Chapter 6: Black Moses (4)
"You're Black Moses's dog — so what?"
Duan Po coldly supplied the dying declaration he hadn't managed to finish, stepped forward, and caught the unconscious girl just in time, scooping her effortlessly into his arms.
The mercenary motorcade came fast and left fast — within moments, they were gone.
At the threshold of God's house, only the devil remained, dead in the blazing sun, his overconfidence his undoing.
6.
On the western coast of Myanmar, in Rakhine State, near Mount Thandi — a stretch of private coastline.
Behind the white sand, palm trees stood tall and elegant. Among the green, rooftops of a villa complex gleamed in neat rows.
Most importantly, the climate was lovely. Impossibly comfortable.
Elyse had been convalescing here for over two months.
Because of the confrontation with Shane, her previously healing bones had been knocked out of alignment again. To prevent permanent disability, Duan Po had sent her directly to the capital for treatment.
Once her shoulder was set, her throat stitched with six sutures, and she was out of danger, she was brought to western Myanmar.
Duan Po's true sphere of power.
But he didn't spend much time in Rakhine — the warlord was a busy man, often disappearing for weeks at a time, sometimes not even in Southeast Asia.
During Elyse's recovery, he only visited twice. Each time, they chatted for half an hour at most before being called away by urgent matters.
For Elyse, it didn't matter much. After a lifetime of displacement and brushes with death, she was finally receiving genuine care — and she was getting better.
She was glad.
She was also an incredibly cooperative patient.
Eating. Sleeping. Physical therapy. Walking. Therapy sessions.
Youth was on her side — the vitality came back day by day. When Duan Po next saw her, she was already rosy-lipped and bright-eyed, even smiling. The transformation was so dramatic that the warlord himself was taken aback.
"Miss Elyse — I never would've guessed you were a beauty beneath all that."
This was only their third meeting during her convalescence. In the evening, he sat on a spacious rattan sofa, casually crossing his long legs, one hand propping his chin, studying her.
Elyse, on her side, raised her glass to him — though it contained only coconut water.
Duan Po laughed, clucking in amazement — who could have imagined that the filthy, deranged wraith from six months ago in northern Myanmar was now this refined young woman?
She had survived on her own.
Duan Po rarely admired anyone, but he admitted that Elyse had earned his respect — not only because she'd risked her life to tip him off, saving him from a carefully planned assassination.
And not only because her eyes reminded him of someone — someone from his memories.
It was because she had clawed her way out of certain death again and again, relying on only herself. She was a woman of immense, almost inconceivable inner force.
Duan Po watched her in silence.
The open-air living room blazed with luxurious light clusters. The sea breeze lifted white gauze curtains; broad-leafed tropical plants swayed gently.
Cool, carefree, beautiful.
A beautiful woman seen lamplit, with wind and wit.
After being stared at long enough, Elyse's gaze shifted. She set down her glass and smiled: "Commander Duan, have you been so stunned by my beauty that you want to invite me to be your lover?"
Duan Po nodded lazily, smiling.
"Why, yes."
"It would be a great honor to have a lover as remarkable as you."
But Elyse shook her head with reckless abandon:
"You're too old."
It had probably been years since anyone dared to talk to a warlord like that. Duan Po stared at her, stunned, then burst into laughter he couldn't suppress.
He pointed at her across the distance, half-scolding: "You little thing. I'll kill you."
Elyse wasn't remotely afraid. She shrugged, certain Duan Po wouldn't kill her.
After a few jokes, their rapport warmed noticeably. Duan Po waved over a servant to set drinks and snacks between them, poured himself an ice whiskey, and sipped slowly.
The great man turned out to be unexpectedly thoughtful — he personally fetched Elyse a vanilla Viennese pastry and set it on a small plate for her.
They ate and drank, then walked companionably to the beach.
Duan Po had received an English education in his youth, and even in middle age, a gentleman's instincts ran deep. Walking toward the white sand, one hand still held his walking stick, but he crooked the other arm for Elyse to hold.
Several bodyguards trailed them at a distance of several dozen paces.
Duan Po said with feeling: "Miss Elyse, I truly enjoy being with you."
He added: "Every time."
Elyse said softly: "Making you laugh so freely — I find that enjoyable too."
Duan Po patted her hand.
"Miss Elyse, perhaps you should seriously consider being with me." His dark eyes turned to her first, earnest, then he looked away and added, "I'm very fond of you. And I won't hide this from you — seeing you always reminds me of an old friend. That means a great deal to me."
Elyse looked up. "What old friend?"
Duan Po reached out and touched the corner of her eye, so lightly — barely a brush.
"You have eyes just like hers. Like fire meteors, both —"
Full of an all-consuming murderous will.
Duan Po gazed at the sea, gilded by the sunset, and finished the thought in silence.
He remembered the first time he'd seen Elyse — the wild, cornered ferocity in her, how she'd upended a lavish banquet. Duan Po had laughed.
In the wreckage of that room, as he'd tried to tip her chin up with his walking stick, he'd had the illusion of seeing someone from more than twenty years ago.
Someone who'd tried to fight destiny with nothing but her own will.
Like that person, Elyse was fierce and untamed. She'd grabbed his cane and glared up at him with those dragging, fire-meteor eyes.
Inexorable fate.
He thought.
"Commander Duan — was she your lover?"
Elyse asked quietly.
Duan Po looked out at the sea, melancholy — though he wasn't really seeing anything at all.
"Her name was Shen Huaiqiu. She was the daughter of a high-ranking Myanmar official, nearly thirty years ago. She was also once… my fiancée."
"What happened to her?"
His face went cold.
"She died," he said. "Kunjiao married her. But I know — she died."
Kunjiao.
Elyse lowered her gaze. She knew the name — the shadowy drug lord of northern Myanmar, the head of the Charlie Group, an international fugitive, the top target of domestic intelligence.
Steady-voiced, she asked: "Who is Kunjiao?"
Duan Po surfaced from his thoughts and gave her a curious glance, but it quickly occurred to him — the information gap between a warlord and an ordinary person.
"Li Yufu."
He said casually: "He has many names. The most famous one is Kunjiao."
Li Yufu. Boss Yu. Boss Yu was Kunjiao — the man who'd shown up with Wu Xiaochuan when Sylvie brought reinforcements, the one who'd driven Gusman's men away. The cultivated, unremarkable middle-aged man.
He was very fair, very tall.
Elyse filed these fragments away without changing her expression. Sylvie had no idea — of course she didn't.
Otherwise, domestic intelligence wouldn't still be hunting for Kunjiao's true identity.
"Commander Duan," she lifted her face. "Is Kunjiao your enemy?"
Duan Po paused.
"No," he said. "He's my partner."
But then he smiled, and on his refined face appeared a cunning, calculating glint.
"But not for long."
His gaze fell on Elyse's face, warm and smiling. He leaned in, close as a lover, and murmured in her ear: "I've sold him to you. From now on — it's a feud to the death."
Elyse threw her arms around his neck.
Duan Po laughed, and obligingly wrapped his arm around her waist, almost letting her stand on his feet as he guided her in a slow, aimless circle along the shore, like lovers dancing.
"Commander…"
She pressed her forehead to his chest, without using those Shen-Huaiqiu eyes to take advantage.
"What exactly do you mean?"
Her voice came muffled from his chest. Duan Po looked down and patted the back of her head gently, saying in a warm tone: "Elyse, the opportunity I just offered you is still valid."
"Come with me. Leave Myanmar."