Volume One, Chapter Fifty-Two: Warmth and Ruthlessness

Of course, fear and sorrow—those emotions unique to humankind—had long since ceased to have anything to do with this woman. She was destined to become a rigid skeleton, dried to the point where not even the stench of death could linger.

Perhaps, he thought, she was not yet dead, and already the flies had begun to lay their eggs, festering in those pus-filled pinpricks. The thought sent a chill running down his spine.

At the woman’s feet sat a bamboo basket, inside which lay a red cloth baby sling. He approached the bed, waving his arms to drive away the dense swarm of flies crawling over the baby’s body.

At last, he picked up the baby, who remained motionless.

He confirmed that the woman was Lone Wolf’s woman, and that the baby was Lone Wolf’s son. He was slightly surprised that even in the throes of death, the mother had still thought to feed her child.

Two hours later, he made a phone call to the priest at the church, gave him the address, and said, “Father, take her away by force if you must. She’s nothing more than a walking corpse now.”

Like all rural Chinese women, he used the red sling to secure the baby to his back and, wary and alert, made his way downstairs. In the stairwell, the two junkies were already gone without a trace.

He laid the baby flat on the passenger seat, strapped him in with both the sling and the seatbelt, then scrambled into the driver’s seat, floored the accelerator, and fled in haste from this ruin abandoned by man and god alike.

An hour later, he circled the city of Yadu in his car, confirming several small roads leading out of town. Then, he drove to a small inn on the edge of the city, got out alone, and went in to register. He requested room 308, at the end of the corridor on the third floor. Then he returned to the car and carried the child up to the room.

He scrutinized the room, searching for a place to hide the child. The foam ceiling tiles above seemed just the spot. He remembered seeing an empty washing machine box in the corridor; he went out, brought in the flattened cardboard, stomped it into a square, and set up a chair to test the spot.

If he left the baby on the bed, a single cry would give away his location. He pulled from his pocket a bottle of “Wild Hops” sleeping pills he’d just bought at a small pharmacy—an herbal sedative made locally in Salo. He crushed a tablet and mixed it into the baby’s bottle. The cheap plastic bottle had cost a single yuan at a night market stall. He tore open a bag of “Golden Deer” formula bought from a corner store, scooped out three spoonfuls, poured them in, filled the bottle with tap water from a public restroom, screwed on the nipple, and shook it vigorously.

Before the milk was finished, the baby, bottle still in its mouth, had already fallen asleep. He climbed onto the chair and lifted the child onto the cardboard above. At least this way, the risk of the imminent gunfight harming the baby was reduced.

He was surprised to find a peephole in the door.

He guessed that the inn had once been a forestry or farm guesthouse, meant for traveling businesspeople. The forest industry had declined, the young and able-bodied laid off, and the guesthouse leased privately; the rental income now went to pay the workers’ pensions.

The local security was so poor that the peephole had been preserved.

There were still no other guests on the second floor. He went to the stairwell, turned off the corridor light, then pried open the switch panel and disconnected the wires, so the switch would no longer control the corridor bulb.

Suddenly, he realized the action was pointless—after the lesson at the Maohan Inn, any pursuers would not dare turn on the light. To save electricity, the switch had been fitted with a diode and sound-sensitive resistor, which actually worked to his advantage. He put the switch back as it was.

Returning to his room, he picked up two plastic thermoses, shook them, and confirmed they were full. He placed one at the intersection of the corridor and stairs, a common spot for hotel staff to leave hot water—but for him, it was a trap.

He stood at his doorway and surveyed the narrow corridor. It reminded him of the canyons often used in ambushes—excellent terrain, where one man could hold off a hundred.

From his old duffel, he took the tracksuit he’d changed out of earlier, shed the suit and tossed it in the corner, and put on the tracksuit. A gunfight was inevitable, but he didn’t worry about losing.

He had enough weapons and ammunition, and he had already crafted an illusion for his enemies to underestimate him.

Finally, he carefully reassembled the Remington to its original state.

The humid heat of the tropics clung to him after running about all day, and he longed for a shower—even a cold one. The showers and toilets were communal, at the end of the corridor, but he gave up the luxury. He couldn’t leave the ever-fretful baby alone, and the sound of running water was another problem; he needed to hear every noise in the hall, never knowing when uninvited guests might arrive.

They would come for him in Yadu, he was sure, and they would find this place.

He had been forced to reveal himself and to seek help from the local police, just to catch his breath—but in doing so, he had inevitably exposed his position.

He did not trust Lu Lin—not a single word. When one lives day and night among lies, trust becomes not just unattainable, but unimaginable.

There was one matter, important though it was, that he did not wish to probe too deeply: He was certain that Yan Nuo’s successor would send someone formidable to kill him—the ambush in the cabin had proved as much. But why? Was it for revenge? Was it to silence him?

Neither explanation made sense.

It is a cardinal rule among drug traffickers never to let personal vendettas override profit. Killing for revenge alone makes partners and rivals question whether the killer is rational; impulsive violence is despised. Wanton killing is the act of the barbaric; shrewd, sensible businessmen do not kill for reasons unrelated to business. Unless it is for turf wars, eliminating obstacles, or silencing informants and traitors—matters of profit—such killings are not tolerated. Even murder among rivals is less acceptable, as homicide brings down the full weight of law enforcement in a way that drug trafficking does not.

If it was to silence him, perhaps that was plausible.

Silencing is meant to bury secrets with the dead. But all Musang had done was kill Yan Nuo—he knew next to nothing about the drug business. The assassination was already an open secret, no need to cover it up.

If anything, the new heir should want to understand Musang’s motive for killing Yan Nuo, and would have even more reason to keep him alive.

But whatever the reason, the pursuers now needed to know his whereabouts—and that was the most vital secret.

He had already given it away.

Whatever was going to happen would happen soon enough. Musang had only one concern left: how to survive tonight.

He stripped off his shirt, half-naked, and dragged the stainless steel chair over to the window. He lit a local cigar bought from a street vendor, propped his feet up on the sill, watched the afterglow of sunset, cracked open a bottle of beer, and took a long swig.

When night had fallen completely, a cool breeze swept through, making him shiver. He felt loneliness and grief; a belated pain began to gnaw at his heart.

Those three days of harrowing survival in the jungle had left no time to grieve for Ame’s death, but now that all-consuming ache rose in him like a slow tide, spreading through his body.

Death is indeed a terrifying thing, but for one who has witnessed it with their own eyes, the fear loses its edge. And if, by chance or misfortune, one has witnessed it many times, numbness sets in as familiarity breeds indifference.

Unless, of course, it is someone you have loved.