The Bazaar of the Wakhan Corridor

After leaving his homeland, Hou Rui felt both relieved and tense. On one hand, he no longer needed to hide or cover up, but on the other, he was stepping into a chaotic battlefield where multiple forces vied for control—a place where death was real and imminent.

He changed into deliberately torn and weathered local attire, wrapped a sand-proof scarf around his face, and became indistinguishable from the local people. Hou Rui moved swiftly through the narrow mountain valley, taking advantage of the night to traverse this uncertain region.

He dared not walk too close to the main road. Since the 1970s, Afghanistan—the graveyard of empires—had been embroiled in war, and who knew how many landmines lay buried along these vital routes. If he were to step on one, his death would be utterly meaningless.

So, Hou Rui chose faint paths along the mountainside. This doubled his exhaustion and halved his progress. He trudged all night, barely covering ten kilometers.

At dawn, he crept into a jumble of rocks and snatched two hours of sleep.

After a brief rest, Hou Rui spent a long while observing. Only after confirming there was not a soul in the open valley did he resume his journey.

The scorching sun beat down, sweat soaked his brow, and the swirling desert dust quickly coated him in thick grime. Eventually, he felt as if his skin were encased in a shell of sand.

As he silently cursed the organization for this damned mission, a sand-colored jeep suddenly roared toward him, trailing a plume of dust. Hou Rui immediately hid behind a massive boulder, eyes wide, carefully watching this unexpected visitor and calculating whether he could seize the vehicle.

Unexpectedly, the jeep stopped right in front of him. A man dressed in a snow-white tunic and patterned vest, an Arab headscarf atop his head, stepped out. The man surveyed the valley, then called out in fluent English, “Wild Dog,” toward the area where Hou Rui was hiding.

Damn! It was someone from the organization.

Hou Rui rolled his eyes in resignation and reluctantly stepped out from behind the boulder, his gaze fixed on the man, wary of any surprise. He walked slowly and steadily to the jeep. “I’m En, Wild Dog.” He doubted he’d ever get used to the codename.

“Get in. There's still over seventy kilometers ahead; you wouldn't want to walk all the way,” said the bearded man, climbing into the jeep. Hou Rui took the passenger seat, and the vehicle sped off at 180 kilometers per hour.

Along the way, Hou Rui didn’t know what to say, and the bearded man remained silent. Gradually, shepherds and their flocks appeared by the roadside, and tents could be seen dotting the horizon.

“Are we going straight to Azabad?” Hou Rui glanced at his wristwatch; the countdown showed twenty-seven hours left until November 7th.

“No, to the nearest nomad market.”

“Are we waiting for other mission members?”

“No need to wait. If the Red Task fails to arrive on time, the organization will wipe them out directly.”

“So what are we doing at the market?”

“Receiving equipment issued by the organization.”

About an hour later, the jeep entered a bustling market teeming with broken-down vehicles, camels, sheep, and crowds. Amid incomprehensible shouts and haggling, Hou Rui got out and followed the bearded man into a sprawling black tent, joining eleven others whose faces were covered, their gender unclear.

Four Kyrgyz youths with white caps carried in two enormous wooden crates. When the lids were lifted, they revealed a heap of weapons and gear.

Desert-camouflaged bulletproof vests, tactical helmets, neck-mounted radios, infrared night vision goggles, anti-mine boots, and more. As for firearms, the selection seemed endless: mainstream models from America and Europe, all available. Hou Rui’s head spun from the sheer variety.

There were also forty-caliber grenade launchers, directional mines, stun grenades, shoulder-fired rockets, flashbangs, smoke bombs, and a dazzling array of auxiliary equipment.

“Help yourselves. Take what you need, and if you have special requests, report to me. I’ll do my best to meet them within twenty-four hours,” said a rotund man with an air of tribal leadership, his face carrying a hint of ingratiation.

“7.62 sniper incendiary rounds, tungsten core armor-piercing ammo,” said a woman shrouded head-to-toe in black gauze, the first to speak. The others quickly followed with their requests.

“Magnetic timed explosives.”

“Taser gun.”

“Tactical tomahawks, two.”

“Silencer, tranquilizer rounds.”

A subordinate behind the bulky chief swiftly recorded all the demands, working for ten minutes before the tent finally quieted as everyone inspected their chosen weapons and gear. Sitting in a corner, Hou Rui selected a Type 09 military rifle, a standard nine-millimeter pistol, bulletproof vest, anti-mine boots, flashbangs, and high-explosive grenades.

Seeing the group satisfied with their equipment, the chief left contentedly. The bearded man who had picked up Hou Rui suddenly announced, “After nightfall, we depart for Azabad. Mission briefing will be conducted there, make preparations.”

“Tat-tat-tat!” Suddenly, his words were interrupted by a burst of gunfire.

In an instant, everyone around Hou Rui responded with textbook tactical movements: some hugged their guns and dropped to the ground, others crouched and readied their weapons for possible assault, and some took cover behind the tent’s larger furnishings. But what astonished Hou Rui most was the woman who had requested sniper armor-piercing rounds. She remained calmly seated, her hands manipulating her rifle without so much as a tremor.

As if sensing Hou Rui’s thoughts, the woman remarked blandly, “From the sound, the trigger hasn’t been released; with the precision of an AK-47, that won’t hit anything.”

Before Hou Rui could reply, the chief who had just left darted back into the tent with surprising agility. He pressed himself against the tent frame, shouting a rapid string of words outside. Hou Rui couldn’t understand a thing, but the bearded man clearly could. He translated, “It’s Pashto. He says a gang of bandits has arrived, and the chief is organizing his men for defense.”

“Do they need our help?” asked someone, rising from the floor to address the bearded man, who in turn communicated with the chief. After a moment, he announced, “The chief says no. Their tribe’s warriors can repel the enemy. We, as guests, need not intervene.”

Since help was not required, Hou Rui’s group stayed put. The bearded man stationed two at the entrance, and the rest remained quietly inside, leaving the Kyrgyz to handle the situation.

Unfortunately, reality proved harsher than hope. Ten minutes after the first shots, gunfire outside grew fiercer, with screams and cries of women and children interspersed, indicating the chief’s men were failing to control the chaos.

“Enemy targets approaching, distance two hundred seventy yards, about forty in number,” someone at the entrance reported.

“If we drag this out, it’ll draw more attention. If our presence is exposed, we’re all dead,” interjected a man armed with a forty-millimeter grenade launcher.

“Act now. We’ll end the fight in a minute,” the woman with the sniper rifle agreed.

The final push came with a rocket fired by the attackers, striking a small truck not far from the tent and sending debris flying into their own tent.

“One minute countdown. Suppress the enemy, then we move out immediately!” The bearded man rapidly issued orders: “You and you, prepare the vehicles for evacuation. You, provide fire support. You, cover the sniper.” As he spoke, he pointed at Hou Rui, pairing him with the woman.

At his command, everyone sprang into action. The two guarding the entrance poked their rifles outside and opened fire. Those tasked with vehicle prep sliced open the back of the tent and ran out without looking back. The designated fire support moved toward a spot with sparser gunfire. Hou Rui, left with his Type 09, took position beside the woman.

“Sniper rangefinding?” the woman asked tersely.

“Not very skilled,” Hou Rui admitted.

“Then cover me,” she replied, pulling a table over and laying prone atop it. Hou Rui watched her aim and fire, aim and fire, repeating the motions swiftly and without hesitation, emptying her five-round magazine in one go.

At this point, the others joined the battle from positions around the tent. With two explosive rounds, the bandits were stunned, followed by Hou Rui’s group’s swift assault. Facing the hail of bullets, the gang disintegrated instantly; after their leaders were sniped, the rest quickly became scattered corpses.

When Hou Rui stepped out of the tent again, the once bustling, lively marketplace had been transformed into a field of corpses and ashes. A group of women in black robes rushed out, wailing over the bodies of the fallen, while the men hurried to extinguish fires burning everywhere.

“Let’s go!” said the bearded man, climbing into the sand-colored jeep. Hou Rui and the woman got into the canvas-covered pickup truck behind, and the group quickly left the market.

The two vehicles sped away, unscathed from the brief skirmish. Hou Rui was impressed by the prowess of the organization’s operatives, especially the woman beside him; he had checked enemy corpses and found five shot precisely through the brow—one shot, one kill.

“Impressive marksmanship. You must have served the organization for a long time,” Hou Rui ventured, thinking it wise to get acquainted with someone so skilled.

The woman remained quiet, cradling her rifle, ignoring him entirely.

“I’m—” Hou Rui was about to try again, but the woman’s radio suddenly crackled. He heard the bearded man's voice faintly: “Six hundred meters to the right, suspicious target spotted.”