General Haftar was like he had been struck by petrification, holding Jafali's corpse as if he were a wooden statue, not moving, just like seeing dusa's eyes and turning to stone.
"General, we've been ambushed, ambushed by our own people!"
"Chief of Staff Jafali led the team to bombard our base, seeking permission, seeking permission, what exactly is going on?!"
"General, the defenses on the west and north of the city have been breached; we've suffered heavy losses, what should we do?!"
Calls kept coming in through the radio; the forces within the city still loyal to Haftar were in a dire situation. They were caught in crossfire with the rebels, unable to distinguish friend from foe, completely unaware of what was happening.
Haftar showed no response, as if his soul had left his body.
Jafali was the person he trusted the most.
And yet, the one guiding the British Special Forces into the city to attack him was Jafali...
It could be imagined that the main GNA forces were also outside the city, continuously pushing inward; the sounds of cannons and gunfire from the north and west of the city explained everything.
"Haftar!"
Song Heping rushed over, grabbing Haftar by the collar.
"Wake the hell up! Wake up! Your troops are being surrounded and wiped out! They need your command!"
Haftar remained motionless, still like a walking corpse.
"Damn it! You piece of trash!"
Song Heping let go, dropping Haftar.
This kind of person wasn't worth wasting ti on.
The most important thing now was to get his people out.
As for the grievances with the British, that could wait for next ti!
Just as he was about to get up and leave, Song Heping's gaze was magnetically drawn back over the Arabic version of "On Protracted War," knocked down by the explosion's shockwave, its cover covered in dust and debris.
On the title page, the line handwritten in blue ink annotations, in the flickering firelight and swirling dust, still shone with wisdom piercing through ti and space — "Lose people, lose land; people and land, both preserved."
Power!
The very power Haftar craved, the one that could uphold the strategic wisdom, wasn't it the "Musician" could inject?
A despairing army must win.
And the forces in front of him, still struggling in the abyss of despair, were they not the perfect desperate army?
The ard forces whose leaders could truly understand and attempt to apply this essence of Eastern war philosophy, wasn't it the sharpest, most resilient, and potential blade to break the deadlock of Libya and cut off London's oil lifeline?
Song Heping suddenly changed his mind.
Gamble!
Bet his life!
Noises ca from outside the door.
The footsteps didn't sound like ordinary militants.
It was the Special Forces!
The enemy was already advancing into the building!
Song Heping swiftly perford a tactical roll from behind the desk to the side of the door.
A string of 7.62mm bullets went "thud-thud-thud" into where he had been hiding, splinters flying!
The Glock 17 in his hand needed no aiming, raising it, three shots!
Bam-bam-bam!
The precise, lethal rapid Mozambique shooting thod forced an SBS mber, who was trying to use smoke to cover entering the study through the broken window, to roll back clumsily, tactical vest showing two dented bullet holes.
Before the opponent could react, Song Heping had no ti to raise the assault rifle's muzzle, directly lunging forward with a kick to the opponent's chest—
The guy was hit with imnse force, stumbling backward, unable to stop, crashing into the corridor railing, falling over it.
"General Haftar!"
The voice of Song Heping was like a great bell, cutting through all the screams of guns and cannons, and the howls of death, carrying a determination of no return once the bow was drawn.
"If I promise to cooperate with you, I will help you to the end! But you must be worth my help!"
The pitch of Song Heping's voice suddenly rose, with a coldness like the grinding of steel, as he reached out and slapped this warlord leader across the face.
Slap—
The force was so great that it sent General Haftar reeling, stars swimming before his eyes, and a trace of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth.
"Wake the hell up, don't cry like a woman here! There's no ti for sorrow, get up, pick up your gun, command your troops to retreat from here, as long as the green hills remain, there's no fear of running out of firewood!"
Song Heping's declaration was like a divine decree, heavenly, enough to reverse life and death!
In Haftar's eyes, a spark flickered.
Then it beca a blaze.
In an instant, it turned the dying embers in his heart into a roaring fire of vengeance!
"Allah is great! Allahu Akbar! Song! My blood-brother!"
Haftar's voice was as hoarse as a battered gong, as he suddenly raised the AKMSU with a newly changed magazine, wildly shooting at any suspicious silhouette in the smoke outside the window, pouring out the remaining twenty-odd rounds like a rainstorm of revenge!
"My n are your arms! Wherever your will points, the blade will follow! Every drop of black gold beneath Libya shall bear witness to our victory!"
"Boss! I can't hold on! The British firepower is too precise! There's also a traitor shooting from the shadows! The first floor is about to be breached!"
The voice of Disaster Star sounded in the throat mic, laden with the heavy panting following the roar of the PKM and a hint of barely noticeable anxiety.
Though the "Cloth Ripper" he wielded had fierce firepower, facing the SBS's precise counter-suppression (obviously equipped with thermal imaging, always finding his firing gaps) along with stealth shots from the flanks, the suppression circle was being rapidly compressed.
Two SBS assault troops had already taken advantage of the rubble and smoke, creeping like snakes to the dead angle just below the first-floor windowsill!
The cold, inhuman voice of Hunter nearly echoed simultaneously: "The rooftop is exposed, they've locked onto us with thermal imaging, and crossfire is suppressing us, making effective observation impossible. Boss, the direction of the northwestern corner wall is relatively sparse in enemy firepower, suggesting an imdiate breakout."
Song Heping didn't hesitate for a mont.
He glanced at Haftar, who was firing desperately like an injured lion: "Co with ! Staying here is a dead end!"
He must safeguard Haftar, who was the core engine of the "Sever Flow" plan!
"Go!"
Haftar, too, was a veteran from a sea of corpses and blood, instantly comprehending.
"All units, retreat to the south of the city, we'll escape into the desert zone there, and regroup at Kane River Valley!"
"Special forces, listen up, retreat south of the city now! Imdiately! Don't make any stops! The city is no longer safe!"
Like a leopard, Song Heping burst out from behind the desk, with his HK416 assault rifle executing two precise double-tap shots, blowing the heads off two LNA rebel soldiers attempting to peek and shoot from afar!
Disaster Star roared, like a human battering ram, heaving open the rickety wooden door leading to the adjacent storeroom on the other side of the study, the heavy PKM muzzle spewing deadly streams of fire, tearing a bloody path through the pervasive smoke and whirling bullets!
Hunter slid down from a rooftop hole like a ghost, the silenced HK417 muzzle faintly smoking, the cold barrel pointing precisely at any potential pursuers at the rear, providing a reassuring wall of death.
The three ford a small yet indestructible assault triangle, securely protecting the core target, Haftar, at the center, like a sharp dagger, piercing through the pervasive smoke and lethal barrage, advancing rapidly toward the massive opening in the building's northwest corner, blasted open by previous artillery, large enough for a truck to pass through!
"Disaster Star! Clear the path!"
Song Heping shouted sternly, his voice piercing the chaos of the battlefield.
"Roger!"
Disaster Star roared back, the PKM's muzzle swiveling abruptly toward the massive opening, an open space filled with building debris, dimly lit by moonlight and fire, once more spitting out a liver-chilling, relentless tal storm that lasted several seconds!
Ratatatatata—
Ratatatatata—
Ratatatatata—
The 7.62mm full-power rounds, like the Grim Reaper's scythe, sending sparks flying from the remains of several abandoned car carcasses, shredding a pile of sandbag fortifications, temporarily suppressing a relatively safe zone of death!
Just as the four were about to dart out of the deadly gap like arrows loosed from the bowstring!
"Whizz—Whoosh!"
A sniper bullet from a high, distant location tore through the chaotic battlefield soundscape, carrying the Grim Reaper's signature, scalp-prickling sharp whistle!
The target was precise and rciless—straight for Haftar's back, protected at the center of the triangle formation!
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