"Vincent, clearance level 5, authorization code: XXXX-XX-XXX."
Vincent finally reported his surna, clearance level, and code, his voice steadied without a ripple, then hung up the red phone with a heavy hand.
Click!
The crisp sound was like the blade of a guillotine falling, echoing in the deathly silent office, lingering for a long ti.
The verdict had been given.
He no longer looked at Simon.
Instead, he slowly leaned back into the wide high-backed chair, picked up the cup of coffee on the desk that was already completely cold, brought it to his lips, and took a shallow sip.
The cold liquid slid down his throat, bringing a peculiar tingle.
He had a strange feeling, as if there were insects hidden beneath his skin, felt but neither seen nor caught.
In the east of Siria, on the eastern slopes of the Gelbi Mountain range, at the peak.
The fierce wind, like countless invisible whips, lashed sand and gravel viciously against Song Heping's exposed neck and the backs of his hands, bringing a stinging pain like needles.
He knelt on one knee beside a massive, wind-eroded rocky outcrop, his body as motionless as a sculpture embedded in the mountains.
The AK-12 assault rifle rested firmly in a crevice in the rock, its cold barrel quivering slightly in the fierce wind.
Ammunition was sufficient.
Utekin and his team had left him enough ammo before retreating.
The magazines were lined up at his feet, like soldiers awaiting inspection.
The dense weight was his only support at the mont.
To single-handedly take on thousands of terrorists enflad by religious fanaticism?
This thought flashed through his mind, and the corner of Song Heping's mouth curved into an almost self-deprecating arc.
It sounded like a fantasy, more absurd than Don Quixote charging at windmills a hundredfold.
But he knew better than anyone that he wasn't after victory, but ti.
A high-stakes gamble calculated to the second.
He was quickly calculating in his mind.
The US Army, CIA, Vincent…
Their reaction window should be within two hours.
At the US Military Base in Baghdad that hasn't been fully evacuated, there must still be so F-15 "Strike Eagles" ready for ground attack.
Vincent, that old fox, would never miss such a heaven-sent opportunity to not only eliminate a major threat like himself but also severely damage 1515.
Using the CAOC (Combat Air Operations Center) privilege, dispatch fighters to drop precision-guided bombs to flatten him along with the mountain underfoot—this would be Vincent's most likely choice and a fatal link in Song Heping's plan.
He wouldn't even need to explain anything to Simondo.
Simon is a smart man.
A smart man caught between himself and Vincent, with each party secretly holding a noose around his neck.
Of course, he wants him dead, just like Lady M and Vincent.
But he fears even more those "safes" hidden deep within the internet—those evidence backups that could ruin him, or even land him into prison at Vincent's hands.
He had warned him: betray once more, and those things would spread across the internet like a plague, reaching Vincent's desk.
Therefore, when he chose to beco this certain-to-die "bait," Simon would see it as the best way to resolve all troubles.
He would undoubtedly try his best, add fuel to the fire, and even suggest to Vincent the use of air power for a thorough "purification."
On this point, Song Heping was absolutely confident.
It was an open strategy, aid at everyone who wished him dead.
The noisy tumult at the foot of the mountain surged like a flood breaking through a dam, battering the silent mountain walls, getting louder, and closer.
The roaring engines of ard pickups scread like wounded beasts; the frenzied amplified prayers and roars by loudspeakers combined with the chaotic gunshots fired wildly into the sky...
All sorts of sounds crazily mixed together, forming a storm of death noise that tingled the scalp and tightened nerves.
This storm pressed in from the north, west, and east directions, like a tightening noose, with the breath of destruction, fiercely squeezing toward the mountain peak.
Song Heping slightly adjusted his kneeling position, allowing the muscles in his sore and stiff right leg to relax a bit.
His gaze, like the most precise battlefield radar, calmly and swiftly scanned the main attack axes below.
To the north, a dozen ard pickups led the charge, engines roaring, raising a cloud of dust, forming a rolling yellow-brown "dragon," surging along the relatively gentle valley upward.
The thick heavy machine gun barrels on the pickup beds cast ominous glints, aid directly at the peak.
The distance was less than a thousand ters.
He could even see the ferocious expressions of those ard n standing in the beds, their heads wrapped in black cloth, waving AK rifles, their eyes burning with bloodthirsty madness.
The west and east were primarily infantry attack groups.
The numbers greater like two muddy, viscous yellow flows, using rocks at the mountain's base and sparse bushes as cover, laboriously crawling upward.
They were like bone-attached parasites, slowly yet determinedly devouring every inch of land.
The nearest vanguard was only seven or eight hundred ters away!
Tatatata—
Tatata—
The gunfire below suddenly beca dense, no longer sporadic stray bullets.
Bullets carrying sharp whistles began to be organizedly showered toward the peak, probing fire suppression.
Several bullets struck hard on the edge of the large stone he was hiding behind, instantly breaking the rock, spraying fragnts like shot, pattering against his helt and bulletproof vest, leaving fine white marks.
The dangerous aura instantly intensified.
Further away, several heavy machine guns roared a deep growl.
Long tongues of fire madly licked in and out in the not-yet-disappeared morning mist, glaringly bright. Scarlet tracer bullets drew deadly trajectories, like scorching whips, lashed above his head and on the side of the mountain, sending rocks tumbling down like hail.
"Allahu Akbar!!"
"Catch that infidel! Tear him apart!!"
"For the Caliph! For the Jihad!!"
The crazed shouts mixed with deafening gunfire and engine noise, getting closer and clearer, like death howls from hell's abyss, filled Song Heping's ears.
Song Heping still did not return fire.
He stood silently like a stone, not firing a single shot.
Just knelt there, quietly feeling the death storm's approach.
His gaze, crossing the boiling murderous intent below, towards the south side of Gelbi Mountain.
The south was silent.
That was the steepest, most precipitous slope of Gelbi Mountain. Jagged and interlocking strange rocks, a nearly vertical cliff daunting, with climbing difficulty several tis greater than other directions.
A muddy river called "Hailegan," like a deep green giant python, wound at the mountain's foot, flowing toward the distant Deir Ezzor.
That desperate area, that rushing river, was his pre-reserved, sole path to a glimr of life.
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