Over ten hours later.
The twilight painted the "Razorback" a piercing blood-red, like a massive wound.
The enormous GNA armored convoy rolled with a dust storm, like a belated funeral procession, finally reaching this land of death.
General Sayif sat in the armored command vehicle's seat, his face pale as paper, fingers spasming uncontrollably.
As his jeep drove over the charred wreckage and dried deep brown blood scabs and stopped beside Duan's corpse covered only by a symbolic piece of cloth, Sayif stumbled out of the vehicle, tearing the cloth aside.
With just a glance, his stomach churned violently, he turned abruptly to hold the car door, vomiting intensely, even emptying his bile, making dry retching noises from his throat.
"Gen...General...Lieutenant Yarif...found...also...all SBS people..pletely...destroyed...our n...bodies...spread all over..."
The aide's voice carried sobs and a bone-deep fear.
Sayif, with trembling hands that could barely grip, pulled out the satellite phone, using all his strength to dial the number leading to London.
London, MI6, top-secret operations command room.
On the enormous electronic screen, images returned from the spy satellite were cold and brutal—the Sahara Desert, the "Razorback" Wind Rock Area, like a ravaged ant nest, scattered with charred wreckage, dense corpses casting long, twisted shadows in the sunset.
In the command center, the air thickened like lead, oppressive enough to make breathing difficult.
Ms. M sat behind the wide desk, holding a cup of tea long since cold.
Overnight, the wrinkles on her face seed to deepen enough to strangle flies, the sunken eye sockets filled with web-like blood vessels, yet her gaze remained sharp as a scalpel, fixed on the screen's death zone.
She listened to Sayif's incoherent, overwheld report, throughout saying nothing.
The surrounding aides and officials were silent, even their breaths cautious.
The "Throatslit" operation, thoroughly, irreversibly failed.
A highly resource-consuming elite SBS team was lost, a brigade-scale dependent army was lost, and it shattered her ticulously planned, foolproof elimination plan. This was not just a military defeat, but a devastating blow to MI6 and her personal authority! Sha gnawed at her heart like a Poison Snake.
Song He Ping… This na in her mind was like a red-hot branding iron.
She knew such a person too well, vengeful and with a will like steel.
The rivers of blood on Razorback would not be his endpoint, rely the beginning of his revenge!
A cold, ominous premonition, like the desert night wind, instantly swept over her.
Amidst this suffocating silence and Ms. M's internal turbulence of imnse anger, frustration, and that lingering chill—
Bzzzzz—
Ms. M's top-secret satellite phone buzzed sharply, abruptly, insistently, shattering the command room's suffocating silence.
Everyone's gaze was instantly magnetically focused on the phone whose screen had lit up.
Ms. M's eyes were fixed on the flashing indicator light of the phone. After a few seconds of absolute stillness, she reached out, picked up the satellite phone, turned, walked towards a single room in the command center, gently closed the door, and locked it.
Then, after ensuring no one was around, her fingertip moved exceptionally slowly, with a near-cruel ritualistic motion, firmly pressing the hands-free button.
A voice calm without a ripple, yet with a Sahara wind and sand-tempered gritty texture, spread through the speaker, clearly, coldly filling the ears.
"Madam. I am Song Heping."
The voice was like a cold blade scraping across ice, with a tallic texture.
He had always rembered her number.
"On behalf of 'Musician' Defense Company, I hereby announce: From this mont on, all official and unofficial British interests, personnel, and assets in Libya will beco targets of our unrestricted, indiscriminate attacks."
"Until the last British soldier, agent, rcenary, leaves with your bloodstained ambitions and nauseating greed, completely, eternally, from this land like driven dogs!"
"The Saharan wind may blow away the bloodstains on Razorback, but it cannot disperse the blood debts etched into bones. The war you've launched has ended. Our revenge starts now."
"Good luck—in the upcoming nightmare."
"Beep—"
With the busy signal sounding, the call was decisively cut off, with not a trace of procrastination.
Only the monotonous, hollow, abyss-reverberating busy signal remained ruthlessly echoing in her ears, playing the most desperate finale for the "Throatslit" operation, and for Ms. M's current mood.
North Africa.
The remnants of the sunset cast long, lonely shadows on the desolate Gobi Desert of Northern Darfur.
Song Heping's convoy, swept along by the Sahara dust, drove into the Musician Defense Company's secret base located here, like weary wolves returning ho.
The base's outline appeared particularly stark in the twilight, with its high walls, watchtowers, concealed hangars, and warehouses, silently speaking of its stringent defenses.
The vehicles ca to a stop, doors opened, General Haftar, supported by guards, stepped onto the solid ground, glancing around, a hint of complex light flickering in his tired eyes.
Behind him, the remaining hundred or so soldiers quietly dismounted, bearing the Razorback's blood and smoke, their fatigued yet sharp eyes like those of wounded yet still tooth-baring beasts of war.
Employees at the base, also musicians, cast either scrutinizing, sympathetic, or indifferent gazes.
This ragtag group is General Haftar's last stand and also the gamble entrance ticket for the "Musician" Defense Company.
One hour later.
Inside the base eting room.
The thick wooden door isolated all external sounds.
At the long conference table, Song Heping sat at the head, flanked by the company's key mbers.
The images on the screen depicted the current situation in Libya.
"That's the situation."
Song Heping's voice broke the silence.
"Haftar's forces suffered a devastating betrayal in Desert City, and his main force was annihilated. Now, he only has these over a hundred people left."
He knocked on the table with his knuckles, producing a dull sound.
"Although the Battle of Razor's Back eliminated Dawn and SBS, Sayif's GNA still has at least thirty thousand guns. With just over a hundred n, plus us, how much possibility is there to help him return to Benghazi and oust the GNA?"
He pulled his mouth into an arc without humor.
"Everyone, speak up."
The silence lasted only a few seconds before Ferrari spoke first, calm and pragmatic: "With all due respect, from the perspective of investnt return and practical feasibility, General Haftar… has lost his value. A hundred seasoned veterans are indeed precious, but they cannot alter the fundantally disproportionate balance of power. The GNA controls the capital Tripoli, main ports, and most oil fields, with the shadow of the British lingering behind them. Supporting Haftar to return to the core of power? This is no longer a challenge but a myth."
He projected another data set onto the screen: "Currently in Libya, besides the GNA, there are the Misrata militias, Zintan forces, tribal ard groups in the Fezzen region, and even remnants of IS. Each faction outnumbers Haftar as he stands now, and they're more 'cost-effective'—at least they don't require us to start from scratch, pouring resources into rebuilding an army. Seeking a new, more promising proxy aligns better with the company's interests. Betting everything on an exiled general with no foundational support is too risky, and the returns… too slim."
White Bear crossed his muscular arms, his rugged face expressionless, voice deep: "Ferrari's right. A hundred n, however skilled, can't fill the gap left by thirty thousand. Battlefields aren't math problems that courage alone can solve. What we need is a lever to shift the balance, not… a handful of sand."
He had seen too many senseless sacrifices in the icy landscapes of the Caucasus, instinctively resisting losing deals.
Hunter, slowly and attentively cleaning his Glock Pistol, added without looking up: "Moreover, loyalty is relative. Razor's Back, they fought to the death because of desperation. If they see no hope, no concrete benefits, how long will such loyalty last? In Africa, promises and vows crumble easier than sand dunes. Instead of placing our bets on a sinking ship, we should find a new one."
Other mbers, though not explicitly stating their stances, showed clear inclinations in their eyes.
The air in the conference room grew more oppressive.
Almost everyone believed that Haftar was now a lost cause.
Song Heping leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers unconsciously on the table, producing a monotonous "tap, tap" sound.
He looked at each person in turn, his gaze deep, as if penetrating their rational exteriors.
Silence lingered for a full minute, those sixty seconds stretching as long as awaiting death in the crevices of Razor's Back.
Just as everyone thought the boss might heed Ferrari's advice, Song Heping spoke, his voice low but striking like a heavy hamr on their nerves:
"You're all right. From a surface level, Haftar is now worthless." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the bloody scene on Razor's Back displayed on the screen, "But, that's not how the calculation goes."
"First," he raised one finger, "you've underestimated the value of these hundred-plus people. In African ard conflicts, everyone is eager when the fight is easy. It's common for troops to scatter after a defeat. But after the crushing loss at Desert City and the dire straights of Razor's Back, none of these people fled or surrendered. They followed Haftar, fought their way through, and even dared to stake their lives against ten tis their number at Razor's Back. This willingness to unite and fight to the end in sheer hopelessness is gold in Africa's land! It is a rarer asset than tanks and artillery! This proves Haftar has a unique quality that compels people to risk their lives for him!"
"Second,"
He raised a second finger.
"Haftar himself is the greatest investnt value. Resilient, opinionated, not one to grovel to Westerners easily. Look at Sayif; he's Britain's lackey, biting wherever commanded. But Haftar? He wants cooperation but refuses to be a dog. Before the Razor's Back standoff, he even dared to negotiate terms with us rather than begging for aid. Such an independent-minded, principled, and ambitious warlord is a scarce resource in Africa, land overshadowed by new colonialism! It's easy to support a puppet, but a puppet can be replaced anyti. Supporting a partner with independent thinking, who can negotiate with us on equal terms, though risky, is stable if successful, and the returns are long-term!"
Song Heping's voice resonated in the operation room with an undeniable force.
Ferrari's brow furrowed slightly, White Bear and Hunter also withdrew their previous contempt, falling into contemplation.
Song Heping's analysis surpassed simplistic power comparisons, delving into deeper human nature and political gas.
At this mont—
Knock, knock, knock!
The sturdy alloy door of the operation room was knocked on, the rhythm steady yet carrying an undeniable penetrating force.
Instantly, the room fell silent, everyone exchanged puzzled looks. Core etings of this level wouldn't be interrupted without an ergency.
Song Heping's eyes flickered slightly, and he spoke into the communicator in a deep voice: "What's the matter?"
A guard's voice ca from outside: "Boss, General Haftar requests to see you. He says… he knows you are discussing his fate and hopes to have a chance to speak."
Everyone looked at each other, Ferrari's frown deepening.
Haftar?
How did he know that they were in here discussing his fate?
And barged in at this critical mont?
Song Heping was silent for two seconds, a faint, sharp light flashing in his eyes: "Let him in."
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