One person?
Single combat against thousands of 1515 ard militants?
Director Vincent's hawk-like eyes were fixed on the massive satellite screen, as if trying to pierce through the cold pixels.
On the screen, a lone, human-shaped, scorching white dot was trapped by hundreds, thousands of hostile red dots on the steep desperate ground at the top of Gelbi Mountain.
The red dots, like starving ants, constantly surged towards the central white dot, yet continually dimd and vanished amidst the fine flashes that represented precise shooting around the white dot—signifying the end of life, falling off a cliff into the abyss.
A sense of absurdity, like a cold current, instantly coursed through Vincent's body, causing the knuckles of the hand holding the coffee cup to turn slightly white.
One person?
Against thousands?
Could it be the satellite signal was interfered with?
Or is Langley's server playing a hellish joke?
His throat felt a bit dry, and he couldn't resist rubbing his eyes.
"Intelligence initially showed he had so people with him, including the Wake Na rcenaries, but... not sure where they went."
Simon's voice appeared tily, carrying a touch of well-placed confusion, like a carefully rehearsed line.
He stood in front of Vincent, holding his breath and focusing.
The plan to convince his superior began, each step was like walking on thin ice.
Vincent did not turn around, only furrowing his brows tighter, as if forming a deadlock.
The dot on the screen continued to flash and move defiantly, each move following the most perilous paths on Gelbi Mountain, each counterattack was executed with such precision that it made one want to cheer aloud.
This is illogical, too illogical!
"I think he's trying to use himself as bait."
Simon cautiously continued, lowering his voice, tinged with a regret for a 'hero's end.'
"To give his friends a chance to escape. Based on what I know about Song Heping... he would do that. He's a madman, but a deeply loyal madman."
Vincent stared intently at the screen.
Bait?
Feed himself to thousands of mad dogs?
Suddenly, his tightly knitted brows relaxed as if thawing, and the corners of his mouth even involuntarily twitched upwards, revealing a cold, relieved satisfaction.
Yes!
Like this...
He's dood!
That cold smile froze on his face, carrying a cruel pleasure: "In that case... he's dood. Why should we bother? Let the 1515 people tear him apart, cleaner and more straightforward, no hassle."
Saves worry, saves effort, and keeps hands clean.
The perfect ending.
He even picked up his slightly cooled coffee and sipped it, letting that bitterness spread over his tongue, as if savoring the on of victory.
Here it cos!
Simon's heart trembled slightly.
Vincent's reaction was within the plan, but also reached the most dangerous edge.
He imdiately stepped forward half a step, instilling a trace of clear concern into his voice: "Director, Song Heping indeed stands no chance of winning, but..."
He deliberately paused, his gaze probing like a sharp needle, locking onto Vincent's slightly turned face.
"But he might not die. What if… he is exhausted and captured, alive in the hands of the 1515..."
He had to materialize that vague possibility.
He insinuated a pause, his gaze piercing sharply into Vincent, as if to pry open the safe in his mind.
"That guy... knows quite a bit about our secrets, including certain 'affairs' you've personally handled. The consequences... would be serious."
Finishing his words, he held his breath.
The stakes were placed, life and death hung in the balance.
His eyes were like they were welded onto Vincent's face, waiting for the final life-or-death judgnt.
The office fell into a deathly silence.
Only the central air conditioning emitted a monotonous hissing sound.
Ti seed to stretch, solidify.
One second, two seconds...
Ten seconds...
Thirty seconds...
Every second felt like a century.
Vincent sat statue-like in the wide leather chair, his eyes refocusing on the glaring white dot on the screen.
Surrender?
Fall into the hands of 1515?
This thought slithered into his mind like a poison snake, extinguishing the smugness he had earlier.
Those buried secrets...
Song Heping's cold face, seemingly able to see through everything...
Cold sweat silently seeped from his temple.
A full minute later.
Vincent finally moved!
Quick as a pouncing leopard. He shot up from the chair, leaning forward, and grabbed the red, blood-colored secret phone on the table that symbolized the highest authority.
Click—!
The sound of the tal clasp popping open as he picked up the receiver was crisp like a bullet being chambered.
"CAOC, this is Vincent."
Vincent's voice transmitted through the receiver, cold, hard, unwavering, each word like ice picks chiseled from the depths of a polar glacier, steeped in venom—
"Invoke special operations authorization, execute 'Grim Reaper Judgnt' mission. Target area: coordinates XXX-XXX."
The numbers he cited were cold and precise.
"Mission objective: eliminate all high-value heat source signals in the area. Indiscriminately."
His pronunciation of 'indiscriminately' was especially emphasized.
He paused slightly, his gaze like a snake's tongue, still locked onto the dazzling dot on the screen symbolizing Song Heping, then added, with a resolve to annihilate everything: "Air Force fighters mount thermobaric bombs and cluster bombs. Requirent: saturated coverage. Ensure nothing alive remains on and below that mountain. Execution priority: imdiately!"
"Nothing alive remains" — this was a total extermination order.
A clear response ca from the other end of the phone: "Order confird, 'Grim Reaper Judgnt.' Target coordinates XXX-XXX. Indiscriminate elimination, saturated coverage. In ten minutes, the 'Reaper' squadron will take off with load, expected to reach target airspace within forty minutes. Fire control authority is being transferred."
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