A bitter wind kicked up a dusty whirlwind at the end of the alley, rattling the plastic bags overflowing from a long dumpster. Muffled snarls came from the shadows, a dog, guarding some prized piece of trash. The little group moved past quickly, showing they were no threat. As they passed the dumpster, the area behind the apartment buildings opened into a tree-covered courtyard. Spring hadn’t had time to green the lawns, but small amber lights on concrete posts formed to resemble ancient stone lanterns lit gravel walkways, bamboo gardens, and a brook that babbled over hauled-in rocks, courtesy of the pump that recirculated the captive water. It was all very bucolic at first glance, but the slightest bit of scrutiny revealed it was fake.
Medina nodded toward the glowing window through a copse of wrist-thick bamboo across a painted footbridge at the center of the courtyard. Clay tile and dragon carvings on the building’s wooden beams made Medina feel as if she’d stepped back into a more ancient China, but the colored lights of a television flashing inside against the paper blinds brought her back to the mission at hand. Medina slid a hand in her pocket again, reassured by the weight of the pistol.
A gaudy slurry of blaring music and studio gunfire spilled from under the wood-framed door.
Special Police Captain Lo Han, who had given himself the Westernized name of Kenny — was said to be an avid fan of video games and action movies — Westerns, gangster flicks, space operas, it did not matter. The bloodier the action, the better.
In that respect, Kenny Lo was about to get his wish.
Medina Tohti grieved for her family every minute of the day. Her husband was dead. She would never see her daughter again. Loneliness and despair pressed so hard at the back of her throat that she could hardly breathe. Food ceased to have any taste.
Her only solace came from watching Mamut. He knew the high cost of freedom, and was all too willing to pay it.
A true believer, Ma “Mamut” Jianyu was the son of a Han father and Uyghur mother. He’d been an officer in the People’s Liberation Army Second Artillery, learning hand-to-hand combat, field tactics, strategy, and, most important, the tactical methods of the Chinese military and police.
Ma taught doctrine as much as he attacked targets, ensuring his flock of nameless fighters were focused on the same righteous cause. Their fight was not, he said, a religious one. Religion was decided by the heart, not the gun. No, their struggle was for independence from the Chinese boot. Every action they took had to be done under the notion that they were agents of the legitimate free state of East Turkestan. The other “Stans” in Central Asia had gained their independence after the Soviet Union dissolved. It stood to reason that the Uyghur Autonomous Region should be afforded the same treatment by China.
It made no sense to ask the tyrant for independence. One simply had to act independently. Wuming — the Nameless — were soldiers, agents of their legitimate state, fighting a war.
Mamut ran his operations with the righteous indignation of an Israeli hit squad, the brutality of a Russian active measures unit, and the sophisticated finesse of a Hollywood assassin. Like drug lords in Mexico and South America, he employed falcons — young people who acted as his spies. Being the most heavily militarized area of the world came with a price. Youth, even nationalistic Chinese youth, were uncomfortable with the oppressive surveillance tactics of the Bingtuan. Everyone had something to hide.
A few questions to the right bureaucrat’s disgruntled daughter revealed that officers from the special police detachment down the block often commandeered the apartment complex’s community center, chasing off the resident teenagers who liked to smoke weed and play video games in the wee hours of the morning. Captain Lo and two of his friends had just returned from a three-day trip to Karamay with a truckload of Uyghur separatists who would be put to work in the oil fields as part of their reeducation curriculum. It made sense that these road-weary Bingtuan officers would come here to blow off a little steam.
With his pistol in his left hand, Perhat checked the door with his right. It was unlocked, so he pushed it open a crack.
The knob was on the left and Mamut stood on that side of the frame, ready to slip in the moment his Uyghur friend pushed it open on his signal. Medina stood behind Perhat, her pistol out of her pocket now, clutched in both hands, pointed at the ground between her boots. It was her job to protect their rear until they made entry, at which point she would be third in, behind Perhat.
More shooting punctuated the loud music of a movie soundtrack.
Perhat reached behind him and tapped Medina on the elbow, signifying they were about to make entry. The door yawned open a hair, allowing the small team a quick glance to orient themselves.
