Chapter 36: The Fisherman Reaps the Benefit?

Lin Qi’s deputy died without ever understanding who had killed him, for he was the first among all CIA agents on the island to fall victim to the sniper’s rifle.

“Capture the ringleader first”—one of the cardinal rules of a sniper.

Immediately afterward, every CIA agent, whether storming the small house or busy loading supplies onto the speedboat, was subjected to a sudden assault! The attackers were every bit as ruthless as Navy SEALs—swift, merciless, each shot fatal. Even more chilling, they refused to accept surrender. No survivors were left behind.

In an instant, the entire beach ran red with blood, bodies strewn everywhere.

Wang Chen, Ma Tian, and Fang Qiang—three men who had resigned themselves to certain death—peered out from the bullet holes in the small house, utterly stunned by the carnage. Fortunately, the ordeal had honed their nerves; without hesitation, they crawled out through the hole Fang Qiang had hastily dug. Wang Chen supported Ma Tian while Fang Qiang carried the battered interrogation equipment case. Legs churning, the three of them dashed toward the island’s jungle as fast as they could.

It was only a few dozen meters, but stray bullets zipped past from all directions. Luckily, they weren’t the attackers’ target—perhaps the assailants were deliberately letting them go. Stumbling and tumbling, the trio finally rolled into the sheltering grass of the jungle.

Ignoring the sweat and the stinging cuts from coarse grass, they lay panting in the undergrowth, stealing glances back at the beach.

The battle had already ended. The black-clad raiders swiftly gathered the documents the CIA agents had found, then checked the corpses. Regardless of whether an agent was merely wounded, each one received a final bullet to the head, ensuring no one survived. The small house the three had just escaped was searched, but perhaps because the scene was too gruesome and the bodies too mangled, the attackers refrained from shooting inside. Instead, they quickly carried all the CIA corpses and useless gear into the house, tossed in several incendiary grenades, and turned the place into an inferno.

Faced with this, the three men hardly dared to breathe, watching as the raiders departed the island by speedboat, disappearing into the endless blue waves.

“What the hell, who on earth were those people?” Ma Tian finally let himself collapse onto the sand, limp as a ragdoll now that the crisis had passed.

“You ask me? Who should I ask? Be grateful you’re still breathing!” Wang Chen rolled his eyes and sprawled out on the ground. He would never usually talk to people like this, but having just been snatched from the jaws of death, the filter on his tongue was gone.

Fang Qiang, the oldest of the three, focused on practical matters. “Looks like we’re safe for now, but what next? This is a deserted island—we can’t just sit here waiting to die.”

“Right. First, let’s find some place to hide. The research vessel will come eventually.” Ma Tian agreed, peeling away the cloth from his wound to let it air. The gash was large but not deep; the recent run had reopened it, but the bleeding was manageable.

“Hey? What’s that white thing?” Lying flat, Wang Chen suddenly spotted a white streak in the sky not far away. He pointed it out to Ma Tian and Fang Qiang.

“A jet? That can’t be… not again?!” Ma Tian squinted.

Fang Qiang shook his head. “It’s way too fast for a plane. Look, it’s already crossed half the sky in just a moment. It looks… like it’s heading right for us.”

“If it’s not a plane, what is it? That trajectory is so strange.” A chill crept over Ma Tian, and the other two shivered as well.

“Isn’t that… a missile?”

“Of course it is!”

“Yeah, I saw a flight path like that in training films back in the army—definitely a missile.”

“Don’t debate—run!”

“Where’s it going to hit? How do we know which way to run?”

“Doesn’t matter, it won’t target the jungle! Head for the forest!”

The three scrambled desperately into the jungle’s depths, not daring to look back. The island’s forest wasn’t dense, but the grass was sharp enough to cut skin. Even though they wore military trousers, their upper bodies were soon streaked with blood from the undergrowth.

With no machetes or tools to clear a path, their progress was slow. They barely managed a hundred meters before a deep rumble sounded behind them. An explosion thundered, the ground shook, and a blast of heat and debris—natural and manmade—swept over them!

There was no need to drop down; the shockwave hurled them to the ground, leaving them prone as the scorching air rolled overhead.

Luckily, they’d gotten far enough from the blast center. By the time the shockwave reached them, its power had waned—otherwise, they’d have been roasted alive.

The “warrior nation” truly kept its word: they’d said the missile had no warhead, and it didn’t—just a tremendous load of solid fuel. When it struck, the burning propellant alone was enough to obliterate the drug factory and a wide swath of beach.

Anyone with an IQ above eighty, watching the satellite footage of the attack, could guess who the raiders were and how they’d pinpointed every CIA stronghold with such precision. Of course, Russia’s powerful leader would never admit involvement—he’d just sneer, “Bite me if you can; if not, stop whining.” Economic sanctions? The world’s in the grip of a pandemic and global economic collapse. Wall Street brokers are queuing to jump out of windows—sanctions are meaningless. Nuclear threats? The world’s already in chaos! Are you hoping for total annihilation? Nuke the place twice, sure, revenge is served, but then everyone’s doomed.

Since the outbreak, every nation was preoccupied with disaster relief and survival. International competition was a contest of hard power—if you lost, it wasn’t just a fly biting you; you’d better clean yourself off and accept it.

By the time the CIA director and ODNI leadership realized, from satellite footage, that an insider had faked their death during the beach assault, escaped with all the pathogen data, and rendezvoused with Wembert’s special forces for safe extraction to a Russian Yasen-class nuclear submarine, it was hours too late.

Now, the world knew what it meant for the eagle to seize the rabbit while the grizzly lurked behind. As for the three special agents who’d survived the missile’s “dummy warhead,” nobody cared—except their own country. But first, the three had to survive the island.

“We’re damned lucky—a missile explodes and we’re still alive. Looks like we’re safe now… Wait! The fire’s spreading—head upwind!” Noticing thick smoke creeping over the beach and threatening the whole island, Fang Qiang heaved Ma Tian to his feet. “Move!”

“C’mon, Fang, Uncle Fang, the flames are still two hundred meters away, and the nearest fire’s at least several dozen meters off, separated by all that sand. It’s a natural firebreak—it can’t cross,” Ma Tian protested, trying to sit back down.

“You don’t know a damn thing!” Fang Qiang swore. “When I flew Zhi-8s, I did firefighting missions. At this distance, embers can fly over in minutes! The whole island could catch! We need to find another beach fast. If it gets worse, we’ll have to jump into the sea!”

Wang Chen thought Fang Qiang was being a bit paranoid and was about to side with Ma Tian, when a half-burned A4 page, buoyed by the heat, drifted down ten meters away. Instantly, the grass began to smolder.

No more words—run!

The fire wasn’t quite as fierce as Fang Qiang feared, but the smoke was thick and heavy. Though the vegetation here was dry, the roots were juicy, so the blaze didn’t spread easily, but the choking smoke was relentless. The three men ran upwind, escaping the worst of it, and stumbled upon a clear stream. Parched for hours, they plunged in, clothes and all, and drank their fill.

Sated, Fang Qiang sighed, “Looks like we’re—”

“No! Fang, Uncle Fang, you’re my ancestor! Don’t say those words!” Ma Tian interrupted hastily. “Twice now, you’ve jinxed us every time you say it!”

“Nonsense! Don’t be so superstitious at your age. I don’t look like a walking disaster, do I?” Fang Qiang pouted in mock disdain.

All three burst into laughter, giddy with the joy of survival. But as their laughter faded, a somber silence settled. Ten veteran agents had perished—only the three “rookies” survived. No one mentioned it, but the weight of it pressed on them.

Perhaps it was responsibility. Perhaps, sacrifice.

“No matter what, I won’t let their deaths be in vain,” Ma Tian muttered, clenching his fists.

Wang Chen glanced at this “sunny youth,” but said nothing, lips pressed tight, silently making up his mind. Fang Qiang, more pragmatic, murmured, “When the fire dies down, let’s find their remains. At least bring them back, so future generations have a place to mourn.”

“Right, you’re absolutely right.” Ma Tian nodded, but his stomach growled so loudly it nearly drowned out his reply.

Seeing Ma Tian’s embarrassment, Fang Qiang stood. “You’re hurt—don’t move. I’ll go find something to eat.”

“No, you’re injured too. Let me go.” Wang Chen rose, bracing himself, but barely had he stepped ashore when four men leaped from the grass by the stream. Three brandished machetes and pistols, the fourth leveled an assault rifle, all shouting at them in a torrent of words.

Survival instincts kicked in. The three, back to back in the stream, drew their own pistols, covering all directions. Fang Qiang gripped his Colt Python in both hands; Wang Chen and Ma Tian each wielded two Glocks—seventeen rounds in the Glock 17s left by the dead CIA agents, ten in the backup Glock 26s. At less than twenty meters, even against an assault rifle, they were confident they could take several lives before falling.

The ambushers were stunned—these three Asians had five pistols between them! Their own worn-out AK-74 and battered handguns were no match. Trying to close in with machetes was a joke. Charging into the stream would slow them down, and facing gun barrels in the water was suicide.

The standoff dragged on. After some shouted exchanges, Wang Chen, seeing that these rough, half-feral men weren’t making a move, turned to Ma Tian. “How’s your English? Can you talk to them?”

“I joined the police right after high school. What do you think?” Ma Tian rolled his eyes.

Apparently, Wang Chen was the only university graduate, so he braced himself and called out, “We are Chinese. We are not evil.”

He couldn’t remember the word for “malicious.”

Since someone had spoken, the leader of the ambushers felt obliged to reply. His English, heavily accented with Spanish, was hard to follow. After a few muddled exchanges, no one really understood the other, but the tension thawed a little. The leader lowered his AK-74 and flicked on the safety; the others gradually put down their weapons as well.

The three likewise holstered their pistols. Led by Wang Chen, they waded ashore to shake hands and make peace.

That Wang Chen so easily became their spokesman left Ma Tian feeling a bit sour, but there was nothing he could do—Wang Chen’s English met at least the minimum university requirement. But Ma Tian was cheerful by nature and soon forgot about it; better to let someone else get bombarded by Spanish-accented English.

Through broken conversation, Wang Chen learned that these four Latin Americans were survivors left behind by the drug cartel. They had built a makeshift camp in a hidden corner of the island. The three Chinese, resigned to their fate, decided after a brief discussion to follow these men to their hideout.

No one could have guessed that at the heart of this volcanic island, spanning over ten kilometers, there was a flat stone cavern formed by a lava flow. A sinkhole above served as a natural vent; the thick rock shielded the cave from the equatorial sun, and the spacious interior—hundreds of square meters—was well concealed. Without a local guide or a massive search party, it would never be found.

Even better, a stream bubbled from a spring nearby, bringing coolness and clear, sweet water to the cave.

As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, the three men noticed women and children in the camp. Their hearts, which had been tense with suspicion, finally relaxed. These rough-looking men wouldn’t start a fight in front of women and children, would they?

“Hello, I am… well, let’s say the leader here. You can call me Joanna.” To Wang Chen’s surprise, the person with the best English in the camp was a middle-aged woman. Joanna looked about forty, with the sharp features of a typical South American. Her steel-gray eyes were cold, not conventionally attractive by Eastern standards, but there was a certain mature allure about her. She wore a baggy tank top and shorts, a strip of cloth tied under her chest for modesty.

“Oh, hello, we—we are Chinese, um…police?” Wang Chen faltered, unsure what to say, and just used the word “police.”

Joanna, unfazed, smiled. “I know you’re Chinese CIA. You came about the drug factory.”

“Alright, if you say so.” Wang Chen had no idea how to reply, his rumbling stomach making things even more awkward.

“We watched the beach battle from afar. It was… very, very brutal.” Joanna’s words were slow, as if she rarely spoke English.

“Hey, they have squid! Live squid! So fat! Wang Chen, tell them it’s a crime not to grill this with chili, oil, and onions. I’ll show you what I can do today!” Fang Qiang, his ugly face alight with glee at the sight of the squid, made Ma Tian cover his eyes in embarrassment. He admitted that Zhang Fu was right—on the battlefield, Fang Qiang was dependable. But off the battlefield, how had this ugly uncle become such a clown? An hour ago, he’d barely escaped death; half an hour ago, they’d been at gunpoint! These people were ninety-nine percent drug cartel—how could Fang Qiang be so friendly, even offering to cook for them?

Unbelievable.

Wang Chen was also at a loss, but under Joanna’s searching gaze, he dutifully translated Fang Qiang’s request. Joanna looked at the odd man, then broke into a smile and nodded to the burly man beside her, speaking rapidly in Spanish.

The burly man, whom Wang Chen had shaken hands with earlier, sported a thick beard and a chest crisscrossed with scars and dense hair. At Joanna’s instructions, he nodded and went to help Fang Qiang with the cooking.

“You just escaped hell. Your friend needs to do something he enjoys to relax. Don’t be embarrassed—I’ve seen this many times. By the way, this is my son. You can call him Pablo.”

“What?” Wang Chen blurted out in his northeastern dialect. That guy looked at least thirty! Her son?! Did she have him at ten, or is she actually fifty and I should be calling her ‘auntie’?

Joanna, pleased with her little prank, smiled. “Pablo is only twenty-two. He just looks older.”

“Oh, sorry, I lost my composure. Your son is, um, very cool.” Wang Chen gathered himself, tucking his jaw back in. The little joke eased the tension between them, though he was careful not to pry about what had happened, why they were hiding in the cave, or what their plans were. Growing up in an auto shop, Wang Chen had learned: when you don’t know what’s going on and the people around you aren’t close, don’t ask too many questions. Watch more, ask less, don’t reveal your ignorance.

Often, the answers lie in a person’s gestures and actions.

Joanna was struck by Wang Chen’s patience. Their conversation meandered from her prematurely mature son to the children in the camp, to their food sources. Seven or eight minutes passed, and by the time the first batch of grilled squid was ready, the two hadn’t touched on serious topics. Wang Chen, despite being a survivor desperate for aid, hadn’t mentioned communication tools or rescue once.

So young, yet so composed—Joanna glanced at her own son, who had already been won over by the aroma of Chinese cooking and was now calling Fang Qiang “brother.” She couldn’t help but shake her head in admiration.

No comparison.

The turning point came from Fang Qiang. The first batch of squid went to the women and children; the second went to the eager, hungry Pablo. Chewing contentedly, Pablo brought some to Wang Chen and Joanna, saying, “Mom, sparing the Chinese was the right call. Their cooking is amazing. Even Colombian chefs can’t do this.”

Joanna took the hot squid, blew on it, and took a small bite. Her eyes lit up, but she restrained herself. In her youth, she’d tasted countless delicacies, but years of semi-captivity on the island had made her forget such pleasures; now, all she wished for was to fill her belly.

Wang Chen noticed her subtle change. Just as he was about to speak, Fang Qiang called out from afar, “If you eat someone’s food, Wang Chen, this is as much as I can help you.”

Heh, none of them are simple. Fang Qiang’s “foolishness” was an act; he clearly had his own ideas. Using food to win over the South Americans was a clever move, and Wang Chen was satisfied. He took a bite of squid and asked, “Don’t you get to eat like this often?”

Joanna considered inflating her importance, hoping to scare this young man and gain leverage in future negotiations. But her companion’s resourcefulness—turning dried squid into a feast—betrayed her. Watching the children eye the food hungrily, and the men trying to look stern while stealing glances at Fang Qiang, she could only sigh, skip the pretense, and get straight to the point. “Do you believe in God?”

“No,” Wang Chen replied honestly.

“Yes, you Chinese seem to have no faith,” Joanna said. “I wish you were sent by God to save us. After escaping the cartel, life here has been very, very hard. We live in constant fear of death. So I am gambling—betting the Chinese can spare us, or at least not treat us like the Americans or Russians. They all worship the same God, but do everything to kill us.”

If you people hadn’t created a global pandemic with your drug factory, no one would care about you, Wang Chen thought, but he kept his face impassive, waiting for Joanna to continue.