Volume One, Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Brave Prevail

Ru A'ya had the eyes of a seasoned hunter. He saw with absolute clarity the flying squirrel’s resolute gaze and defiant expression. The face, marked with sorrow, was smeared with blood, the yellow tracksuit stained a deep crimson. In that split second, Ru A'ya felt a chill run through him—this madman truly intended for them both to die together.

His hands, almost of their own accord, trembled in the final moment before impact. The steering wheel of the Hilux jerked right, exposing the vehicle’s rear to the Santana. The flying squirrel seized the chance, yanking his own wheel sharply left. The Hilux, already unstable, spun out of control. The Santana rammed its tail, sending the Hilux rolling twice through the air, until its hood smashed against the rocky mountainside.

The flying squirrel slammed the brakes, bringing the Santana to a sideways halt in the middle of the road. He raised his pistol, steady and aimed out the window, watching for any sign of movement from Ru A'ya’s cab.

The Hilux lay overturned, thick white smoke pouring from the exhaust. The engine was still running, but in the silent valley, only the dying moans of the steel beast could be heard.

Time passed. The door remained closed.

Just before the collision, he had seen panic in Ru A'ya’s eyes. It was always so: the more one feared death, the closer it drew. The flying squirrel knew he no longer needed to run.

He placed the child in the back seat and stepped out, making his way to the roadside. Looking down at the black-clad men below, he let out a mocking, defiant howl, unleashing days of pent-up rage.

His cry echoed through the mountains, reverberating in waves.

He thought of Amei’s death, of his own brushes with fate. His howl, at first wild and triumphant, grew anguished, laden with hatred.

He cursed at the top of his lungs: “Cowards! Weaklings! Bastards! Come and kill me! What’s the point of murdering a girl? Damn you! I’ll wipe out your whole family!”

On the hillside, the men saw his furious silhouette, arms raised against the morning light.

The sunlight dazzled them. They could hear every venomous curse ringing across the valley, every syllable of pent-up bitterness and wrath.

At last, the furious silhouette raised a pistol and fired repeatedly in their direction.

Hundreds of meters away, the shots could never reach them. Yet all were cowed by his ferocity, ducking behind whatever cover they could find on the slope.

The last car in the convoy was a black Mercedes 300—long, angular, and heavy, better suited for weddings than mountain roads. It was blocked by the cars ahead. The driver, furious, watched the flying squirrel’s wild, provocative display, pounding the steering wheel in frustration.

He cursed his luck and his underestimation of the enemy. The flying squirrel had already ruined many of his plans; he could bear no more.

The flying squirrel returned to the Santana, started the engine. His rage had burned out.

After so many ambushes, he’d changed his mind; he couldn’t give the mole another chance. Once he reached the foot of the mountain, he could notify the northern bosses at once.

He was relieved that his first intuition about the mole had proved correct. Yet he felt a pang of resentment—he’d had to risk his own life to lure the traitor out. If he reported now, the coming purge within the organization would have nothing to do with him.

That would be letting the mole off far too easily. So, the flying squirrel decided not to report his findings just yet.

A British minister once said: “There’s a thin line between lying and withholding part of the truth.”

The Sinologist Ji Xianlin, who survived every brutal campaign without compromising his principles, had his own maxim: “Never tell a lie, but never tell the whole truth.”

Was there a way to set a trap and let the traitor fall into it himself?

The law cannot be served unless evil is exposed.

The flying squirrel drove along the only highway leading to Yunting. He was utterly spent, dizzy with exhaustion.

Three days of survival in the wild, ending with hours of gunfights and car chases. Even someone as robust as the Lone Wolf would fare no better, he thought.

He had no interest in the sleeping infant on the passenger seat. Every ounce of strength and concentration was now focused on leaving this perilous place behind. There would be no more heart-stopping emergencies. He felt a wave of post-escape emptiness, as if he had just cheated death.

If there were a clear river ahead, he would stop, wash himself thoroughly, scrub away the fatigue, the blood and brain matter spattered on his face and body.

Once he left the forested mountain road, he entered the plain the locals called the “Bazi.” Fields on either side were ripe for harvest, distant mountains and pale yellow farmland shrouded in morning mist.

He was now on National Highway 320, actually the famous Burma Road; within China, this stretch was called the Kunwan Highway, running from Yunting to Lashio in Myanmar, nearly fifteen hundred kilometers long. In World War II, it was China’s longest and busiest international supply route, the vital artery through which Allied support from Burma sustained China’s resistance in the rear.

In the spring of 1938, two hundred thousand laborers from all ethnic groups along the route were conscripted to build it—most were the elderly, women, or children.

With no machinery at hand, the work was all manual labor. The most grueling and dangerous tasks fell upon women and children. Thousands died in explosions, falls, floods, landslides, and from malaria, but by November 1938, the road was open.

The southern route—the famed Stilwell Road—ran from Ledo in northeast India, through Burma, and into China. Even now, scars of old battles lined the road, once fiercely contested by Japanese and Allied Chinese forces.

The rainy season was near. This straight, level first-class highway linked villages dotted with blue lakes and winding streams, joined orchards heavy with fruit and rolling tea mountains. The tea farmers toiled on verdant hills, their harvests barely enough to survive.

They could never have guessed that, years later, the “tea leaves” they planted would, as “Pu’er tea,” make countless fortunes in Taiwan and Guangdong.

The sun rose. The mists dispersed. The sky turned bright and clear; everything at last was revealed. Days of darkness, filth, terror, pain, the ever-present threat of violence and betrayal, Amei’s death—all the tangled loves and hatreds were now the past.

The boundless land opened before the flying squirrel; the road gleamed, stretching straight to the horizon.

All would be well. The flying squirrel felt the weight lift from his heart.