Zhou kept a grip on him, driving him toward the table, where Jiang’s head smashed against the lip. He collapsed to the floor like a felled redwood, knocked out cold.
At the sight of his cousin’s takedown, Yao leaped up and tried to grab Zhou in a bear hug.
The smaller and more sober Zhou easily spun away, then launched a sharp kick to Yao’s knee. The big man buckled, allowing Zhou to deliver several lightning strikes to the head. A final blow struck his throat. Yao turned and fell to his knees, clutching his throat while overcome by a false sense of suffocation.
The bar fell silent, and all eyes turned to Zhou. Drawing attention to himself was foolish, but there were times he couldn’t help himself.
“No fighting!” the bartender shouted. But he was too busy pouring drinks to bother throwing out any of the culprits.
Zhou nodded at him, then casually picked up his glass of baijiufrom the table and took a swig. The other patrons returned to their drinks and jokes, ignoring the two men on the floor.
Wen had watched the brief fight in a stupor, not moving from his chair. “You have quick hands for a farmer,” he stuttered.
“Lots of hoeing.” Zhou swung his hands up and down. “What do you say our friend Jiang buys us a drink?” he asked.
“Sure,” Wen slurred.
Zhou reached into the unconscious man’s pocket and took out his wallet. Finding his resident identity card, he memorized Jiang’s full name and address. He replaced the wallet, but not before retrieving a twenty-yuan banknote, which he handed to Wen. “You drink for me,” Zhou said. “It is late, and I must go.”
“Yes, my friend Tsen, if you say so.” Wen raised himself in his chair with some difficulty.
“See you at the mine,” Zhou said.
“The mine?” Wen asked. He looked up in puzzlement, but the little farmer from Baotou was already gone.
33
JIANG XIANTO, THE TRUCK DRIVER, CREPT OUT OF his apartment complex at half past seven the next morning. A bandage was plastered across his forehead, and he walked with rigid strides to try to minimize the spasms that shot through his skull with each step. Had he been less preoccupied, he might have seen his assailant from the Red Boar, seated in a Chinese-built Toyota parked across the street, reading a People’s Daily.
Zhou smiled to himself as he watched Jiang hobble down the street. He had felt no joy in flooring Yao the night before, but he felt no empathy toward Jiang. He had recognized Jiang’s type instantly, a hotheaded loser who tormented weaker men to make himself feel better.
The black market truck driver walked down the street to a crowded bus stop. True to form, Jiang bullied his way to the front of the line, then took one of the few remaining seats when the bus arrived. Zhou started his car and pulled into traffic, keeping the bus a few car lengths ahead.
By the time the bus stopped in front of a dilapidated apartment building at the southern edge of town, most of the passengers had departed. Zhou wheeled his car around a corner, parked behind a street vendor, and watched Jiang step off the bus. Pulling a brimmed hat low over his eyes, Zhou locked his car and followed on foot.
Jiang walked a little way down a side street, then turned into a trash-strewn alley. A morning breeze chilled the air, and Jiang zipped up his jacket as he reached a large fenced lot topped with rusty barbed wire. He stepped through a slit in the fence and walked past stacks of empty pallets that towered over the dusty lot. At the rear of the property, beneath a corrugated tin awning, stood five large canvas-covered trucks and a battered pickup. Several rough-looking men stood around the trucks, drinking hot tea from paper cups.
“Jiang,” one of the men said, “did your wife brush your hair with a wok this morning?”
“I’ll brush yours with a tire iron,” Jiang said. “Where’s Xao?”
A tall man wearing a black peacoat stepped from between two of the trucks. “Jiang, there you are. Late again, I see. Keep this up and you’ll be back digging ditches.” He turned to the other men. “Okay, everyone, we’re ready to move.”
The men gathered around him as he pulled a folded paper from his pocket.
“We’ll be dropping the load at Dock 27,” Xao said. “I’ll take the lead truck, so follow me, as we’ll be entering through an auxiliary gate. We’re expected to arrive at eight o’clock, so let’s not have any delays.”
“Where will we stop for fuel?” asked a man with a threadbare wool cap.
“The usual truck stop in Changping.” Xao looked about for other questions, then nodded toward the trucks. “Okay, let’s get moving.”
Xao, Jiang, and three other men drifted to the large trucks, and the remaining men piled into the pickup. Jiang’s truck was at the end of the line. He climbed in and started the engine, which kicked to life with a cloud of black smoke. Adjusting the heater, he waited for the other trucks to exit the lot ahead of him. When the truck next to him pulled ahead, he shifted into gear and lurched forward, catching sight of a dark blur in the side-view mirror.
The trucks drove through an open gate attended by a burly bald man who carried a Russian Makarov pistol under his coat. When Jiang got to the gate, he mashed on the truck’s brakes. “Check the back!” he said, reaching out the window and slapping the side door to catch the guard’s attention.
The guard nodded and stepped to the rear of the truck. As he peered over the tailgate, he was greeted by Zhou’s boot slamming into his jaw. The blow sent him sprawling, yet he yanked out the Makarov even as he fell. He raised the pistol and aimed it toward the truck, but Zhou was already on him. The agent kicked the pistol aside, then dove forward and thrust his elbow into the guard’s jaw. The bone-on-bone collision emitted a muted crack, and the guard fell limp.
Zhou popped to his feet and spun around. Jiang was already there, lunging at him with a knife he carried on his belt. Zhou saw the glint as the blade thrust toward his chest. He tried twisting away, but the tip caught his sleeve, and he felt it slice across his right bicep.
He ignored the cut and hurled a left cross into Jiang’s temple. Jiang let out a curse, realizing he was battling the man who had crushed his head the night before.
Zhou gave him no time to contemplate that. The Makarov was too far away to retrieve, so he did the unexpected and pressed the attack. He followed his punch with a roundhouse kick that struck Jiang in the thigh. It was designed less to punish than to incite a response, and it succeeded. Jiang pulled back the knife and recklessly thrust toward his opponent’s stomach.
Zhou was ready. He threw his left hand on Jiang’s wrist, easily shoving the parry aside. Using Jiang’s momentum, he pulled and twisted the knife-wielding wrist, propelling Jiang forward. Zhou continued the spinning motion, driving his opposite shoulder against Jiang’s arm with his full weight.
Jiang’s arm felt like it was being yanked from its socket, and he stumbled forward in agony. The knife dropped free, and he fell to the ground. In the blink of an eye, the knife was in Zhou’s hand, driving toward Jiang’s head. Zhou wanted to kill the man, and could have done so easily, but he resisted the impulse. Jiang would suffer more by rotting in a jail cell. He reversed the blade, striking Jiang below the ear with the butt of the knife. Jiang’s world turned black as the blow to his carotid artery cut the flow of blood to his brain. Zhou stood over him, catching his breath. A phone call to the People’s Armed Police would ensure the bully an unpleasant welcome when he awoke. But first Zhou had to catch the caravan.
The trucks had disappeared down the street. Zhou found the Makarov and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he flipped Jiang on his stomach and stripped off his jacket. With the man’s knife, he sliced off a strip of Jiang’s shirt for a bandage. Zhou’s right arm was wet and sticky, but the bleeding had already stopped. He’d have to mend himself on the fly.