That night, eight o'clock.
Deep inside the Russian Military Base in Damascus, the lights of the temporary command post were glaring and harsh.
Song Heping had just settled the exhausted Sayina in a relatively quiet corner of the base's dical area, looked after by a nurse who spoke Arabic, when a stern-looking Russian Army staff officer barged into their tent.
"Mr. Yevgeny (the cook's real na)!"
The staff officer saluted swiftly.
"Ergency notice. Orders directly from the President's office, you are to depart for Moscow imdiately. The plane is on standby on the runway and will take off in thirty minutes."
The cook, who was wiping his cherished Makarov Pistol, suddenly froze, his thick knuckles squeezing the gun handle with a cracking sound.
He lifted his head, his face full of rough skin instantly clouded with brutal anger, his eyes as fierce and dangerous as an enraged Siberian brown bear.
The staff officer instinctively stepped back half a step under his gaze.
"Zhaoyi Valley!"
The cook nearly gritted his teeth, forcing this na out from between his teeth, each syllable laced with poison and bone-deep hatred.
This na represented the source of the backstab in Moscow, symbolizing betrayal and treachery.
"Good! Very good! Just in ti to settle the score with him once and for all! Fish to die, net to tear? Let's see whose net is tougher!"
He abruptly stood up, his massive figure exuding a domineering aura as if he would tear down the command post in the next second.
"Cook!"
Song Heping's deep and forceful voice was like a basin of cold water, instantly dousing the cook's boiling anger.
The cook quickly turned his head, his blood-red eyes locked onto Song Heping: "Song! Don't stop this ti! That old bastard almost killed us all! Killed you! Killed so many brothers! He must pay! I'm going back this ti to rip the mask off! Either he dies, or I perish! There's no third way!"
His voice quivered slightly with excitent, carrying a determination to destroy everything.
Song Heping stepped in front of him, very close, eyes as calm as an unfathomable cold pond, clearly reflecting the cook's rage-distorted face.
"Calm down, cook. Look at ."
He pulled the cook aside, his voice not loud but carrying a unique penetrating power like cold steel needles piercing the boiling foam.
"Tear off the mask? Fish to die, net to tear?"
Song Heping's lips curled into a very cold, very faint smile, carrying a sarcastic understanding of everything.
"I investigated the background of Zhaoyi Valley. What are you relying on? The few people you have in Siria? Or the little 'relationships' you maintain with money in the Kremlin? You go back to flip the table, besides smashing your head to pieces and dragging more brothers down with you, what else can you achieve? Will Zhaoyi Valley lose a single hair? No, he will just be happier to label you as a 'traitor' and a 'warlord', thoroughly wiping you and your people clean!"
The cook's facial muscles twitched violently, his chest heaving with heavy breaths like a bellows, but Song Heping's words were like cold steel nails, one by one driving into his raging brain.
If it were soone else, the cook might have smashed them already.
But in front of him was Song Heping.
In front of Song Heping, the cook lacked that bit of courage.
He opened his mouth, wanting to refute, but found his throat dry and unable to produce a powerful sound.
"Listen."
Song Heping's voice lowered, carrying a chilling calmness.
"Your Mr. President, he knows everything. From the layout in Siria, to the involvent of Zhaoyi Valley, to this damned 'accident'... he knows better than anyone. Why did he choose to summon you back in such an urgent manner? Is it punishnt? No, cook, it's an opportunity for you! It's also an opportunity for you to be compensated!"
"Compensation?"
The blood-red in the cook's eyes faded slightly, replaced by a huge confusion.
"Yes. Compensate you for what you've lost, compensate you for the loyalty you've given. But first, you have to stay alive, you have to 'play smart'."
Song Heping's eyes were sharp as a knife, directly eting the cook's chaotic eyes.
"Forget Zhaoyi Valley, at least on the surface. Return, like a wronged but still loyal general, to debrief, to accept your 'new task', or... your new territory. Your president needs people like you to balance those greedy organic creatures. Tear off the mask? That's the stupidest choice. Leave everything to him, and he will give you a satisfactory explanation. Trust , cook, tear and net are not the best choices, you can seek revenge, but not now, nor should you personally end him."
The command post fell into dead silence, only the cook's heavy breathing and the monotonous hum of the air conditioner could be heard.
Song Heping's words were like a cold scalpel, precisely cutting through the chaotic fog, revealing the naked and cruel logic of power beneath.
The raging anger on the cook's face gradually faded away, replaced by a deep fatigue and a sense of helplessness after being crushed by a great force.
He clenched his fists tightly, nails deeply embedded in his palms, his body trembling slightly from forcibly suppressed anger.
After a long ti, he suddenly closed his eyes, letting out a low, restrained roar like that of a wounded beast, and slamd a fist onto the nearby tal table!
"Bang!"
A loud noise, and a large dent instantly appeared on the solid tal tabletop!
The staff officer turned pale with fright.
The cook gasped heavily, opened his eyes, the blood-red faded mostly, leaving only deep fatigue and a cold resignation.
"Suka!"
He cursed lowly, with a thick Russian accent.
"Song... you're right. Damn it... you're right."
He shouted to the staff officer: "Go away, I'll be on ti for the airport!"
After the staff officer left, he turned to look at Song Heping, his eyes complicated.
"What are you going to do next?"
Song Heping's gaze passed over the cook, towards the silhouette of Damascus shrouded in night, a city still filled with the sll of gunpowder, his eyes suddenly becoming colder than the frozen soil of Siberia.
"Revenge."
He clearly uttered two words, his voice was not loud, but like two cold bullets shooting into the air, carrying the echo of tal collision.
"Revenge?"
Jiang Feng silently appeared at the door, apparently having heard the final keyword.
He leaned against the doorfra, still with that expressionless look, but his eyes beca sharp.
"Target? MI6? Or CIA? Or... both?"
"MI6." Song Heping's voice was firm and decisive, "CIA is just a knife, it's London's Lady M who wields it. Betrayers must pay a price. Let them regret putting their claws into Siria."
Jiang Feng nodded: "Specific plan?"
Song Heping turned around, walking to the center of the command room next to a dusty makeshift tactical map, his finger accurately pointing at a spot on the west coast of the African Continent: "Sen Republic. The British-supported President Du Er who just ca to power."
"Overthrow him?" Jiang Feng imdiately caught the core.
"Yes. We had the capability to help the British prop him up, and we have the ability to overthrow him!"
Song Heping's gaze was cold and focused, as if honing a dagger of revenge.
"Have Henry contact the people from France DGSE imdiately. Tell them we have a big business deal to discuss. Regarding the 'redistribution of resources' and 'regional stability' in Sena. I think they would be very interested."
A flash of understanding passed in Jiang Feng's eyes, without any unnecessary words: "Understood. I'll handle it right away."
He turned and quickly left.
The cook looked at Song Heping's figure, straight as a javelin in front of the map, that fire of vengeance forcibly suppressed in his chest seed to find a new outlet.
He heavily patted Song Heping on the shoulder, his voice returning to its usual roughness but with added solemnity: "Song! Go all out! I still have so subordinates in Africa! Whatever you need, just say the word! When I return from Moscow, I hope to hear the good news of Lady M crying!"
He gave Song Heping one last look, gave a bear hug, then let go and turned away, striding out of the tent.
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