Volume One, Chapter Fifty-Four: The Gunfight

The flying squirrel sat on the windowsill littered with the corpses of flies, savoring the fragrant barbecue, gazing down at the dim yet bustling night market below. Downstairs, an asbestos-roofed bicycle shed stood beneath the glow of neon. Vendors shouted their wares at the top of their lungs, the radio blared songs in every dialect, and the loudspeakers of trucks never ceased their din.

Twice, amid the cacophony, he caught the distant chimes of the cathedral’s bell ringing from the heart of the city.

Yet there was one sound he found utterly intolerable. He wished he could descend and thrash those motorcycle riders, who tore through the night on unlicensed vehicles, smuggled or stolen from across the border. Their left hands gently squeezed the brakes, while their right wrists twisted the throttle to its limit—500cc engines roaring, mechanical beasts rampaging through the darkness as if challenging the world itself. The deafening noise startled frail old men into heart attacks, frightened young women pale, and jolted crying infants from the backs and arms of passing pedestrians. The narrow street echoed with shrieks and the riders’ arrogant, wild laughter.

Cowards! The flying squirrel despised such thugs: outwardly fierce, yet inwardly weak, only brave enough to bully the defenseless.

He firmly believed his true adversary would not fail to appear. He needed to maintain his strength and focus. After finishing his barbecue, he set down the bottle, took off his suit, and donned a bright yellow tracksuit. He felt as though he had donned a warrior’s mantle, slipping fully into the role of a fighter.

He had made up his mind: he could not die. Even if he possessed the courage to face death, he had no right to gamble with it. His family needed him; his young son needed him.

He moved to the bedside, poured several packs of bullets into his satchel, rolled up his suit and tucked it inside, then slung the bag across his shoulder. He checked the magazines of each gun, ensuring they were fully loaded, and laid three firearms by his pillow.

He took another swig of liquor. In the night’s glow, the gun barrels shimmered with a ghostly blue.

He lay down on the single bed, which reeked of sweat, forcing himself to remain awake despite his heavy eyelids.

Even half-conscious, he dreamed. In the dream, his plump son appeared first; he scooped him up and began running through the darkness, ahead lay deeper shadows threatening to engulf him. His wife, also running silently beside him, her pale face growing ever more indistinct. In the end, they were no longer running—they were swallowed by darkness, absorbed and consumed, becoming a part of it.

He woke drenched in sweat, soaking the sheets.

The flying squirrel was jolted from his nightmare by a noise. Glancing at the glowing green Tudor watch on his wrist, he saw it was 3:10 a.m.

A muffled but distinct crash echoed from the corridor—the thermos placed in the hallway had tipped over, its liner shattering with a heavy thud, followed by the crisp clatter of fragments hitting the floor.

The intruder evidently did not grasp the significance of this sound to the flying squirrel.

In the faint light filtering through the window, he quietly rolled out of bed, picked up Luo Lin’s pistol, disengaged the safety marked by a red dot, thumbed back the hammer—six bullets in the magazine.

His original plan was to fire these six shots rhythmically, allowing the intruders to count them clearly, then trick them into thinking he was out of ammo.

In truth, this little trick was completely unnecessary—no one would count bullets amidst the chaos of gunfire, except himself.

The imitation pistol, loaded with fourteen rounds, was tucked into his belt, while the Remington, already loaded, lay quietly on the floor by the door.

He crouched low and crept toward the door, ears keen for any sound outside.

The flying squirrel knew there were many gunmen on the border far more skilled and experienced than himself. In such a narrow corridor, a shift of the muzzle by less than a centimeter could result in a perfect burst.

He was on the defensive, and the enemy’s tactical intentions were difficult to predict. He hated being forced to defend.

Footsteps shuffled noisily, and he held his breath, head down, listening and counting—about twenty people. He found it odd; the passage was so narrow that only two average-sized people could brush past each other. Thus, the killers must have packed the corridor.

He soon realized they were likely jungle warfare mercenaries, with no experience in this kind of urban ambush, more akin to alley fighting.

Moreover, according to what they had learned from Luo Lin, the flying squirrel was believed to possess only one pistol with six rounds.

Though the intruders spoke in low voices, he could still vaguely make out snippets of conversation in Kachin.

“Is the intel reliable? Why would he stay here? Isn’t this a dead end?”

“No mistake, but I don’t get it either.”

They had evidently obtained keys from the front desk, each tagged with white tape labeled with room numbers. The flying squirrel understood that his carefully planned defense needed an immediate overhaul.

As expected, the corridor’s voice-activated light flickered on. Through the peephole, he saw four armed men jammed into the hallway. The peephole distorted the view somewhat, but their cold, tense postures were unmistakably those of trained killers.

Others pressed close beyond his field of vision, but he could not see them.

The man about to use the key couldn’t resist peering through the peephole. He was surprised to see the interior lighting shifting between red and green—colored lights the flying squirrel had hung on the peephole. Suspicious, he glanced back at his companions, and another squeezed forward to peer in.

Just then, a creaking sound signaled a door opening behind them. Before they could turn, flames and thunder erupted—the flying squirrel fired four bullets from the darkened room, striking each of the four men in the head and dropping them instantly.

Gunfire erupted in the corridor without restraint, bullets sparking against the hollow cement wall, the wooden door splintering under the barrage, filling the air with the scent of burning wood.

A dozen sharp splinters struck his face, piercing the flesh and leaving thin streams of blood. “Damn it, now my face is ruined,” the flying squirrel muttered angrily.

A burst from a micro submachine gun shredded the door hinge, leaving the frame in ruins; the door tottered, then was smashed open by a rifle butt.

The first man through had no time to assess the room’s layout—his forehead met the flying squirrel’s pistol, and a bullet dropped him instantly. The next man’s upper body had just slipped inside when his head was struck by a bullet, evidently fired by his own comrade—brain matter splashed onto the flying squirrel’s face, scalding like boiling water.

As the first brave and unlucky man fell, the flying squirrel knew the inevitable slaughter had truly begun. He kicked the door aside, grabbed the Remington, and stood sideways at the entrance, firing into the mass of attackers flooding the corridor.

Each shotgun shell contained eight lead pellets. At such close range, even a single pellet was lethal. The attackers, relying on numbers, now became easy targets—he needed no aim to kill. He paced his shots, darting back into the room after each one—not to dodge return fire, but to wait for the foremost attackers to fall. When he emerged again, he would hit two more.

After five shots, he discarded the Remington. The enemy’s assault faltered. The flickering corridor light revealed eight or nine bodies strewn across the floor. Some, though wounded, still posed a threat. He leaned out, single-handed, muzzle down, finishing off two struggling men at the doorway.

With six rounds spent, he tossed Luo Lin’s pistol aside and drew the “Red Star” 54 from his waistband, striding boldly into the corridor. The bulb had been shattered by gunfire; darkness enveloped the hallway. Those hiding in the stairwell, believing he was out of ammunition, began firing and charging in. The darkness favored him—left hand gripping the Red Star, right hand the Black Star TT, he needed no aim; whenever muzzle flashes flared in the gloom, he returned fire.

In such night combat, the outnumbered defender held the advantage. The corridor’s narrowness made it easy to defend, hard to attack, neutralizing the attackers’ numerical superiority. In the darkness, they dared not rush en masse—he could calmly reload, even after expending five magazines.

Still, killers surged up the stairwell. The enemy had not underestimated him, nor had he expected so many assassins to surround him.

The flying squirrel’s satchel still held plenty of bullets, but the enemy’s fire grew so intense that he had no time to reload. Survival now demanded escape.

He dashed into Room 308, leaped onto the wooden tea table, swept aside the foam board, and yanked the baby, strapped to a cardboard sheet, free. Throughout the gunfight, not a single bullet had entered this room. As someone nearly reached the doorway, bullets streaked with fire struck the hard wall, sending sparks flying.

Cradling the infant tightly in his left arm, the flying squirrel slipped sideways, charging toward the open window—then vaulted down to the bicycle shed below.