Chapter 3
"Stupid girl. Have you heard of the White Phoenix Brotherhood?" Ming made conversation as he dragged me toward the west garden. As we approached the far wall, I saw the downed shrubs concealed a motorcycle. My mind was reeling. White Phoenix Brotherhood didn't sound like a rival company. Could he be a gang member? Could some lowly criminal really have coordinated this attack on my father's family?
"No," I scuffed and dug the heels of my bare feet into the ground, kicking up mounds of dirt and grass. Where were my men? Why hadn't they arrived? The fire alone should have drawn every mercenary my father hired from miles around. Could we have been taken down by a bunch of backstreet bandits who scratched out a living selling fake designer bags, copying DVDs, and dealing with heroin?
Where did they acquire these guns, anyway? There weren't many shootings around here. Did they smuggle these all the way up from Hong Kong? Or did they raid some farmer's stockpile which hadn't been used since the NRA armed the People's Militias?
"Why don't you go back to contaminating roadside tofu with bleach? Or selling hamster meat in your fast food burger chains? What do you want with me? Let me go. I'm not interested in buying any fake Apple Airpods."
Good, I could see pretending to be a stupid rich girl was working. Ming was letting his guard down. The trope of the spoiled bratty princess was replayed over and over again in the TV Shows here. I wasn't as pretty as the movie stars here with their milky white skin, and definitely no match for all the lovely young singers with their one-size-fits-all surgery-corrected faces.
My nose was too long, my skin too tanned from vacations in Saint Tropez, and my chin too masculine and square. (Never change it. You look like that famous American actress, Angelina Jolie, my friends have reassured me in the past. Who knows if it was the truth or sweet lies they spun so that I wouldn't throw them off my father's yacht). Growing up, I never felt pressured to change myself to be beautiful. When one has enough money, no matter one's outward appearance, beauty radiates from the inside — the beauty inside one's father's bank account, that is.
But, I could tell the act of a pretty, stupid girl was working on my captor. Ming let go of my upper arm and threw his hands at me.
"Tā mā de," Ming cursed in exasperation. "We do much more than, little Liang princess. We deal with the art of transfiguring reality, and we could use a girl with gifts like yours."
Gifts such as mine? I wanted to snort. What gifts would that be? The ability to set my father's credit cards a fire in a single stroll down Nanjing Road?
"The world is ending," Ming continued. "The market for elixirs giving ordinary people the ability to enter the gates of heaven is as vast as the big blue ocean."
Funny, he compared the market to the sea, as I knew the sea had grown substantially in the past year. There were reports from overseas that a poisonous rain was falling from the skies. Imagine that! The rain itself was laced with poison. Perhaps, the advancing ocean would be next to drag us down into the netherworld. Maybe, Ming's fantasy market was vast as the sea because all of us would be living on the ocean floor soon.
"No one has ever entered the gates of heaven through Yagerin," I sneered. "Don't you know? The effects don't last? I suppose being a gangster; you don't care about dealing in the business of selling snake oil."
"I'm more than just an ordinary gangster. I'm Ming Hua. I'm the eldest son of Dragon Head Hua, the Master of the Nanling Mountains."
"Dragon Head Hua? The infamous Master Hua? The mass murderer?" I gasped, forcing my lips to quiver. I lied. Ming brought my act. I could see him puffing up his muscular chest under that stupid Anta t-shirt with its obnoxiously large logo. I had never heard of any Master Hua. So many gangs had intercepted our delivery trucks and raided our factory that it would have been impossible for me to remember all their names.
Damned criminal, who cares what ludicrous names you've come up with for yourselves? You're all the same to me. To me, you're yet another stupid, lazy man trying to force himself into my life, thinking it would become a shortcut to riches and fame.
My fear wasn't entirely an act. I was scared, but not for the reason Ming believed I was. I covered my mouth with my hands and tried to will my eyes to cry — just a little — just enough to show him how helpless and scared I was. "Please spare my life, Prince Ming Hua!"
"Don't worry. As I said, shut up and listen. I'm not here to kill you." Ming seized my arm again. He shook me to snap me out of my hysterical, girlish breakdown. "Come with me, and no harm will come to you."
"I'll do whatever you say. Please, I don't want to die! You've scared me to death. I want my mom."
Ming let go of my arm momentarily to hoist his motorcycle upright. He made me sit in front and swung his leg over the saddle. He was uncomfortably close, and I felt violated by the thick scent of his body odor. At least he had the gentlemanly sense to allow me to sit side saddle to preserve my modesty. I tugged at the hem of my skirt with both hands, acting as though I had no greater fear right than flashing my crotch during his getaway.
"Stop crying," Ming growled.
"I'm about to be handed around by bandits. I'm crying over my lost maidenhood."
"No, no! No one cares about that. I promise."
I sniffed and choked back a pretend sob. The motorcycle roared to life under us. Ming turned his eyes to the road. I saw a gaping hole in the fence leading back to the main road.
"Do you promise, Ming da-ge?"
Yes, Ming Older Brother, I've already fallen for you. I lean into Ming's muscular chest and wrap my arms around his waist to steady myself on the bike. I was quivering against him like a nimble white tea leaf during the May monsoons.
Isn't that how the story goes? Girl gets kidnapped by the muscular bandit wearing a too-tight Anta shirt who arrived to work freshly from exercising in his underground gym?
"Yes," Ming sighed. "Just —"
Click.
He didn't have a chance to finish his sentence. A red patch of blood exploded all over his Anta shirt. In the aftermath of the gunshot, the silence between us was palpable. A thousand panicked thoughts whirled through my head, but after that day, I would not be able to recall a single one.
I had shot him in the chest, right underneath that red swish of a logo.
There had been many shots fired that day, but this was the one that I would forever remember. It had been my finger on the trigger. It had been self-defense. Yes, I was not the one at fault here. Yet, all the same, it was the first time I ever shot anything, let alone a person.
It changed me forever, even though I convinced myself I was only doing what any sensible young woman would do.
Ming opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. I imagined it was mighty hard for him to breathe now that he had a bullet in his lung. I shoved him off the bike and into the grass. His pistol was still in my trembling hands. Stupid bandit. I couldn't believe my plan worked. I had pretended to wrap my arms around earlier him to retrieve the gun from the holster around his waist.
I didn't know what else to do, so I talked. It was a nervous habit. In the face of absolute, life-changing fear, the thoughts inside my head blabbered on and on like it was narrating a social media video.
Ming dàgē, too bad you have to die today. I only wish Head Criminal Hua knew that Angela Liang killed his wàng bā dàn son. When they find you, they'll probably think it was Mr. Wang. What a pity. A woman never gets the credit that she is due around here.
I didn't have the strength to say anything. My shaking hands, numb with fear, dropped the weapon in the grass. Stupid, Angela! He could have rolled over and shot me with his dying breath if he had the strength.
In the later days, I would thank the heavens that he did not. In retrospect, perhaps I should have wiped my fingerprints off that gun. One is always so wise long after the fact.
I was lucky to escape with my life. I spent precious seconds standing there, unable to force my legs to run. I watched Ming claw at the hole in his chest for what seemed like forever. He had nothing left in him but a feeble, vain attempt to stop the bleeding.
Too bad, Ming. It is you, not me, who would die here today.
Between gasps for breath, he used his last remaining strength to yank his shoulders up in an effort to catch his breath. It was useless. He looked like a fish out of water, flopping helplessly across the grass.
Sorry, Ming dàgē. See you in the next life.
I jumped on the motorcycle and placed my hands over the handles as I had seen him do. Off I went, to the main road, only to nearly lose my life to an approaching L5. Mr. Pu almost had a heart attack when he saw me on the motorcycle.
"Miss Liang!" He exclaimed. "You—you are—." I think he struggled to put together the picture of me and a motorcycle, like the kind we usually see the delivery men driving. I found his words for him.
"Yes, I'm here, and I'm still alive. Let's go."