Volume One, Chapter Forty-Five: Purchasing Weapons

In 1991, several state-owned machinery factories in Qinghai closed down, leaving their parts and materials idle. Some, desperate to escape poverty, risked everything to manufacture illegal firearms. The quality of these imitation guns, when well made, rivaled genuine firearms, though there were also shoddy, inferior products.

The most challenging aspect of making imitation guns was the barrel, which needed to withstand immense heat—a feat not achievable by simply setting up a blast furnace in a backyard. Most barrels were sourced from elsewhere, crafted from specialized materials. Inferior materials and workmanship could diminish a gun's accuracy and lethality, even risking catastrophic barrel failure.

With the barrel problem solved, the existing lathes and milling machines in the factories could be used to fashion various molds and small-scale production lines.

In Qinghai, “Hualong-made” was synonymous with high-quality black-market firearms. Legend had it that the gun-making techniques originated from the former followers of “King of Qinghai” Ma Bufang. Most people knew Hualong for its beef noodles, but Muskrat was aware that, in the underworld, Hualong guns enjoyed a formidable reputation.

Weishan was a county densely populated by Muslims, with over twenty thousand Hui people. Sharing the same faith, it was only natural for Weishan residents to procure black-market firearms from Hualong, taking advantage of their proximity. Yadu, as a major border trade town, was a melting pot where the black market thrived. Weishan people easily dominated the firearm market.

In the Dezhe region, finding such sellers was impossible. Apart from Han people, Dezhe was mainly inhabited by Buddhist Tai and Ang minorities, leaving no foothold for Islam. The Hui people couldn’t even enter, let alone do business.

The elder waved his hand, and several Hui men picked up their cards and walked to the alley’s entrance—they were clearly posted as lookouts. From the opposite end, an eleven- or twelve-year-old boy approached. Muskrat, having seen child soldiers in Burma, instinctively pressed his satchel with his right hand.

The boy seemed mature beyond his years, lifting his head and speaking in standard Mandarin: “The Imam wants to know if you’re buying in bulk.”

Muskrat was stunned; he hadn’t expected the leader of this arms-dealing group to be a “lay Imam.” He was momentarily at a loss, unsure what kind of greeting was appropriate.

The Imam studied him for a while, then suddenly spoke in Mandarin: “Young man, let me tell you something. Our Hui people say, ‘The closer a believer walks toward the truth, the closer he is to the devil.’ I’m an old man now, and it’s clear you’re not a bad person, but you’re about to seek out the devil. Go ahead, it’s a path you’ve chosen yourself. Go and send the wicked into the fire pit, exercising the power of punishment on behalf of God—you will surely enter the paradise of the Lord for your good deeds.”

Muskrat bit his lower lip, pondering the words carefully.

Following the Imam’s arrangement, the boy led Muskrat to inspect the goods. They walked for half an hour, arriving at a wilderness. Amid wild reeds, several broken asbestos sheets lay scattered across the grass. The boy lifted one, revealing a dry well before Muskrat. The well wasn’t deep; the boy, nimble and slender, gripped the edge, slid down the wall, and vanished in seconds. Muskrat grabbed the rim, uncertain of its depth, let go, and dropped straight to the bottom.

To his right, beneath the well, was a space of nearly two hundred square meters, resembling a war-time bomb shelter, three and a half meters high, lit by two basketball court lights. Twenty camp beds lay neatly on the floor, each topped with a green military quilt folded into precise cubes—it was clear the gang leader had served in the army. Muskrat was struck by the realization that drug trafficking had spawned such an arms industry.

That morning in the police bureau office, Muskrat had deliberately asked Lu Lin for a gun, hesitated, and then only took six bullets. He created the impression that he was a civilian employee, unfamiliar with firearms, as the pistol he took was a Type 54 with an eight-round magazine. If Lu Lin tipped off the enemy, they’d assume Muskrat would burst out after firing six shots.

The boy pulled open a door, revealing a dim tunnel—it was indeed an abandoned bomb shelter.

“Red Star Type 54, eight hundred each, comes with thirty rounds.” The boy ducked into the tunnel, soon reappearing with a gun sealed in a vacuum plastic bag, lighting a cigarette with a swagger.

Muskrat glanced at it but didn’t take the gun. He asked, “I like the Type 54, but is there a Norinco version?”

The boy looked at him in surprise, then tucked the Type 54 into his waistband, asking, “The Norinco version has a fourteen-round magazine, right? There’s only one, it’s twenty-two hundred. Bullets are extra.”

Muskrat nodded, indicating no problem.

The boy again slipped into the tunnel, returning with a military satchel. Muskrat accepted it, opened it, and examined the gun in his right hand. The body was identical to the original, but lacked the five-pointed star emblem—deliberately so, to avoid leaving any trace of the maker, and to prevent it from being mistaken for the real thing.

“Two yuan per round, how many do you want?” The boy resumed his pitch. “Test rounds are free.”

Muskrat spread his thumb and forefinger, then felt the barrel—it was over twenty centimeters, and the weight was nearly identical to the original. Clearly, the counterfeiters were meticulous.

This gun was produced for export.

The original had been modified for the North American market, replacing the military 7.62×25mm Tokarev barrel with the more popular 9×19mm Parabellum. Unexpectedly, even this replica followed the new specifications.

He picked up a cartridge—it turned out to be a counterfeit Tokarev round.

“I want three hundred rounds.” Muskrat saw the boy’s shocked expression; after all, three hundred bullets could kill fifty or sixty people. But Muskrat ignored him, loaded a magazine, and added, “And five more magazines.”

The boy giggled, “Do you think you’re Little Brother Mark? Then you’ll need two guns.” Seeing Muskrat’s cold stare, he grew uneasy, but stubbornly maintained his tough demeanor, saying, “I saw ‘A Better Tomorrow’ in the video hall.”

Muskrat carefully inspected the rifling. “Then could you get me two white doves as well?” In every John Woo film, white doves take wing in the midst of fierce gun battles.

Joking aside, the boy’s words reminded Muskrat. He asked, “But I really do need two guns. Are there any other models that use these bullets? Like the TT?”

“You mean the Black Star?” The boy climbed the wall again, retrieving another military satchel.

Muskrat checked the gun; he wouldn’t use it unless absolutely necessary.

“No need to test it,” Muskrat said blandly, pulling out a black cloth pouch meant for a camera tripod. “I also want a Remington and a box of shells. Take the gun apart, put it in this pouch—I’ll assemble it myself later.”

“Remington isn’t a copy, it’s the real deal,” the boy said, showing a shrewd expression. “Eight thousand.”

Muskrat took out a stack of bills from his old canvas satchel.

The boy struggled past the pile of junk against the wall, opened another door. Muskrat instinctively gripped his pistol, uncertain how many traps lay ahead. The boy returned, laboriously carrying the Remington.

Muskrat lifted it with one hand: a genuine Model 870 pump-action shotgun, with a walnut stock and fore-end, chambered for sixteen-gauge shot. The blue plastic shells held eight lead pellets each. The barrel was ten inches long—the shortest available for this model. Muskrat hefted it, very satisfied.

The boy asked if he wanted the stock shortened further. Muskrat smiled contentedly, shaking his head. “No need.”