Volume One, Chapter Six: The Philanthropist of Narcotics

If it had been someone else from that enigmatic organization the Flying Squirrel belonged to, perhaps they would not have found themselves with such a headache. But, as rumor had it, the man known as the Flying Squirrel was just like his namesake—a creature that seemed utterly harmless on the surface. In nature, flying squirrels could even be tamed and kept as pets by humans.

Yet, like the real animal, he lacked the wings that would let him soar like other birds; he could only glide between trees. For the sake of survival, both the man and his namesake had learned to borrow every resource at their disposal. Those who had heard of him knew: this man, known by the pseudonym Flying Squirrel, was unyielding—he would not rest until his aim was achieved.

He could drift carelessly and unexpectedly right into the presence of his enemies, catching them off guard; or, like a true gutter rat, he could vanish for as long as it took, lurking patiently in some dark, filthy, unimaginable corner, until the moment he decided the time was right, and then strike with sharp teeth.

Take this time, for example—if not for a hurried warning from the northern informant, no one would have guessed he would sneak back into Mang City alone and under the cover of night. The most terrifying opponents are those whose motives and methods are a mystery. Unlike many who announce their actions with great fanfare, the Flying Squirrel seemed to take particular pleasure in the art of waiting in the shadows.

Yannu had made it this far through a blend of reckless courage and a mind as meticulous as any mathematician’s. From a child who, before the age of six, ran about a Tai village without ever wearing trousers, he had grown to become the sole receiver of heroin shipments entering China from the west of the Golden Triangle, monopolizing Mang City’s jadeite gambling market as well.

If out-of-town buyers lost their gamble, he would take a fifteen percent cut from the earnings of the Burmese middlemen or local sellers. If outsiders won, they had to pay thirty percent according to the current jade prices.

Across the border, Yannu commanded a private army of over five hundred heavily armed men, equipped with bulletproof vehicles, helicopters, and all manner of heavy weaponry. Whenever necessary, his Burmese partners could even supply better-armed mercenaries with greater combat experience.

On this side of the border, the police and paramilitary officers had, over the years, received far more in “wages” from him than they’d ever see in government salaries. They were his private army in all but name. To ensure he could mobilize them at a moment’s notice, every squad leader and above had a Motorola phone worth more than ten thousand yuan apiece.

He didn’t need these troops to traffic the tons of heroin—he had his own fleet of specially modified vehicles, which was a particular point of pride for Yannu. The ingenious concealments of each vehicle were all his own designs. After all, trafficking drugs so openly was already brazen enough; putting in the effort to disguise it was, in a way, saving face for the police.

His drivers were all armed, but there had never been a firefight. The officials on his payroll not only opened the main roads for him, but also provided protection all the way from the border to the cliffs at Yadu, ensuring the shipments weren’t intercepted by reckless young dealers.

This short stretch of highway was a corridor for drugs entering the heartland and a vital zone for anti-narcotics operations. The very soldiers and police who should have been drug traffickers’ worst enemies had become Yannu’s most dependable and trustworthy protectors.

Small-time traffickers without protection would be met with legal force, their heroin confiscated and destroyed as trophies of the anti-drug campaign, earning accolades for officers every year.

As long as the shipments reached Yadu safely, they would be brought into specially designated “packaging factories,” where specialists would break them down, weigh them, and repackage them in ever more creative disguises, to be sent out across the country in dozens of vehicles driven by “professional couriers.”

This second stage of transport was carried out with far more rigor and precision. Yannu himself had devised a host of ingenious container disguises: coffee grounds, pig’s blood sausages, and the like—methods like canned goods or old appliances that drug police could spot at a glance were already obsolete.

Automobile tires and hidden compartments, though effective, could no longer meet the enormous volume of demand. Yannu turned to fresh produce—there were many varieties of fruit that could be hollowed out and filled: pineapples, pomegranates, mangosteens; all the local specialties were put to new use.

Naturally, such immense profits could not be Yannu’s alone. Any man of ambitions would use these gains to assemble a band of loyal followers and partners, thereby building his own fortress.

He alone had exclusive access to Golden Triangle shipments. Once the drugs crossed the border, they were distributed at a substantial profit and a uniform price to other powerful operators in the province—each from a different city, but all notorious locally for their cruelty and brutality.

Every transaction took place in Mang City. The others had to pay Yannu in full and in cash, then pick up their stash at Yadu. The greatest advantage of alliance was the massive, interconnected protection network it created across the province, each ally forging their own ties with corrupt local police and military. Those unwilling or unfit to join were gradually eliminated.

It was this “join me and prosper, defy me and perish” ethos that united a previously scattered and disorganized group of traffickers into a loyal brotherhood, pledging allegiance to Yannu, the founder and supreme leader.

The alliance was officially formed six years ago. After carefully selecting his targets, Yannu initiated a sudden and ruthless campaign of violence to eliminate all obstacles to expansion. Since then, violence in the trade had become a rarity.

He had created a kingdom of order and rules within the world of drug trafficking, applying the principles of modern enterprise management in a way uniquely his own to the business of narcotics.

Yannu believed that to still consider him merely a drug dealer was both an insult and a diminishment. He had brought prosperity to so many, created employment for nearly a thousand across the supply chain, and helped keep the poor of the region afloat through the local circulation of wealth.

He was an ambitious, outstanding businessman—a true entrepreneur.

The roads and schools he donated were met with heartfelt gratitude from the local people, as well as high praise from the government. He was a philanthropist, a benefactor to the region.

He was a gentle father, a generous host.

The late 1980s were the best of times, an era that gave rise to many entrepreneurs who believed industry could enrich families and the nation. Yet it was also the worst of times, when those with great ambition but no hope of escaping the countryside found opportunity in the world’s oldest criminal trade.

It was an age of light, with the country in the first flush of renewal, the market economy bursting forth. Prosperity was no longer a mark of shame or a crime, but a symbol of extraordinary ability.

It was also an age of darkness, where the ruthless arts of cunning and force became the criminal’s gospel, and the pursuit of profit through violence was seen as a measure of one’s worth.