Volume One, Chapter Five: The Crisis Approaches

Before his wretched death, Sha Ma Wei’s final show of bravado earned him a rare word of praise from Yan Nuo. At Yan Nuo’s signal, Ru Aya had his men collect Sha Ma’s body, sparing him the fate of rotting in the wilderness.

Li Han, though somewhat disgruntled, had achieved his objective and was not foolish enough to oppose Yan Nuo’s decision—especially not for the sake of a dead man. With that, the six drug lords returned to their small table, awaiting Yan Nuo’s next move.

Yan Nuo picked up his full wine cup, about to speak, when a cheerful tune of the hulusi flute rang out at the most inopportune moment—the local Dai music drifting through the air. Dao Laobo hurriedly pulled out his jangling Ericsson phone from his breast pocket. The strategist flipped it open, listened briefly, and then passed it to Yan Nuo.

In the mountains of Salo, mobile phones were still a novelty. There were few signal towers, and even buying a number cost twenty thousand. It was rare to get a signal in this spot at all.

Yan Nuo’s face grew grave as he listened, clearly something momentous had transpired. The voice on the line crackled in and out, with several rounds of “hello” exchanged before it finally came through clearly: “Flying Squirrel, Flying Squirrel has gone to Mang City. His target is you!”

The chill that ran through Yan Nuo’s body was instant and absolute. For a moment, the seasoned man felt his composure slip, but his veteran poise quickly returned. He replied, “In an hour, I’ll call you back from my landline.”

Yan Nuo’s Han name was Zhang Hanzhang, but everyone at home still called him Yan Nuo—he preferred his Dai name. His daughter was Yu Wener. The strategist Dao Laobo was actually more than ten years younger than Yan Nuo, but had always looked prematurely aged. The Dai called all old men “Laobo,” hence the nickname.

Yan Nuo climbed into the back seat of the Mercedes, which sped away from the plain, leaving Dao Laobo and Ru Aya to dispatch the other drug lords back to the city.

On the drive, Yan Nuo, seated in the spacious rear, could not stop his hands from shaking. He had not felt fear in years. It wasn’t so much Flying Squirrel himself who terrified him—Yan Nuo actually knew little of the man or his methods; had he known more, his fear would have doubled.

The sense of impending doom overwhelmed him because Flying Squirrel came from a department infamous for its secrecy and ruthless efficiency. Though Yan Nuo knew it was an independent unit under the Ministry of State Security, unlike other well-known government branches, this one had no publicly known name, no clear structure, no trace of its administration.

Worst of all, if this man came to kill him, Yan Nuo would have to kill in return to survive. But in doing so, he would only invite the relentless vengeance of an entire system. Then, even his underworld peers would come for his life, if only to lessen the pressure from the authorities.

As the Mercedes entered the town, Yan Nuo caught sight of the gray-walled fortress—his mansion in the city. The car drove straight through the massive gates, past armed bodyguards, and stopped at the entrance to the Japanese-style living quarters.

Relieved, Yan Nuo got out and walked briskly to the inner courtyard and up to the second floor.

Standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows, Yan Nuo surveyed the estate’s security system—nothing escaped his notice. He shouldn’t have trusted the warning, he thought. The windows were double-layered, bulletproof glass; it would take a fighter jet to bring down this house. What could Flying Squirrel possibly do? Besides, the strongmen manning the watchtowers were all ex-mercenaries, and the outer defenses were impenetrable. Every road into the city was sealed by military police.

He sat behind a massive, old-fashioned Italian desk, its dark green leather chair draped with a real tiger skin.

To his left stood a two-meter-high jar of thick glass, inside which was a lifelike python preserved in alcohol—stuffed in alive, writhing in agony, its eyes still filled with the struggle and refusal to die.

To his right, a three-meter-tall taxidermied polar bear, its fur so lifelike it appeared to breathe. In feng shui, the left is the Azure Dragon, the right the White Tiger.

Dao Laobo thought the air-shipped polar bear was even more imposing than the traditional White Tiger.

Yan Nuo picked up the phone and dialed the mobile in Beijing. The capital’s network was far better than Salo’s, the call came through crystal clear; he was sure not a word was missed.

Yan Nuo, feeling wronged and frustrated, asked, “What’s this about? It’s like a dog biting a rat—sending someone with no stake at all.”

The mysterious man on the other end replied, “I don’t get it either. This action defies logic. You haven’t even been charged with any crime. But the mission is set, and Flying Squirrel volunteered without hesitation.”

Yan Nuo sighed, “Didn’t they say Flying Squirrel doesn’t like killing?”

The man hesitated, “We all found it strange, but I heard he killed his first man not long ago. You have experience—do you think killing can become addictive?”

Yan Nuo was speechless at the question. What did that have to do with him? He sighed, “Is there any way to strike back?”

The man knew Yan Nuo’s reputation and hurried to caution, “Don’t get careless! You’re in the open, he’s in the dark. Flying Squirrel is patient, relentless, and never gives up. He’s an intelligence analyst, a master of calculation. I can’t say if you’re doomed, but it’s wise to prepare for the worst.”

Seeing there was no turning back, Yan Nuo pressed for more information. “How do you think he’ll move against me?”

The man was silent for a long time, clearly trying to anticipate Flying Squirrel’s actions. “We know you’re building your house—it must be nearly finished. Your villa is a fortress, heavily guarded. Once you hang up, you’ll surely lay a net around Mang City. Flying Squirrel can’t bring in heavy weapons. If it were me, I’d do anything to lure you out of your castle. You’re an old hand—kidnap your daughter, plant a bomb in your yard, set fire to the perimeter with gasoline—there are endless tricks. Step outside, and he’ll have his chance.”

Yan Nuo agreed, “So if I never leave, strengthen the defenses, does he have any chance?”

Another silence, then: “By my understanding, no. But he can wait. You can’t hide forever, can you?”

Yan Nuo’s confidence seemed to return. “I won’t give him time. This is my home turf. Mang City isn’t large—I’ll have him dug out within twenty-four hours. I have the manpower, and there are police and SWAT teams.”

The man warned, “Don’t count on your SWAT teams. They’re good against street thugs, but our kind play by different rules. To Flying Squirrel, those commandos are as harmless as monks in Bodhi Temple. He’s a master of deception and disguise, but the deadliest thing is, he understands people. His only flaw is being too soft-hearted—by our standards, that is.”

Yan Nuo pressed, “Since you’ve tipped me off, could you at least send me a photo of him? Even just one?”

The man gave a bitter laugh, “Old Nuo, I see him every day, but I really can’t help you.”

Yan Nuo persisted, “Isn’t that a small thing?”

The man replied seriously, “We have countless rules. ‘Never leave a photo under any circumstances’ is one of the strictest.”

But realizing they were now in the same boat, he sighed, “Only the organization can assign someone to take dossier or document photos, even for forged IDs. All documents are kept by the individual—I can’t get one. Tell you what, I’ll sketch his face and fax it, though my drawing skills are poor.”

Yan Nuo knew this was already a huge concession, but his life was at stake. He pressed on, “Can you at least describe any obvious features?”

The man chuckled, “In our line of work, the most obvious feature is having none at all.”

After hanging up, Yan Nuo sipped his aged pu’er tea. Before long, strategist Dao Laobo hurried in.

Yan Nuo asked offhandedly, “Can you guess why Flying Squirrel is coming this time?”

Dao Laobo, evidently already aware, answered without hesitation, “No need to guess. Last time, he took Yu Han. These five years, except for you, every other major player on the border has been taken down by him and his group. He’s here for us—can’t see why we provoked him. Is it revenge for Lone Wolf?”

Yan Nuo waved it off. “Hmph, these people only see the mission. Love, hate—none of it matters to them. Even their own, when one dies, they send another to take his place, driving their agents to their deaths.”

Dao Laobo rubbed his big hands, regretful, “True, when Lone Wolf tried to assassinate you and failed, Ru Aya acted rashly, killing without even questioning his motives.”

“He’s been gone for over half a year, hasn’t he?” Yan Nuo mused. “Last time, it didn’t even take much effort for him to deal with Yu Han. If you hadn’t deliberately leaked Yu Han’s hideout, could he have done it alone? I thought helping him would be a tacit understanding between us.”

Suddenly, a thought struck him. He stared at Dao Laobo. “Strange—how come you never met him after leaking Yu Han’s whereabouts?”

Dao Laobo, unnerved by the look, confessed, “After you allowed me to leak the info, I gave it to him through Lone Wolf. He’s crafty—told me via pager to pick something up at an abandoned well west of the city, left a codebook under a brick. We used that to communicate, and I passed on Yu Han’s location.”

Yan Nuo didn’t really doubt Dao Laobo; it suited Flying Squirrel’s style. “He really doesn’t believe in gratitude.”

Dao Laobo didn’t want to pursue that. Both sides had gained from dealing with Yu Han.

There had never been any verbal agreement; Flying Squirrel could ignore the “favor” if he wished. Even if there was an agreement, with all his shifting identities, who could say which one he was representing this time?

In this business, who hasn’t broken their word? Who can claim never to have eaten their own promises? Dao Laobo smiled wryly, realizing that both he and his boss were overthinking it. They lied daily; their lies rivaled those of provincial or county officials.

Even with a leader he followed with absolute loyalty, he often had to play tricks. Lying was their daily bread, a necessary skill for survival. Still, every trade had its unspoken rules; to survive, trust and loyalty among allies and partners had to be maintained.

Now, neither Yan Nuo nor Dao Laobo wasted thought on why Flying Squirrel had returned. He was here, that much was certain, and he was coming for Yan Nuo—for his ruin, if not his life. Who sent him, or at whose request, hardly mattered anymore. As the top drug lord on the Yunnan-Myanmar border, Yan Nuo had too many enemies, and even more “friends and partners” eager to see him destroyed.

All that mattered now was to gauge the coming blow, and plan how to defend against it.

Yan Nuo had always believed that fearlessness was not the same as recklessness, but came from seeing things as they truly were. Conversely, fear sprang from ignorance of what one faced.

What terrified them most now was that, though they’d heard of this man operating on both sides of the Deze-Myanmar border, they’d never crossed paths. He was so well hidden that no one in the organization had ever met him. Yan Nuo bitterly regretted his own arrogance.

A sense of impending disaster washed over him.