Just after 4 PM, in the private office that once belonged to Brother Dong—now belonging to Boss Hu, aka Michael—Manager Zhang Kai stood holding several pages of A4 paper covered in handwritten notes. He was reporting on the frenzied progress his team had made in just over half a day.
"Boss," Zhang Kai began, "I've had a... contact get in touch with a factory in Dongguan about that manned gyrocopter. They say they can meet all our requirements. Specifically, with two adult men on board, it can still carry at least a hundred kilos of cargo. With a full tank, it has a one-way range of 300 kilometers, and a top speed of at least 150 kph. Also, the engine is a diesel, just as you specified. The issue is the price—they want 90,000 yuan per unit. And they only handle production. If you get caught flying it, they take no responsibility."
Michael nodded silently. The manufacturer's caveat was something he had anticipated. The so-called "aerial tuk-tuk" occupied a legal gray area in the country. There were no explicit rules saying you couldn'tfly it, nor any saying you could. If you were lucky, you could fly with impunity. If you were unlucky, any number of relevant authorities could confiscate it.
Hearing this report, Michael felt a surge of satisfaction with Zhang Kai and his crew's capability. Every snake has its path, every rat its tunnel, he thought. Last time he was back, he'd spent hours online fruitlessly searching for an actual manufacturer. These guys had nailed it down so quickly. The performance specs promised by the factory indicated the gyrocopter had real practical utility. If nothing else, in the Wasteland, a squadron of these "aerial tuk-tuks" dropping Molotov cocktails from above would be a formidable force.
"Good work," Michael praised his manager. "Contact the factory again later. Ask if buying five units at once can get us a discount. If they can knock off three to five thousand, we'll pay the deposit immediately." Then, worried the praise might go to Zhang Kai's head, he added a critique: "By the way, now that you're part of 'Sweetwater Gulch Trading Company,' remember to drop those unsavory social habits. No more 'little brothers.' From now on, it's 'employees' or 'colleagues.' Something respectful, like 'Xiao Wang' or 'Xiao Liu.'"
'Sweetwater Gulch Trading Company,' what a lame name, Zhang Kai, the once-renowned "Little Knife" of Yangcheng, thought to himself, feeling a wave of exhaustion. He couldn't help an internal rant: Employees, my ass! 'Xiao Wang,' 'Xiao Liu,' my ass! I've been calling them 'little brothers' for years. Isn't that more affectionate?
The problem was, he really didn't dare just cut and run with his crew right now. The more he learned, the more mysterious and dangerous this bastard seemed. The casual way Michael had offered to "help with the body" had genuinely terrified him. Little Knife had no desire to end up being "helped" by this ruthless character someday.
Resigned, he looked back at his handwritten notes, preparing to report on the next item. God knows how this bastard comes up with so much crap, he thought. And this gyrocopter junk is just the first item...
For the next half hour or so, reports and instructions continued in Boss Hu's private office.
Zhang Kai: "The 50 tons of cement are sorted. The seller knows me, so he gave some face—20 yuan off per ton. Though he said unless you're building a bunker, you don't need that high a grade. Regular cement is more than enough."
Michael: "Good, do as you said. Get the standard grade. Find an employee who can drive, have them loaded and taken to the warehouse." As he spoke, Michael fished the warehouse and trailer keys from his bag and tossed them to Zhang Kai.
Silently pocketing the keys, the beleaguered Little Knife moved his finger down the A4 paper to the next procurement task.
Zhang Kai: "The canned fruit, dried seaweed, camouflage uniforms, and rubber-soled shoes are also lined up. Just as you requested: the foodstuff might have been in storage a while, but it's edible, won't kill anyone. The clothes and shoes are ugly but tough. Most importantly, cheap. A full set, clothes and shoes, is only 40 yuan."
Michael nodded in approval. The canned fruit and seaweed were to provide balanced nutrition for his key personnel. He wanted his people in good physical shape, especially since he aimed to cultivate a more elite fighting force—those capable of cultivating combat qi. Before proper qitraining, the body needed to be honed to its peak. Many of his guards, with their recent consistent diet, were getting there, but he felt they needed a final push with some "hard" supplements. The camouflage gear and shoes were for the increasingly severe temperature swings in the Wasteland. It wasn't right to have people standing guard in near-freezing weather wearing promotional T-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops.
Finally, after nearly half an hour, the briefing and tasking session drew to a close. Procurement and Baggage Manager Zhang Kai gave his final assurance:
"I've spoken with the owner of the kitchen waste recycling company. They'll continue handling the collection, but Auntie Fatty can get the slop from them for free now. How does that sound, Boss?"
How did it sound? Michael was all for it. This arrangement meant Auntie Fatty would earn considerably less, but the profit from processing it should still give her enough incentive to continue. It was practically the best possible outcome.
He called out, and the big-waved accountant, Zhang Mi, came in. Michael tossed a bank card onto the desk.
"Miss Zhang, calculate with Manager Zhang how much this batch of purchases will cost and make the payments. The card PIN is 00051. Afterwards, get the invoices and receipts from Manager Zhang. The accounts must be clear."
Soon, Michael's phone buzzed with a series of payment notifications. His account balance, which had been around 800,000 yuan, dwindled to just a few tens of thousands before the procurement was complete. This was, by far, the easiest procurement run Michael had undertaken since discovering the Wasteland. He'd spent the whole time sitting in a cool, air-conditioned office without lifting a finger.
The only slight regret was how fast the money disappeared. But that was fine. The pouch of diamond jewelry he'd brought back hadn't been liquidated yet. Those things look small, but they should be worth a pretty penny, he thought.
Thus, he called Zhang Mi back into the office.
"Do you know the channels Brother Dong used to pawn or sell jewelry?" he asked directly. "I happen to have some pieces to move. Also," he added casually, pulling out the small pouch, "I'm not familiar with this stuff. Do you recognize this brand? Any idea what they might be worth?"
Having maintained her improperrelationship with Brother Dong for so long, Comrade Zhang Mi naturally knew many of his disposal channels. The problem was, she wasn't about to divulge that information without some benefit.
Unfortunately for her, her defenses crumbled completely the moment Michael nonchalantly upended the pouch, letting a dozen pieces of jewelry clatter onto the desk. She recognized the small "Cartier" logo instantly. But more importantly, looking at those sparkling diamonds, her mind went blank for a second. Where Michael saw "tiny bits," her professional eye saw stones that were clearly over a carat—what many shameless social climbers would call "pigeon eggs."
In that moment, the accountant with the questionable lifestyle made a firm decision: she was going to stick with this lousy "Sweetwater Gulch Trading Company" for the long haul.