Volume One, Chapter Fifty-Three: Awaiting Death

The flying squirrel had witnessed death many times; he knew that for humans, immortality was nothing but a myth. Only animals could attain eternal life, for they had no concept of what death meant.

He understood all too well that staying behind meant facing formidable enemies lurking in every corner. Aside from confirming the existence of the traitor, he eagerly awaited the moment when he could unleash carnage.

He cared little about who would come or how many; as long as he had enough bullets, he was ready. His training had been strict—focused on how to kill efficiently and elegantly.

For the sake of Ame, he would kill as many as he could, not only to vent his own anger but to declare his hatred to his foes. The rainy night ambush in the cabin was history now, yet Ame’s death would forever remain an indelible wound in his heart.

He was no longer the frail, bookish scholar incapable of harming a fly. Killing for revenge might not ease his pain, but it would at least lessen his guilt.

He glanced at his watch—there was still time. He decided to grant himself half an hour for mourning.

Ame’s delicate smile began to surface from his memory, and he realized that in his recollection, she always wore that slightly sorrowful grin. She was a girl from a minority tribe, with only a primary school education, and her Mandarin was halting; deep conversation with her was impossible.

Yet because of this, their feelings were all the purer and more beautiful.

He tilted his head back and emptied the bottle of beer, burping twice as his stomach spasmed. Tears streamed uncontrollably from his eyes. At this moment, perhaps no one could be so consumed by the taste of their own heartache.

As the half hour neared its end, he forced himself to rein in his pain, feeling his stomach’s convulsions subside, as if it had been encased in ice. He had to bury his emotions and grief within his memory.

In his line of work, some things must never be forgotten, others must be quickly erased.

This time was different. The enemy had escalated matters, and Ame’s death broke the line he’d vowed never to cross—the one that forbade harming women and innocents.

If his superiors knew what he was about to do, they would surely chastise him for letting personal feelings alter the nature of the mission and increase its risk.

He knew that hatred now ruled him, but this emotion helped him stamp out the last vestiges of softness and pity he might feel for his adversaries. He was grateful for the fire of vengeance burning in his heart.

Had Ame not died, he wouldn’t be sitting here now. This was not waiting for death. Tonight, he would show no mercy, letting bullets pour forth his wrath.

He hated the traitor most of all. He didn’t care if he projected his anger onto others—it was the traitor who had caused Ame’s tragic demise. He was determined to draw him out.

He found it absurd, even a little disheartening—he had become someone who hated evil with a passion. He never aspired to be a hero, but Ame’s death might well propel him to deeds worthy of a warrior. What he did not know was that his actions would earn him a reputation that deterred anyone from daring to cross him for the rest of his life.

He remained seated, watching the sun sink behind the mountain shrouded in mist. The wine-red glow of night enveloped the small town, while dim streetlights and the feeble illumination of the night market cast a tired light on streets built centuries ago.

The flying squirrel descended the stairs, carefully considering every detail—his habit.

The night market opened on the hour. Industrious vendors began assembling their temporary stalls with bamboo poles, rough planks, and blue and white nylon tarps. Women hurried to shaded corners to nurse crying infants, then returned to the lights to tuck away their earnings in their belly wraps.

Beyond clothing and everyday goods, there were also simple food stalls.

Bricks of compressed Pu’er tea, brown sugar, fragrant Tianqi root, castor seeds, black poppy cakes the size of soybeans, and grayish-yellow hemp seeds the size of sesame. One kind, curled up like a worm, was dendrobium.

He wandered the market for nearly an hour, first spending eight yuan on a small string of red and green flashing holiday lights, then buying a packet of white sugar cubes.

He checked his watch; the decisive moment was still far off—no need to neglect his palate. At the grill run by the Wing tribe, he ordered four skewers of lamb, two of gizzard, two of moist, chilled squid, a serving of grilled eggplant, and two skewers of chives. He specified no chili, only cumin, and that the squid should be cooked to about seventy percent.

The young woman from the Wing tribe told him to wait a moment. He paid in advance. “Add six bottles of 'Lancang River' beer. I’ll pick up the package later.”

At the police station’s reception, Old Ke dozed under a dim incandescent bulb. He was an old policeman, but had spent his entire career in the traffic department of the Yadu station. Holding a red and white baton, he swung it with practiced ease, sometimes looking more like a symphony conductor.

Now retired, with a pension, but his son preferred working at the rubber plantation rather than following in his father’s footsteps. The city had only two traffic islands; his son didn’t want his in-laws to see him standing on one every day, like a madman.

Besides his pension of two hundred and twenty yuan, he could earn another one hundred and eighty by working night shifts at his old post—a decent income for Yadu.

After seven, rain began to fall and temperatures dropped sharply. He covered his head with a military coat, until he heard an impatient car horn.

He threw back the coat, yawning as he looked out the window. A Santana with headlights blazing was waiting to enter. The rain was so dense he couldn’t see the driver, but the repeated horn blasts revealed a rough temperament. Old Ke recognized it as Director Lu’s Santana. He dashed out into the rain from the reception, pushed down the end of the gate bar weighed with iron, and the Santana slipped silently past the security post.

The flying squirrel shifted the car into second gear, his right foot off the accelerator. The vehicle idled to a stop beside six white police sedans. He killed the engine; at this hour, the two-story police station was almost completely dark.

He had observed the vehicles here during the day and was certain the Yadu city bureau had only six police cars. Now, with all cars present, he grabbed the packet of sugar cubes, walked to the nearest car, opened the left fuel cap, and tossed in a dozen cubes.

The sugar would dissolve in the gasoline. When the car was started, the sugar would enter the carburetor and fuel line, forming hard lumps under the heat of the engine.

He repeated the process for each police car. Six engines would be ruined; all vehicles destroyed.

He drove the Santana past the reception again; the gate bar still stood high, and Old Ke didn’t even look up.

He checked his watch—it was exactly eight o’clock. He needed to call the pager station and leave a message.

After the call, the flying squirrel picked up his barbecue, cigarette in mouth, and returned to the hotel. The receptionist was already asleep, slumped over the desk. He quietly opened the guest register; the rooms opposite his falsified booking were all empty.

It was past nine—no new guests would arrive. Clearly, business at this hotel was dire.

On the shabby front desk sat a small cardboard box filled with paper clips. He gently pocketed two.

Back upstairs, he stopped at the door of room 308. He pressed his right eye to the peephole of room 307 across the hall—pitch black, clearly unoccupied.

He took out the paper clips, knelt on one knee, bent one, straightened the other, and inserted them into the keyhole. In under a minute, he opened the door.

Returning to 308, he used his key to unlock the door, hung the string of lights on the handle, and switched them on—a bulky size D battery powered the twinkling colors.

As he entered, he heard a child’s whimper. He squatted, tore open some gauze from the pharmacy, fashioned a diaper with packing tape, lifted the child down, fitted the makeshift diaper to the infant’s bottom, then placed the burden back above the ceiling. Turning, he closed the door behind him.