Chapter 9: Spoiling the Master

Cao Yiman and a few of his team members stood loosely dispersed around the area, forming an encirclement about seven or eight meters out.

At the center of the hollow circle, huddled in the corner beneath a tall wall at the end of the alley, a middle-aged woman in her forties squatted with tears streaming down her face. A military dagger pressed tightly against her throat gleamed with a cold light, faint traces of blood already trickling down her neck.

Hiding behind her was someone dressed in a black lace dress. They sat with their legs spread wide against the wall, trapping her securely in their embrace. Their face was completely obscured, not a glimpse to be seen, though long, curly hair draped over one shoulder, swaying faintly now and then in the night breeze.

Cao Yiman shot a glance at the others and shook his head, signaling no progress whatsoever.

Zhao Ge mulled over the right approach and slipped into character. He grabbed a megaphone and launched into a psychological assault.

He opened in the dialect of a neighboring province, adopting the tone of an elder uncle berating his dim-witted nephew:

“Zhang Yansheng, you blockhead. Can’t escape on your own, so you wanna drag someone down with you? Sister Wang’s got a family and a kid in middle school. She’s worked for you all these years—no merit if not hard labor. What’d she ever do to you, you heartless bastard…”

The figure pinned in the corner showed no reaction at all.

Yan Tuo received a report through his earpiece: the wall backed onto a wide open lot with no vantage points. The two snipers had taken up relatively decent positions on the rooftops flanking the alley, but the angles were poor, and with the suspect fully concealed behind the hostage, the situation was extremely dicey.

Yan Tuo’s mind raced as he listened stone-faced to Zhao Ge’s relentless barrage.

Minutes ticked by. The standoff was nearing four hours. Zhao Ge pulled out every trick in the book, deploying his silver tongue at peak eloquence, repeating the same rambling pleas two or three times over. Still, he got not a single word in response.

Reasoning fell flat. Emotion failed. Even attempts to provoke anger went nowhere. He decided on a tactical breather.

In a voice hoarse and weary, he murmured to Yan Tuo, “This ain’t looking good. Even if he went berserk and screamed curses at me, that’d be something. But this total silence? He’s probably dead set on dying—no will to live at all. I’m stepping out for a smoke to unwind.”

The word “smoke” snagged in Yan Tuo’s ear. He grabbed the man heading outward. “Just smoke here.”

Zhao Ge was baffled. Yan Tuo didn’t touch tobacco or booze and always frowned on public smoking. What made today special?

No time to dwell. Anxiety and exhaustion bore down on him; he desperately needed that nicotine hit to soothe his frayed nerves.

He patted his pockets—empty. With no choice, he called over to Cao Yiman on the side. “Old Cao, got a light?”

Misery loves company, as they say. The sight made Cao Yiman’s mouth water and his itch to light up unbearable.

The lighter clicked twice. Soon, the two veteran smokers were puffing away right there on the spot.

They were halfway through their cigarettes when movement stirred from the hostage’s side.

Whatever instruction came from behind her, Sister Wang—her face etched with misery—trembled as she picked up the handbag at her feet and rummaged inside.

She mumbled something indistinct, then shouted at the top of her lungs, “W…want a pack of smokes! Chahua brand, ladies’ cigarettes!”

Zhao Ge’s hand froze mid-puff with his own cigarette. He flicked a discreet glance at Yan Tuo. A single smoke break had cracked open an opportunity—this guy’s instincts were razor-sharp, pure detective gold.

He stubbed out his cigarette on the ground without a second thought. “I’ll go buy ’em.”

It was a bustling commercial district. Less than five minutes later, Zhao Ge returned with the exact brand.

He’d planned to edge closer and toss the pack over, but as he passed their deputy detachment captain, Yan Tuo held him back.

Yan Tuo took the cigarettes and advanced inward, hands held high to show he meant no harm. He halted about three meters out, gave a flick of the wrist, and lobbed the pack precisely beside the pair in the corner.

Yan Tuo kept his hands raised as he retreated slowly.

Sister Wang had already torn open the packaging on command. Trembling, she lit one up and passed it back over her shoulder.

That was the moment.

As Sister Wang extended the cigarette past her shoulder, she instinctively turned her head halfway. A sliver of the killer’s face emerged from behind her—fine, sculpted eyebrows, red lips parted in anticipation…

Yan Tuo’s body reacted even before his mind caught up. In under two seconds: plant feet, spin around, draw pistol, fire.

Bang.

It sounded like a sigh.

~~~

Bai Yiyi hunkered down in his nest for a while to settle his mood. When he finally poked his head out again, his master was nowhere in sight. He listened closely—dead silence from the outer hall, as if the world had suddenly shrunk to just him, a lone bird. The quiet was downright eerie.

Had everyone clocked out and forgotten about him? Or were they all out on some operation?

He wandered aimlessly back and forth, bored out of his mind. By nearly midnight, sleep dragged at him relentlessly, but still no one returned.

He dozed off in a daze. He had no idea how long he slept before a creak jolted him awake. Peering out, he saw his master had flopped sideways onto the unfolded camp cot. The flimsy portable folding bed groaned under the weight.

Moments later, soft snores filled the room.

In all the days living together, this was the first time Bai Yiyi had heard his master snore. He must have been utterly wiped out—lights blazing, no blanket in sight, just face-planted into sleep.

Bai Yiyi gauged the room’s chill from the AC. Twenty-four degrees was on the cool side for human comfort, especially for someone dead to the world.

This guy was too rough around the edges. Skipping the wash-up was one thing, but no fear of catching a cold or winding up with arthritis down the line?

Bai Yiyi tried pecking at the AC remote’s buttons with his beak, but he couldn’t angle it right for the signal to register. He fluttered over and hopped on Yan Tuo’s arm, stomping around. The man slept like the dead—no stir.

Gazing at that face, shadowed with dark stubble yet handsome despite the exhaustion, Bai Yiyi felt a pang in his chest. Pity welled up unbidden.

A thin blanket lay draped over the nearby sofa, probably tossed there when setting up the cot. Bai Yiyi flew to it, clamped his beak tight, and tugged, trying to drag it over to cover his master.

Plop.

No luck. He’d yanked too hard and ended up yanked back onto the sofa himself, sprawled belly-up in a feathery heap.

Sorry for the disturbance. Dreaming he could haul a blanket? Bai Dumpling wasn’t worthy.

Bai Yiyi sulked on the sofa, eyelids drooping with sleep, but he scanned around stubbornly anyway. If he had a mirror right then, he’d have been stunned to see how perfectly his mother’s name suited him—the two “yi”s forming little emoticon faces that captured his exact expression.

His eyes lit up. That short-sleeved shirt on the office chair looked perfect—light and thin enough to manage.

He flew right over and tested it out.

Tough going. No flying with it, but dragging it inch by inch? Doable.

The shirt had been worn, carrying a faint sweat scent that wasn’t off-putting. To Bai Yiyi, it even held a tantalizing whiff of hormones.

Bai Yiyi clutched at his fluttering little heart, psyched himself up, and embarked on the epic relocation.

His labor motto: Caring for the master starts with me.

He lost track of time—pouring every ounce of bird-strength into it—but at last, Bai Yiyi hauled the shirt onto Yan Tuo and carefully tucked it around the man’s back. Only then did he exhale in relief.

His beak throbbed from the strain, but a swell of accomplishment filled him. Ha—this was him, single-beakedly rewriting the script into the hottest mutual-pampering sweet romance trope. What a heartwarming, China-good-pet story he made.

Hee hee hee.

Morning sunlight spilled through the glass windows, dappling the eyelids of the tall man on the camp cot.

Yan Tuo stirred, rubbed his eyes, and sat up with a flip.

The shirt slid off him onto the floor. Who’d put it there?

Probably Sun Lei. The likes of Old Cao who’d come back with him were rougher customers—no way they’d think of something so thoughtful.

Yan Tuo brushed it off without a second thought. Stepping out, he spotted the dimpled policewoman at her workstation and gave her a smiling nod of thanks.

Ignoring her faintly bewildered look, Yan Tuo quickly handled his morning routine. He’d planned a quick debrief in the conference room, but pushing the door open revealed the night-shift wrap-up crew still crashed out in a snoring, sprawling mess.

He couldn’t bring himself to wake them. Instead, he rounded up Cao Yiman, Zhao Ge, and Fang Ping to his own office.

“Hostage doing all right?”

Zhao Ge replied, “She’s fine. Two female officers from Nanmen Police Station took her to the hospital. Cut’s superficial—no stitches needed. Just badly shaken.”

Yan Tuo nodded. “Suspect’s down, but the real headaches are just starting. No testimony means the evidence chain has to be ironclad.”

Fang Ping, head of the Technical Group, gave a thumbs-up to show he was on it. Yan Tuo turned to the captain of the first squad. “Old Cao, mind digging into those prior cases? The beauty salon—I suspect it’s the primary scene for the Yu Moumou murder. Prioritize that.”

Cao Yiman snapped to attention. “Got it. I figured as much. Before we wrapped last night, I coordinated with Nanmen—they’ve sealed it off for now. Fang Ping and I’ll head over right away. No trace gets overlooked.”

Yan Tuo said, “Sounds good. You guys carry on. I fired my weapon, so reports to file and a full debrief with Captain Li.”

With the serious business out of the way, the tension from the entire previous day finally eased. Filled with admiration, Cao Yiman asked curiously, “Captain Yan, who exactly drew that beauty graffiti? It was freaking incredible—long wavy hair, fiery red lips. Even from way back through the glass door, I spotted that guy at a glance. Spot on, not a single difference.”

Yan Tuo had no answer.

Finding the suspect so quickly was pure luck, no doubt. But that graffiti had made a major contribution. As for who was behind it, he had zero clues.

Since it was a meritorious act, they couldn’t investigate the artist like a criminal suspect. If they cornered the person and dragged them out into the open, they might even have to slap them with charges of breaking into the boss’s office and vandalism.

Yan Tuo could only brush it off. “It was the kid from Dr. Zhao’s place who doodled it. No big deal—let’s just call it our good luck.”

Curled up at the entrance of his nest, ears perked as he eavesdropped, Bai Yiyi was filled with a string of question marks???

A kid?

My work as a soul painter and aesthetics master—you’re actually comparing it to some brat’s scribbles?

And here I’d felt sorry for you last night. Pitied you.

Yan Tuo, you heartless bastard!

The system’s delighted voice suddenly chimed in: “Yiyi, how’d you rack up 20 points all of a sudden?”