Volume One, Chapter Fifty-Five: The Escape

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In the darkness, the cool air rushed against his face, snapping the Flying Squirrel instantly awake. First came the chaotic sound of shattered asbestos roofing, then his left foot hit the ground, and in the lull between gunshots, he could hear the crack of his leg bone breaking.

The gunfight, a desperate battle of a few against many, lasted less than two minutes. Hundreds of rounds were fired from both sides.

Years later, what the Flying Squirrel remembered most about this wild melee was not the gunfire, but the acrid stench of gunpowder—the most choking he had ever inhaled. The smoke, thick and suffocating in the enclosed corridor, made his eyes blur with tears as both sides coughed violently while exchanging bullets.

He always claimed his leg was injured because, when leaping out of the window, he was too busy gulping for air.

When he landed, cradling the child in his right arm, he was fortunate that the shed below was packed with bicycles. He felt splinters of bone shatter in his left calf—not too serious, but painful enough to make him grimace. He had toppled an entire row of bicycles, but managed to steady himself, shielding the infant as best he could.

Upstairs, gunfire converged on the window, the shots growing even more intense. The night was pitch black, and the asbestos roof shielded him from sight. The mercenaries above could not see him, yet bullets punched through the roofing, spitting sparks as they struck the concrete below. Limping and hopping, he dashed for the base of the wall—miraculously, not a single bullet hit him.

Seizing the brief moment when his pursuers reloaded, he staggered along the wall, slipping out of their line of sight.

The men upstairs were clearly inexperienced in urban combat; the window allowed only two to fire at once, and when they paused to reload, no one behind them stepped up to cover.

Earlier that day, he had deliberately asked Lu Lin to arrange for him to stay at the Golden Shield Hotel. Even if Lu Lin had connections with Yan Nuo in Mang City, he would never have guessed that the Flying Squirrel had switched to such an obscure little inn.

As long as Lu Lin reported his arrival in Yadu to Mang City, the killers would have had time to prepare.

Lu Lin did not know his real hiding place.

Now, he was certain it was the mole in the north who had betrayed his whereabouts.

He carried no identification. In the chaos, he had lost all the fake documents he had brought from Beijing. This tiny, shabby inn didn’t require any ID, just a name written in the guestbook at the door. Its guests were impoverished villagers, new to town for work, their pockets lined with filthy, stinking bills of small denominations—hardly the type to afford the likes of Mao Han Hotel. Rent was by the bed, two yuan a night.

He had disguised himself roughly, filled in a random name, and rented all four beds for eight yuan, claiming the whole room.

A year ago, he had taken turns renting every room in this inn—a cunning rabbit with many burrows. This was his temporary safe house, and he knew every inch inside and out.

He stalled until after eight in the evening. Street phones charged five cents a minute. He left a coded message at the paging service, informing a certain group member in Beijing of his location.

It was he himself who had told this person both the inn and the room number.

At the front desk, he registered information to lure the mercenaries to Room 308, hung a confusing string of colored lights on the door, then picked the lock of Room 307 with a pin and waited silently in the darkness for his attackers.

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If he hadn’t been completely certain when the information at Mao Han Hotel was leaked, now there was no doubt—the betrayal had come from this person.

This was his second mission, and the most important one.

To root out this traitor, he had taken a tremendous risk.

The evidence was irrefutable, yet it was hard to accept—the traitor had been his comrade in arms for years.

“You bastard! I’ll give you one more chance!” The Flying Squirrel was torn inside.

Years later, the people of Yadu still remembered that night when countless gunshots tore through the darkness. It was midnight—some were startled awake, some had not yet slept. At first, many mistook the sounds for firecrackers celebrating the Water-Splashing Festival, and the more curious rushed into the streets, only to be disappointed that there were no fireworks.

Soon enough, the locals realized it was gunfire—a fierce, prolonged battle was raging. Residents hurried back indoors, huddling together in fear. In this border county, street fights between thugs were common, and the occasional gunshot was not unheard of, but never had a gunfight lasted so long.

An old man lamented, “The gang wars have started again.”

His son, mouth around a water pipe, mumbled, “With that much shooting, a lot of gangsters must’ve died.”

The old man muttered to himself, “And the police? Are they going to do anything?”

Indeed, it was a dark and windy night, a perfect night for killing.

The Flying Squirrel limped his way to the rear of the Golden Shield Hotel, where he had parked the Santana car Lu Lin gave him just last night—the safest place for it now.

Should the police cars from the bureau try to start their engines, the sugar-laced gasoline would ruin them beyond repair. He need not fear a citywide search.

He opened the car door, laid the child on the back seat, and fastened him securely with the seatbelt. Despite the commotion, the child slept soundly. That afternoon, he had stashed a bag of milk powder in the car; in the chaos of escape, he hadn’t been able to grab a bottle. He poured some dry powder into his mouth, let it dissolve with saliva, then pressed mouth to mouth, using his tongue to feed the softened milk to the child.

He glanced warily around, then, with difficulty, climbed into the driver’s seat.

The luminescent Tissot watch on his left wrist showed it was still before four o’clock. At first, he had wanted nothing more than to flee this city of sin at once. But he was the Flying Squirrel, after all—even in the midst of upheaval, he could think swiftly and calmly: he had to stay until dawn. If he left now, driving into the mountains, he was certain the enemy would have set up an ambush. In such treacherous terrain, he couldn’t hope to fight off countless unseen foes in the dark.

He reclined the seat as far as it would go, lay back, and felt the dull ache of his injured leg bone. The sudden violence, as swiftly ended as it had begun, left him utterly spent. Drowsy from the aftermath and the lingering alcohol, he drifted into uneasy sleep, his breathing mingling with soft snores.

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The first crowing of a rooster in Yadu city woke him, soon followed by a chorus of cock-a-doodle-doos echoing across the rooftops.

He checked his watch—five-thirty. The eastern sky was growing pale, streaks of cloud tinged scarlet by the dawn light, like crimson roses blooming in the dark blue heavens.

When the crowing finally faded, he drove along Old Street toward the provincial road at the city’s western edge. On the way, he passed a junkyard, its entrance piled high with bottles, cans, scrap metal, and cardboard boxes.

The Flying Squirrel stopped the car, limped inside, and murmured a few words to the early-rising owner, who emerged carrying a stack of old newspapers nearly ten centimeters thick. The Flying Squirrel reached over to unlock the passenger door, and the local man, clad in a threadbare vest full of holes, bent to place the papers on the seat. The Flying Squirrel handed him five yuan.

The man eyed the money but didn’t take it. “Haven’t opened for business yet, got no small change.”

“Keep the change,” he replied. Glancing around the junkyard, he couldn’t find anything else useful, but in the corner, a few empty rice wine bottles were scattered. “Let me have those bottles, too.”

He drove onto the provincial road. Morning was fully upon them now. The second round of rooster calls began, their rasping cries rousing the mountain city from sleep.

The Flying Squirrel let out a long sigh. In the rearview mirror, his face showed no sign of cuts, only an unkempt beard and deep exhaustion.

Pressing the clutch, he winced at the sharp pain in his left shin. Luckily, the bone fragments hadn’t pierced muscle or skin—there was no blood to see. He pulled over, found two dried bamboo slats, tore a sleeve from his tracksuit in the bag, and bound the splints to his injured leg.

As the adrenaline wore off, the fear crept in. His legs began to tremble uncontrollably.

Now, no one knew where he was, what he was doing, or even if he was alive.

His old classmates, after graduating from those bright, tidy university halls, must be working as model citizens, living comfortable, respectable lives. At this age, many would have families of their own.

And him? Blocked at every turn, hunted from behind, wounded and tormented by pain and fear—like a stray dog. He hadn’t seen his wife in over three years, couldn’t send letters or photos, didn’t even know what his son looked like now.

He swore to himself: even if his son one day grew to his own age, he would never let him know the truth of what his father had endured.

No matter all he suffered, his story would be buried deep in some dust-laden archive. He might receive a commendation, but never applause—just a certificate and a medal, handed over in the dim glow of a lamp.