraying any emotion, he continued, “So how did they find him later?”

The informant grinned slyly. “Actually, the boss found out he was a spy months ago, so he already knew what he looked like.”

Flying Squirrel clearly hadn’t expected this. “What?”

The informant seemed to enjoy seeing Flying Squirrel’s surprise. He replied smugly, “The boss has a brother from Chuxiong who’s in the heroin transport business. Half a year ago, Lone Wolf tried everything to befriend him. The guy trusted him, but at dinner one day, he tested him by putting a piece of cured pork in his bowl, and Lone Wolf ate it. That’s how he knew Lone Wolf was undercover. He told the boss afterward.”

Flying Squirrel looked confused. “Cured pork?”

The informant was delighted by Flying Squirrel’s expression and explained, “Well, even the wisest can slip up. The man’s a Hui from Chuxiong; Lone Wolf claimed to be Hui too. No matter how lax a Muslim is, they won’t eat pork, right?”

Now understanding, Flying Squirrel’s face returned to its usual poker-faced calm. “I see. Yan Nuo was waiting for him to walk right into the trap. No, the police weren’t supposed to catch him—Yan Nuo deliberately let him into his own territory to finish him off.”

The informant looked away and said, “As soon as Lone Wolf entered the city, thinking no one recognized him, he swaggered out to buy cigarettes. He didn’t know the boss had already circulated his photo everywhere. Look, I still have one.” He fished a crumpled 3R print from his pocket. In the photo, Lone Wolf was drinking with a group in a restaurant.

The informant shrugged. “Anyway, the chief of security took two men into the hotel and killed him.”

Flying Squirrel didn’t take the photo, nor did he even glance at it. He asked, “Did you see his body?”

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The informant tucked the photo back into his pocket. “No. Yan Nuo told us about it.”

Flying Squirrel nodded and sighed. “If Yan Nuo says he’s dead, then he’s dead.”

The informant reached for his beer, only to find it empty. He crushed the can and tossed it aside. “That Lone Wolf was tough, though. Before he died, he took out those two bodyguards. I saw their corpses—killed with a single blow.”

Flying Squirrel chuckled. He was well aware of Lone Wolf’s skills, but in the end, Lone Wolf still died at their hands. He remembered how, two years ago, Lone Wolf had saved his life. He felt a vague sadness, difficult to describe—was it nostalgia for old camaraderie, or simply the fox grieving for the rabbit? Perhaps both.

He opened a third can of beer and handed it to the informant. “Yan Nuo’s chief of security is still Ru A’ya, right?”

The informant took the beer, nodding in admiration. “Ru A’ya is also from the Ang tribe.”

Flying Squirrel followed up, “Oh, a compatriot of Yan Nuo’s wife. So, this guy’s skilled in martial arts? Plum Blossom Fist? But everyone uses guns now—crossbows and slingshots are obsolete.”

The informant replied, “He’s good with his left fist.”

The Left Fist was one of the Ang tribe’s signature techniques, its moves nimble and unpredictable. When fighting, the final blow was always delivered with the left hand—hence the saying among the Ang: ‘The left hand decides the world.’

Flying Squirrel sneered. “I figured as much. But that’s all worthless now.”

Hearing this, the informant lowered the beer from his lips and cautioned, “Don’t underestimate him. He took down Lone Wolf with his bare hands before killing him. And he’s truly loyal to the boss.”

This time, Flying Squirrel laughed, his first genuine smile in front of the informant—a radiant, dazzling smile. But the informant didn’t like it at all.

Flying Squirrel scoffed, “Loyal? As loyal as you? You think a brute like Ru A’ya is capable of loyalty? If there’s any loyalty left in this world, it’s only because the price to buy someone hasn’t been high enough.”

The informant, unsettled by Flying Squirrel’s words, forgot about his beer and hastily said, “Let me give you some advice—Ru A’ya isn’t as smart as he thinks, but he’s definitely more ruthless than he imagines.”

He looked at Flying Squirrel, who was dressed like a local—young, thin shoulders lost inside a baggy tracksuit, looking every bit the poor, studious youth, with prematurely gray hair and a face lined with the worries of the impoverished.

But if he fixed you with an unguarded stare, the solitary arrogance in those eyes was chilling.

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He looked nothing like the portrait on the fax. The informant knew it was all an act—an act so thorough and convincing, he couldn’t help but admire it deep down.

Flying Squirrel fell silent for about three minutes.

He mentally reviewed every detail of their conversation, considering whether the informant had lied, or which part was a lie. Regardless, he never trusted words.

He only trusted his own judgment—by watching expressions, pupils, and changes in tone, and by setting logical traps in his questions in advance.

The informant finally broke the silence. “Did you bring a weapon?”

Flying Squirrel gave a wry smile. “I’m lucky just to have made it in here at all.”

This unexpected honesty caught the informant off guard.

“You’re not planning to stab Yan Nuo with a knife, are you? I can get you a gun.”

Flying Squirrel glanced at him. “This is the second time you’ve mentioned me ‘killing’ him. Even if whoever tipped off Yan Nuo said that, it doesn’t mean I actually intend to kill him. Spies aren’t assassins.”

The informant thought, True. Most of the time, they’re not even as good as assassins.

“So what do you need from me?” The informant was starting to lose track of Flying Squirrel’s intentions, and his professional instincts warned him to keep his distance.

“Finish this beer, get on your motorcycle, and go back to your job. Do what you usually do.” Flying Squirrel spoke with quiet confidence. “When I need your help, I’ll contact you.”