Chapter Ninety: Return to Liaoxi

After Rayger got out of the car, Yang Xiaolin and Nirel continued driving for a while, until they had traveled more than two hundred kilometers from Beijing. The car finally ran out of fuel, and Nirel was forced to pull over to the side of the road. “Yang, we have to walk from here. Do you know the way?”

Yang Xiaolin did know the way, but he was certain that all routes into the Northeast were now blocked by the authorities. His portrait was surely posted everywhere, and returning safely was still a daunting challenge. Moreover, Nirel’s appearance would attract attention no matter where they went. After a moment’s thought, Yang Xiaolin said, “Let’s go back.”

Nirel was taken aback. “What did you say?”

Yang Xiaolin smiled at him. “If we head east from here, every road leading into the Northeast will have people waiting to intercept us. Let’s go west instead. When things quiet down in a few days, we can circle back to Liaoxi.”

Nirel slammed his fist hard against the car. “That’s utterly insane! They would never expect us to return. Yang, you’re a madman!”

Yang Xiaolin shook his head gently. He didn’t think of himself as mad; it was just that, having been a policeman, he understood how people hunted fugitives in such situations. Going forward really would be dangerous, especially in the next few days.

So the best option was to find somewhere to hide for a while—ten days, perhaps two weeks, then emerge when things had cooled off. Leaving the car here would surely lead the foreigners to believe they’d headed for Liaoxi. The western outskirts of Beijing should be safe.

He checked the wound on his abdomen; there was no more bleeding, which reassured him. “Nirel, how far can you run in a night?”

Nirel clearly understood what he meant. The greatest problem now was to break through the encircling net of pursuers before it closed in on them, and to do so as quickly as possible.

He walked up to Yang Xiaolin, gesturing to compare their heights. “You yellow-skinned monkey, let me tell you—I definitely run faster than you. Once, in India, helping the British in battle, two hundred of us took out more than three thousand Indian soldiers. Do you know why? Because we ran forty miles in one night and trapped them in a canyon!”

Yang Xiaolin said no more. “All right, let’s get started!”

The Qing and the foreigners deployed every resource they could to hunt Yang Xiaolin, and the scale of the operation made the ten-thousand-strong search for Gele Mountain seem pale in comparison. At the spot where Yang Xiaolin and his companions abandoned their car, the Qing sent fifty thousand troops!

Of course, they failed to catch the fugitives, but the local people suffered greatly from the disturbance. When they found nothing there, they expanded the search zone—first to within a hundred kilometers, then two hundred. But with each expansion, the hope of catching Yang became more elusive.

The massive search lasted eight days, stretching the Qing’s patience to its limit. Deploying the army meant supplying food and logistics, and aside from the lack of casualties, such a hunt was no different from warfare.

The Qing were short on funds; even the remaining silver was reserved for the Empress Dowager’s New Year. So after eight fruitless days, no matter how dissatisfied the foreigners were, the army began to withdraw. By the tenth day, only “key searches” remained.

Yang Xiaolin and Nirel hid in a cave more than a hundred kilometers west of Beijing, living like rats—sleeping by day in the cave, emerging at night to gaze at the stars and moon, fetch water, and scavenge food.

As Yang Xiaolin had anticipated, the Qing never searched west of Beijing. When he felt safe enough, they finally set out for Liaoxi.

Yang Xiaolin didn’t seek horses or hire a cart, as both would have to travel on official roads. When they first came down from the mountain, they considered finding transport, but discovered that, although the search was winding down, their wanted posters were everywhere.

The price on Yang Xiaolin’s head had risen again, higher than the bounty posted at the gates of Fengtian. The Qing now offered twenty thousand taels of silver—a fortune, a sign that the Empress Dowager was desperate. It was a tempting sum. Yang Xiaolin couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t be recognized, nor that anyone who recognized him wouldn’t be tempted, so he chose the safest route: traveling on foot.

They continued to hide by day and travel by night, crossing mountains and hills. It took more than twenty days to cross from the Chengde region into the Northeast, and only then did Yang Xiaolin breathe a sigh of relief.

Nirel’s speed was truly remarkable. His physique gave him both explosive power and endurance. At first, Yang Xiaolin struggled to keep up, but after seven or eight days, he adapted to Nirel’s pace.

Once past Chengde, they would soon reach Jinzhou; beyond Jinzhou, the Changbai Mountains awaited. If he could disappear into the mountains, he would be home.

Only now did Yang Xiaolin acquire two horses, mainly because of the weather. As they moved northeastward, the temperature dropped steadily. In such cold, exhausting their strength was unwise.

The snowy paths were muddy and uncomfortable, but Yang Xiaolin was delighted to see the snow hadn’t melted. It meant there would be even more snow in the Changbai Mountains, and therefore the imperial campaign against Kulushan had not yet begun.

He hadn’t received news for some time and wondered how his brothers were faring, how their training was progressing, whether Liu Xianhe’s wounds had healed, and what attitude the Japanese would take toward his stronghold after he killed their envoy.

He also wondered if Biaozi and the others had returned safely.

All these worries gnawed at him. As they rode along at a leisurely pace, Nirel asked casually, “Yang, you said you asked the Japanese to train your troops?”

Yang Xiaolin replied, “Yes.”

Nirel’s expression was distinctly contemptuous. “Frankly, I have no interest in the Japanese military’s prowess. I think the best instructors would be British or Germans.”

Yang Xiaolin laughed. “I never expected the Japanese to turn my men into elite soldiers. Their methods don’t appeal to me. But most of my men don’t even know basic tactics, some can’t even fire a gun. If the Japanese can at least teach them that, it’s enough. As for real training, I have my own ways.”

Yang Xiaolin had served in the Liberation Army. He might not know how to be a general, but he certainly knew how to be a soldier. He looked at Nirel. “Nirel, how about being my fitness instructor someday? Lead my men in daily running, weighted cross-country runs.”

Nirel smiled. “I know how to beat people.”

Yang Xiaolin replied cheerfully, “So do I. If anyone doesn’t obey, beat them as much as you like.”

Nirel nodded. “All right, you said it. I assure you, I’m much tougher than any Japanese instructor.”

Yang Xiaolin exhaled, his breath forming white mist in the night air. “Nirel, I’ll tell you this—there’s another important reason I asked the Japanese to be instructors. Sooner or later, I’ll have to fight them. I want my brothers to understand Japanese tactics.”

Nirel chuckled. “I see the white men were right—you really are a beast! They’re helping you train your soldiers, and you’re already planning to fight them. That’s not very Chinese of you. But I like your style. I like everyone the white men dislike! Ha!”

Nirel’s laughter in the darkness was eerie, chilling enough that any old person or child unfamiliar with black men would surely be frightened to death.

Yang Xiaolin imagined himself someday, striding along with a tall, imposing black man at his side—a striking presence wherever he went. For some reason, he recalled future movies, where every villain seemed to have one or several strong black men behind him. Was he a villain?

Once, he would have said no. But now, he found he couldn’t answer.