Zhou gave him no time to contemplate that. The Makarov was too far away to retrieve, so he did the unexpected and pressed the attack. He followed his punch with a roundhouse kick that struck Jiang in the thigh. It was designed less to punish than to incite a response, and it succeeded. Jiang pulled back the knife and recklessly thrust toward his opponent’s stomach.

Zhou was ready. He threw his left hand on Jiang’s wrist, easily shoving the parry aside. Using Jiang’s momentum, he pulled and twisted the knife-wielding wrist, propelling Jiang forward. Zhou continued the spinning motion, driving his opposite shoulder against Jiang’s arm with his full weight.

Jiang’s arm felt like it was being yanked from its socket, and he stumbled forward in agony. The knife dropped free, and he fell to the ground. In the blink of an eye, the knife was in Zhou’s hand, driving toward Jiang’s head. Zhou wanted to kill the man, and could have done so easily, but he resisted the impulse. Jiang would suffer more by rotting in a jail cell. He reversed the blade, striking Jiang below the ear with the butt of the knife. Jiang’s world turned black as the blow to his carotid artery cut the flow of blood to his brain. Zhou stood over him, catching his breath. A phone call to the People’s Armed Police would ensure the bully an unpleasant welcome when he awoke. But first Zhou had to catch the caravan.

The trucks had disappeared down the street. Zhou found the Makarov and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he flipped Jiang on his stomach and stripped off his jacket. With the man’s knife, he sliced off a strip of Jiang’s shirt for a bandage. Zhou’s right arm was wet and sticky, but the bleeding had already stopped. He’d have to mend himself on the fly.

Zhou jumped into the truck and gunned the motor, spraying the two prone men with a blanket of dust as he rumbled out of the lot toward Bayan Obo’s main highway. The mine was north of town, so he turned that direction and mashed the accelerator.

Cutting through traffic and passing wildly, he raised a symphony of honking horns and angry shouts. The traffic lessened as he neared the city’s northern limits, and the road began climbing through dry scrub hills. Cresting a ridge, he spotted the caravan a mile ahead, and he soon closed ranks with the last truck.