Tang Miao trotted with the chain in her mouth, circling toward the corner of the parking lot.
She had already planned her route.
She needed to loop around, make two turns, and get these people chasing her good and riled up.
She rounded the second row of trucks. The van came into view.
Baldy and the baseball cap guy were sitting in the driver’s cabin eating instant noodles, the window rolled down a crack with steam escaping.
Tang Miao sped up, heading straight for the van.
When she reached the underside, she did a slide tackle—belly flat against the asphalt—and slid right into the center of the van’s undercarriage.
Exhaust pipes, drive shafts, and various lines crisscrossed above her head.
She found the hardest-to-reach spot, dug all four paws into the crossbeam, and curled into a ball.
The chain stayed clamped in her mouth. She refused to let go.
A few seconds later.
The red-hat army arrived.
“The cat crawled under the van!”
“It’s this one! This white van!”
“Come out! You get out here!”
The slightly plump auntie was the first to reach the van. She crouched down and peered underneath.
Tang Miao was dead center, far from both sides—no way anyone could reach her.
“Damn cat! Spit it out! That was a gift from my eldest son!”
Tang Miao meowed at her, tail swishing lazily beneath the van.
Baldy stopped mid-slurp of his noodles. He set down his chopsticks, rolled down the window, and poked his head out.
More than twenty red-hatted old men and women had his van completely surrounded.
“What’s going on? What are you people doing?”
The plump auntie straightened up and jabbed a finger at the underside of his van:
“There’s a cat under your van! It stole my gold chain! Worth six thousand eight hundred! Move your van—I need to get that cat out!”
Baldy’s expression shifted.
“Can’t move it. I’ve got cargo in here, can’t just move it around. Go find someone else.”
He rolled the window back up.
The auntie wasn’t having it. She slapped her palm against the window.
“What kind of attitude is that? My six-thousand-yuan chain is under your van, and you’re telling me to find someone else?”
“Exactly! Brother, just pull the van forward two meters, we’ll fish the cat out and be done with it.”
“Won’t even cost you a minute!”
Baldy didn’t react. The baseball cap guy shifted uneasily in the passenger seat.
The tour leader, leaning on his little flag, stepped forward, his tone still polite: “Young man, cooperate for a moment. Two minutes, that’s all.”
Baldy rolled the window down a crack: “I said no. Don’t block my van.”
“What’s wrong with you?” The plump auntie’s temper flared, her voice jumping an octave. “We chased that thing across half the parking lot—my old back is about to break! Would moving your van kill you?”
Another auntie came over, resting her hand on the side of the van, casually glancing into the window.
A corner of the newspaper covering the rear window had peeled up.
That auntie stopped in her tracks.
She stepped closer, pressed her face against the glass, and peered through the lifted corner of the newspaper.
“Wait… why are there cages in this van?”
Baldy’s face went completely pale.
He suddenly started the engine.
“Move! Everyone move!”
The aunties jumped back two steps.
The plump auntie didn’t budge. She plopped herself down on the ground right in front of the van.
“You dare run me over? Go ahead! Run me over! Do it in front of all these people—try it!”
The tour leader reacted fast, lunging forward to block the driver’s door.
“Something’s wrong! This van has a problem!”
The sharp-eyed auntie had already scrambled to the rear window, pulling out her phone and turning on the flashlight to shine inside.
The interior of the van was exposed to everyone.
Wire cages, stacked layer upon layer. Dozens of eyes stared out from inside.
The old Pekingese lay in the top cage, the silver name tag on its leather collar glinting in the afternoon sun.
Beijing · Ping’an.
The entire service area went silent for one second.
“God-damn animal thieves! They’re dog thieves!!”
The plump auntie sprang up from the ground, her voice flipping half the parking lot upside down.
“There are cages in there! That Pekingese has a tag on its collar! That’s someone’s dog! Stolen!”
The red-hat army erupted.
The nature of the situation had changed.
Chasing a cat was small stuff. Dog thieves were big stuff.
The aunties’ righteous fury was ignited.
“Block the doors! Don’t let them get away!”
“Old Zhang, call 110!”
“I’m recording! Get it all on video! Post it to Douyin!”
Three aunties blocked the driver’s door. Two old men blocked the passenger side.
The tour leader stood in front of the van holding his little flag, striking the pose of a traffic cop directing cars.
The plump auntie went even further—she lay flat across the hood, arms and legs spread wide in a star shape.
“Nobody’s leaving today!”
Baldy panicked and slammed the horn.
“HONK—HONK HONK—”
The horn blared, but the aunties didn’t budge an inch.
The baseball cap guy rolled down the passenger window and stuck his head out to curse: “You old bastards, what business is this of yours? Move it! Believe me, I’ll—”
Before he could finish, a thermos flew through the air and smacked him square in the cap.
The hat flew off, revealing a sharp-faced, rat-like visage underneath.
“Who are you calling names?” The auntie who threw the thermos planted her hands on her hips. “Say one more word and see what happens!”
A dozen phone screens lit up, all aimed at the van. Someone was already dialing 110.
The bald man glanced at the rearview mirror, gritted his teeth, and floored the accelerator. The engine roared.
The van lurched forward half a meter.
The auntie sprawled on the hood let out an “Aiya!” and, with the help of the old man beside her pulling at her, tumbled off.
“He’s trying to run!”
“Stop him! Stop him!”
Tang Miao lay under the van, the engine’s vibrations rattling through her entire body.
She was looking for something.
In her past life, when she rode an electric scooter, she’d hung around with Old Chen, the repair mechanic, for the better part of six months.
Electric scooters she could take apart; cars were beyond her, but some basic principles carried over.
This van had been on the road for at least a decade, and the chassis was badly corroded.
An aged rubber fuel line connecting to the gas tank was exposed right next to the exhaust pipe, covered in a web of cracks.
She’d noticed it when she crawled underneath—the hanger bracket near the middle section was hanging by a thread of rubber, swaying loosely.
The bald man stomped the gas again.
The RPMs climbed, and the entire undercarriage shuddered violently.
Tang Miao released the crossbeam and lunged for that hanger bracket.
The rubber had hardened and turned brittle. She found the deepest crack and dug all four sets of sharp claws into it in unison.
Using the violent vibration of the chassis as the bald man gunned the engine, she dropped her full weight downward and ripped the aged fuel line clean apart.
Dark brown gasoline dripped out, splattering onto the scorching exhaust pipe with a sharp sizzle, sending up acrid white smoke.
With the fuel supply cut, the van’s madly howling engine was like a man with his throat seized—it coughed violently twice, sputtered a few times with a ragged putter-putter-putter.
Then it died.
The bald man cranked the key frantically, but the engine only spun over, refusing to catch.
“Fuck! What the hell’s going on?”
Even with the pedal floored, all he got was a hollow clicking sound. The bald man slammed the steering wheel in despair—there was no escaping now.
In the distance, the sirens of the highway patrol drew closer.