Chapter 19: The Great Thief Liu Baoshan

Liu Baoshan pulled out a glossy black Type 77 pistol from behind Zhang Hongyu’s waist after watching him die. He played with the gun in his hand for a moment, expertly removed the magazine, and found it fully loaded—his face broke into a wide grin. Seven rounds were more than enough to take out Jiang Yuanqi’s two bodyguards.

After tucking the pistol into his own waistband, he glanced at the corpse on the floor, thought for a moment, then carried it into the bedroom and laid it on the bed. He covered it with a blanket, shut the windows, turned the air conditioning to its lowest setting, closed the door, washed off the blood splattered on his body, changed into clean clothes, concealed the dagger and pistol against his skin, gathered all his personal items used here, cleaned every spot he had touched, and was just about to leave when he paused, thought briefly, then soaked his bloodstained shirt in Zhang Hongyu’s blood and wrote five large characters on a prominent wall in the living room: “KILLING A CORRUPT COP TO REMOVE A PUBLIC MENACE.”

Having finished everything, he looked around, then burst into a loud, wheezing laugh, bending over at the waist as he stared at the five gory characters on the wall. After a moment, he straightened up, adjusted his clothes, bowed slightly—then couldn’t help but flash a twisted grin. He quickly covered his mouth, turned, shut the door, and descended the stairs.

Tonight, Jiang Yuanqi would dine at Hongde Restaurant inside the Yinzuo Building. How did Liu Baoshan know? It was simple: he’d seen the restaurant’s one-year anniversary promotional ads. During months of reconnaissance and surveillance, he’d learned that this entire bustling commercial district belonged to Jiang Yuanqi, and that Hongde Restaurant was a place Jiang visited at least once a week. As both landlord and major client, Jiang Laoban was undoubtedly one of the VIP guests invited for the anniversary celebration.

This kind of crowded setting was exactly Liu Baoshan’s style. In his own words, the more people there were, the easier it was to create chaos—and the easier to escape. Deep down, he deeply admired the “Century Thief” Zhang Qiang, and he longed to pull off a massive heist that would make everyone remember his name: Liu Baoshan.

Tonight, then, was the perfect moment to strike—the very opportunity he had long dreamed of to make his name.

The target was set, the weapon secured, the escape route planned—all that remained was a getaway vehicle. Liu Baoshan strolled slowly downstairs, mentally replaying every step of his operation. “Hmm. Check if there’s a suitable car in the compound—steal one!” He made his decision quickly.

As he descended, thinking, he reached the ground-floor entrance just as a tall, white-haired old man walked past him. The man’s build seemed familiar, but Liu couldn’t recall where he’d seen him. Preoccupied with finding a car, he paid him no mind.

It was barely past five in the afternoon; most residents hadn’t returned from work, the courtyard was nearly empty, and cars were scarce. Liu Baoshan sauntered toward the gate, where he spotted a half-new black Volkswagen sedan parked by the roadside near the compound. He glanced inside—no one there. Perfect. Common, unremarkable, reliable, wouldn’t break down during escape, decent power, good range, better than the police’s Santana. This was the one. Liu Baoshan took a liking to the car and waited patiently nearby, watching for the owner.

He didn’t want to steal it—not just because of his self-styled thief’s pride and flair, but for practical reasons: if he stole it, the owner would report it immediately, and the police might take notice of the car before he even finished his plan. His operation was hours away, and he had no time to make fake plates, which carried its own risks. Better to wait for the owner, hijack him, then dispose of both car and man afterward—far more perfect. Besides, he was confident the owner would return soon, because the car’s parking spot clearly indicated it was temporary.

Liu Baoshan’s guess was spot-on. He might be a reckless, arrogant thug—but he was no fool.

Sure enough, less than half an hour later, a familiar figure stepped out of the compound gate and walked straight toward the Volkswagen. It was the tall, white-haired man! Liu Baoshan didn’t hesitate. He feigned approaching from the front of the car, and just as the man reached the door, fumbled for his keys, and opened it, Liu pretended to ask for directions: “Comrade, excuse me—could you tell me how to get to Yinzuo Building?”

Ren Jiahe, disguised as an elderly man, wanted only to get rid of him quickly. He raised his hand to point behind him—when, in that instant, he saw the man asking for directions produce a black pistol as if by magic, its muzzle subtly raised beneath the man’s loose work pants, aimed squarely at his crotch.

A chill shot through Ren Jiahe’s groin. He shuddered, about to raise his hands—when the man whispered: “Don’t move. Open the back door.” Ren forced himself to calm down, his mind racing: This guy isn’t police. Could he be a confederate of the little turtle, here for revenge? No. A carjacker? But this car’s worth nothing! His thoughts spun through possibilities, yet his body obeyed, opening the rear door.

“Come in,” Liu Baoshan ordered. Ren Jiahe bent and slid into the back seat—only to see Liu Baoshan slip in right behind him.

Ren Jiahe noticed the man still carried a backpack on his back. Once inside, Liu kept the gun trained on him, while his other hand grabbed the backpack and dropped it onto the seat between them. “Open it,” Liu ordered.

Ren Jiahe obeyed, unzipping the pack. Liu continued: “Take out the contents.” Ren glanced at him, reached in, and pulled out what looked like a vest. The moment he held it up, his bladder nearly gave out. The vest was real—but wrapped around it were two long yellow strips, and in the center, a blinking red LED screen.

“Bomb!?” Ren Jiahe blurted out.

“Heh. Good eye. Saves me the trouble of explaining. Put it on yourself,” Liu said, pressing the gun against Ren Jiahe’s head.

In this situation, no matter how fast Ren Jiahe’s mind raced, he had no choice. He trembled as he slipped the death vest over his torso. Liu inspected him, then said: “There’s a shirt in the bag. Put it on over the vest.”

Shaking, Ren Jiahe pulled out a white shirt from the bag and donned it over the vest—now, from a distance, the device beneath was invisible. Liu nodded approvingly. “Good. Thanks for cooperating. Listen: this is a remote detonator. The remote’s in my pocket. To blow it, I don’t even need to pull it out—I just tap my thigh like this—*bam!*—and it goes off. Got it?”

“Ah!” Ren Jiahe screamed in terror. *Slap!* A sharp crack echoed. Liu Baoshan had mimed tapping his thigh—and Ren Jiahe had flinched, screaming. Liu backhanded him across the face, silencing the cry instantly.

“Useless piece of shit! Just do what I say—drive for me, obey me, and you’ll walk away alive. Understand?”

Ren Jiahe knew he was meat on the chopping block. He nodded meekly, asking cautiously: “Brother, where are we going now?” He assumed the carjacker would head out of the city. But Liu replied: “Drive ahead—to the other side of Hongde Restaurant.”