Volume One, Chapter Forty-Four: Illusion

Director Lu remained silent, crouched down, and opened a drawer beneath the tatami, also made of white birch veneer. The Dormouse’s eyes lit up.

It was a large drawer, one meter twenty wide, one meter fifty long, with several compartments of different sizes. Inside, neatly arranged, were a Remington, a Red Star 54, nine 64 handguns, and a small-caliber sniper rifle disassembled into parts.

Each gun’s magazine lay quietly to its right, together with plain white boxes—unmarked. From experience, the Dormouse knew each box held the corresponding ammunition.

“Director Lu, are you building your own private army?” His gaze swept over the ammunition boxes. “With this, you could kill hundreds.”

Lu Lin replied coldly, “If the devil grows an inch taller, the righteous must grow a whole foot.”

The Dormouse selected only a Red Star 54. When he reached for the bullets, he paused for a moment, hesitating. Lu Lin, feigning nonchalance, lit a cigarette, but his eyes were fixed on the Dormouse’s hands.

In the end, he didn’t take the whole box. He opened the white paper lid, pulled out six rounds, loaded them clumsily into the magazine, and slotted the magazine into the gun’s grip.

Just as he was about to tuck the gun into the new handbag Julie had bought him, Lu Lin snatched it away and flicked on the safety, snapping, “Do you even know how to use this? Don’t you know it might discharge by accident?”

The Dormouse smiled. “Thanks.”

“I’ve also got some powder,” the director stood up. “Want any?”

The Dormouse was deeply offended at being mistaken for an addict. He sighed, sat down on the tatami, took a drag, and said, “Director Lu, I know—it’s not easy for any of us to scrape by on the border. Men, after all, having three or four wives is normal, running a business or being a petty official making dirty money, it’s all to support a family. That’s just life. You deal with all sorts of people, so it’s inevitable to pick up some of their bad habits. But you shouldn’t let yourself become one of them.”

He exhaled a puff of smoke right into the director’s face and continued, “You’re the boss now, my partner in crime. But let me tell you, I don’t buy this claim that drugs aren’t addictive. I can’t even quit cigarettes—how could I not get hooked on marijuana, let alone heroin? I’m not ready to die just yet.”

The Dormouse clapped a hand on the director’s shoulder, pulled him close, his breath reeking of alcohol as he whispered into his ear, “Director Lu, if you ever get me hooked on drugs, I’ll wipe out your whole family.”

Lu Lin looked at the Dormouse in confusion, unable to fathom his way of thinking. “Just say it plainly—what kind of protection do you need?”

The Dormouse released his hold and laughed. “I don’t need your protection. If the local police were any good at protecting people, I wouldn’t have made such a fuss these past few days. What, are you planning to station a few plainclothes officers outside the Golden Shield Hotel to keep an eye on me?”

Lu Lin had no idea what kind of “fuss” he was referring to, but cursed inwardly. This kid had seen right through him—no wonder he was acting so brazen.

The Dormouse looked around the room, speaking carelessly, “Have them pose as motorcycle taxi drivers. If gunfire breaks out in the hotel, tell them to rush up to every floor and keep the guests from poking their noses out. Minimize casualties. Also, I already took your Santana’s keys—the car’s borrowed.”

Lu Lin hurriedly checked his keyring at his belt. It was still there, except for the car key that had hung from a hook.

Feigning politeness, the Dormouse said, “Director Lu, can you lend me twenty thousand in cash?”

Lu Lin stared at him coldly for a long moment, then unlocked a narrow fifty-centimeter cabinet beside the gun safe. He crouched down, blocking the Dormouse’s view, and pulled out two bundles from the twenty stacks of hundred-yuan bills inside.

Before he could take the cash, the Dormouse eyed Lu Lin’s suit. “Give me that suit too. And the watch.”

Lu Lin’s temper flared. “The suit, fine, but this watch is a Tudor!”

The Dormouse mocked him. “So you’ve been to Hong Kong, then.”

At that time, there were no official stores for that brand on the mainland.

Switching back to fake politeness, the Dormouse said, “Used a false identity, right? That means you must have more than one luxury watch—one for each mistress, probably. Don’t be so stingy, just give it to me.”

He made one last sweep of Lu Lin’s “bedroom,” picked out an old military canvas satchel, stuffed the gun-laden handbag inside, then noticed a long black bag on the floor. “Is there a camera tripod in here?”

Without waiting for an answer, he unzipped the bag, took out the tripod and set it on the floor, then folded the bag and stuffed it into the satchel, along with the cash bundles. He returned to the office, stripped off his tracksuit and changed into Lu Lin’s suit, rolling up the tracksuit and jamming it into the bag.

At the door, the Dormouse turned and added, “Tell your men not to meddle. With their skills, they don’t stand a chance—just tell them to mind their own lives.”

Outside, down in the alley just a wall away from the Public Security Bureau, a few Hui men squatted on the ground, smoking and playing cards. Without exception, they all wore blue khaki Mao suits and sported uneven beards, their eyes sharp and alert.

The Dormouse approached; besides the scent of mutton fat that hung in the alley, he caught the odor of fear and death.

When he paused at the alley’s entrance, the Hui men stopped playing, eyeing him warily.

At a glance, the Dormouse didn’t look like a professional.

Yadu City wasn’t big. In those days, anyone in a suit was likely a pot-bellied local official or a businessman. But the Dormouse was gaunt, his skin dark as charcoal. He didn’t look like an addict either—his back was straight and there was a deadly glint in his eyes that sent chills down the spine.

He looked more like a “water duck”—the local slang for a small-time street dealer.

They sized each other up for a moment before the Dormouse strode over. The Hui men didn’t run; they simply stood up slowly, eyes fixed on him.

“I’m here to buy,” the Dormouse flicked away his cigarette butt, coughed, and spat out a glob of yellow phlegm. In truth, he was covering up a trace of inner tension and the slight tremor in his voice.

“You’re from Weishan, aren’t you?” When no one replied, he kept talking. Weishan was an autonomous county for the Yi and Hui minorities south of Lanzhao in the neighboring province.

Upon hearing this, the oldest Hui man realized the Dormouse was a genuine buyer. He coughed, cleared his throat, and asked in rough Mandarin, “What kind of goods do you want?”

“I want the kind you bring in from Hualong,” the Dormouse said seriously. “The real stuff. I need to test the guns up in the mountains—the barrel quality has to be there, and the rifling too.” His insistence made it clear he knew exactly what he was buying.