Volume One, Chapter Two: The Target—Mang City

April 1996. Flying Squirrel drove his Santana out of Yunting, following the national and provincial roads, passing through dozens of pitch-black villages and towns, and after a long journey, arrived at the border of Lanzhao.

Once he entered the lands of Lanzhao and Yadu, the entire way became county and township mountain roads. Over the past years, Flying Squirrel had driven this route more than ten times; he could navigate it with his eyes closed.

On average, every fifty or sixty meters there was a sharp turn shaped like an elbow, which the mountain folk called “Pork Hock Bend.” Drivers without enough experience often plunged straight off the cliffs.

There were no streetlights along this stretch, but the Santana’s high beams were reliable. He pushed the car to over sixty kilometers per hour along the winding, rugged road—a suicidal speed even in broad daylight.

Flying Squirrel thought, ordinary people must never ride in a car he drives; their terrified screams at the thought of crashing into the abyss might scare someone to death.

He was traveling at night because he wanted to reach Mang City before ten in the morning, so he would have time to take a cold shower and then enjoy a comfortable hour’s nap. After recharging, he’d get up and prepare some tools for the following night’s work.

Though there was no official word, Flying Squirrel knew that his journey to Mang City was already known to some people who shouldn’t have known.

In their line of work, everything ought to be a secret. Yet, the more secretive things were, the faster they became public knowledge. There was nothing to be done about it—once a secret was born, you couldn’t keep it from everyone. As long as one person knew, and the secret could bring them benefit, you couldn’t expect it not to be leaked.

If there was something to gain, someone might even ignore whether the secret was true or not.

So Flying Squirrel could never be like a spy in a 007 movie, leisurely setting off after receiving a mission. He had to act before the others, who had learned the secret, were ready. This was the principle of “speed is the essence of war.”

Ahead, he came upon a long stretch of concrete road. Just as he sped into a sharp turn, he pressed both the accelerator and the brake with his right foot and jerked the steering wheel with one hand, executing a perfect “drift turn.” This maneuver was especially tricky going downhill; a misstep or an overly abrupt move could send him tumbling into the canyon below, shattered to pieces.

The morning sun rose in the east, making driving even more difficult. After all, this was the Yunnan-Guizhou Plateau, where ultraviolet rays were especially strong. When his eyes had adjusted to the glaring light and the car suddenly entered a shaded mountain hollow or passed beneath a towering tree, his pupils barely had time to widen before he was momentarily blinded. If a sharp turn came then, the only choice was to brake hard, shift down, and crawl forward until his eyes adjusted. The reverse—driving from shade into sunlight—was a bit easier, but the problem with the pupils remained.

Flying Squirrel had no time to spare.

After passing through Yadu and entering the Deze region, he would reach Mang City. Since the Ming dynasty, this place had been called “Mang City.” In 1934, the Republican government renamed it Luxi, but both locals and outsiders stuck to “Mang City.” It wasn’t until 2010 that Luxi was officially changed back to Mang City. Mang City was the seat of Deze Prefecture. Interestingly, it was one of the few cities in the country to use the character “city” in its full name: “Mang City.”

At precisely nine o’clock, as planned, Flying Squirrel arrived at the foot of a mountain, one ridge away from the urban area. He stopped the car beside the reservoir that supplied the entire city’s water and got out to light a cigarette.

He had been coming to this town for a full six years now.

This should be the last time, he thought.

The sun was now bright and warm, chasing away the gloominess left by his night drive. The lake rippled in the breeze, combing the reflection of the lush green forests. Early April in Mang City was pleasant, with hundreds of flowers in bloom—a riot of color that made the spring air all the more vibrant.

Even people used to living in the tropics couldn’t stand such intense ultraviolet rays. The anglers who had been fishing in the early morning had already gone home, leaving behind abandoned rods and lines by the reservoir.

Flying Squirrel had tried fishing a few times himself, but always returned empty-handed. He had long since given up cultivating that “hobby.”

He took from his car a black imitation leather travel bag, “Shanghai” written on it in white script. He released the handbrake and watched as the Santana slowly slid into the reservoir.

From the bag, he pulled out a small packet of hair dye and a yellowish dental prosthetic, laying them on the ground. Lighting another cigarette, he squatted by the water’s edge and began to dye his hair.

On the other side of Mang City, in the outskirts, two Mitsubishi SUVs led the way, followed by two Mercedes S20s—the latest V12 models with the W140 chassis, their broad grilles and heavy bodies exuding an imposing presence. These cars were known locally as “Tiger Head Benz,” a nickname born of awe. Including the license, each car cost 1.2 million yuan—enough to buy ten Santana sedans. Such expensive cars on a mountain road looked out of place and announced that their passengers were figures of no ordinary standing.

Behind the Mercedes followed a dozen motorcycles, all smuggled Suzukis. The riders were flamboyantly dressed, sporting outlandish haircuts, but rode with discipline, trailing the Mercedes at a steady pace.

At the end of the convoy was a Toyota pickup, its bed carrying two rolls of iron mesh.

The procession stopped on a plateau halfway up the mountain, surrounded by peaks. On one side, an open meadow stretched down to the foot of the hill.

Getting out of the cars, everyone could hear the rush of water beneath their feet. At the foot of the cliff flowed the Nu River, marking the border between Mang City and Myanmar. The river left China at Manxin Creek, descending sharply in altitude before veering north into Myanmar.

It was now afternoon. The sun blazed from a sapphire sky. The Saluo people would say, “The sun is roasting us.” But as soon as a cloud drifted by or one stood beneath a tree, a chill would descend.

The tropical monsoon swept through, the forests howling in concert with the roar of the river, like two giant orchestras performing together. The valley became a natural concert hall, echoing with grand, lingering reverberations.

Two young men, their hands tied with rope, were pushed out of the jeeps. Their faces were ashen, their bodies emaciated, their faces swollen like pig heads, walking as if treading on clouds. Covered in bruises, dressed only in underwear, they were barely able to stumble along, evidence of inhuman torment.

Anyone familiar with the borderlands could tell at a glance: these two were “junkies”—the local term for drug addicts.

Yan Nuo and six drug lords from various parts of the province stepped out of the Mercedes. Yan Nuo wore a light yellow linen shirt and black lantern pants, striding straight to the grass. The other drug lords gathered around him. From the front passenger seats of the jeeps got out his two deputies: the strategist Dao Laobo and the security chief Ru Aya.

By the time Ru Aya got out, the motorcyclists had already stopped their engines. At his wave, they surged forward, pinning the two addicts to the ground.

The six drug lords all owed their positions to Yan Nuo; each controlled a heroin route from Saluo into the interior. Yan Nuo was a pioneer in the border drug trade, with close and irreplaceable relationships based on trust with various traffickers and factions inside Myanmar.

He had long established a drug transport network from northeast Myanmar to Deze, acting as the sole agent for Myanmar’s heroin sales in mainland China.

Throughout the 1980s, the drug trade in the southwest was chaotic. Yan Nuo, wielding his exclusive supply, selected the most capable and intelligent traffickers from among the local powers, supporting them as they fought for territory, even resorting to physical elimination of rivals.

Once obstacles were removed, Yan Nuo further delineated each drug lord’s territory and distribution channels, defining their spheres of influence. He perfected the sales system to ensure uniform pricing and prevent “cross-selling.”

With clear division of labor, smooth channels, and above all guaranteed transport security, he completely suppressed the southern supply route from Xishuangbanna to the interior. Even heroin from the Golden Triangle would detour through Myanmar and finally enter Yan Nuo’s trafficking route.

The drug lords were utterly dependent on Yan Nuo’s product. His orderly, impartial leadership earned him their heartfelt respect and unquestioning obedience.