Seven days later.
In the outskirts of Andrews Joint Base in Washington D.C., the iron gray sky hung low, pressing against the dark green pine forest at the end of the runway.
An unmarked Gulfstream G650 roared as it landed, the tires screeching sharply against the runway.
The cabin door opened, and Mossad Director Levin was the first to descend the ramp.
Following closely behind was the head of MI6, "Ms. M," her dark gray tailored suit and cold gaze seeming to shut out the damp air around them.
An unremarkable black Chevrolet Suburban slid to a stop in front of them, its windows tinted dark like a massive mobile cage.
The car's interior was filled with the cold scent of high-quality leather and cleaning agents.
Levin looked out at the monotonous scenery flying past the window, his fingers unconsciously tapping the leather armrest, each tap carrying a suppressed ferocity.
"Sha... utter and complete sha!"
He growled, his voice buzzing in the enclosed space.
"'Alpha'... our sharpest blade, broken in the hands of a rcenary! Song Heping must pay the price, a blood price!"
Ms. M's gaze was fixed straight ahead, her fingertips lightly brushing the Patek Philippe watch on her wrist, which appeared ordinary but embedded with an ergency locator. Her voice was steady, without the slightest ripple, like a dark current beneath ice: "A price? Director Levin, I warned Yager during the operation, but he didn't listen. Now, an entire elite squad, along with your pride of Tel Aviv, has beco a prize on that small Eastern gambling table. But... anger will not solve the problem. We need clarity of mind and... sufficient leverage."
Levin's face turned even darker, as if about to drip water.
An hour later.
The Suburban silently drove into the heavily guarded underground parking lot of CIA headquarters in Langley, then, under the escort of agents, they took the elevator to the top floor.
After passing through layers of heavy blast doors and iris scanners, they were finally brought into a conference room located in the core area.
The air was filled with the mixed scent of disinfectant and high-end cigars. Outside the large bulletproof windows was an impeccably manicured lawn, admitting little sunlight.
At the black oval long table in the center of the room, CIA Director Vincent Crawford was already waiting.
He was dressed in a well-tailored dark suit, without a tie, his collar casually open. He was toying with a brass cigar cutter, making a slight "click" sound, with a smile on his face that was a mix of scrutiny and amusent.
"Ah, welco, Director Levin, Ms. M."
Vincent stood up, his smile gradually widening on his face.
After all, he was well aware of why these two had co.
Now, the ball was in his court.
He walked around the table, his gaze lingered particularly long on Ms. M, with undisguised curiosity and a trace of mockery: "Was your journey pleasant? Especially for you, Ms. M, how does it feel to revisit familiar ground? I heard your last collaboration with Song Heping in Cairo was quite 'deep'? Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to understand gratitude, turning your 'goodwill' into a gun-cleaning cloth as soon as he left."
Ms. M appeared not to hear the blatant ridicule, proceeding straight to the table, pulling out a chair to sit down with an elegant yet indisputable authority.
She placed her handbag on the table, looking directly at Vincent: "Director Vincent, dwelling on the past doesn't help solve the current troubles. Speaking of cooperation, Song Heping is no longer a small contractor for your military as he was. He is now entrenched in Libya, a major threat capable of destroying our most elite forces. Put away your probes and show so sincerity for collaboration. Now you and we are sailors on the sa ship."
Her voice pierced through the relaxed atmosphere Vincent had deliberately created like an ice pick.
Levin pulled his chair out heavily and sat down: "Vincent. What has your CIA been doing these seven days? Counting sand? We are, after all, ironclad allies."
Vincent's smile faded slightly, he sat back in the main seat and pointed a remote at the wall.
The large screen lit up, displaying a high-resolution satellite map and dynamic information stream of northeastern Libya.
"Doing what?"
He snorted, his finger pointing at the screen, "We've been watching how he (Song Heping) spent seven days rubbing your and Sayif's faces in the desert!"
On the screen, clear arrows indicated Haftar's forces (LNA), under Song Heping's elite rcenary troops, advancing north at an astonishing speed.
The red areas representing the GNA-controlled zones at the border were collapsing and shrinking significantly.
"The border campaign, the GNA main force suffered heavy losses."
A senior CIA intelligence officer standing to the side began the briefing, his tone rigid yet each word hamred down.
"Song Heping's 'Grey Wolf' employed unprecedented precision artillery strikes and drone reconnaissance tactics, completely suppressing Sayif's firepower and command nodes. The remaining forces of the GNA retreated hundreds of kiloters, abandoning a large number of strategic strongholds and equipnt warehouses, including Desert City."
On the map, a symbol representing Desert City was quickly colored blue for the LNA.
The intelligence officer's finger slid, the map's focus rapidly shifted north, locking onto a key transportation hub in the northeast: "Latest intelligence shows that the vanguard units of 'Musician' are coordinating with the main LNA forces, having broken through the GNA's second line of defense around Sawinu, and are compressing toward the city's core area. Once Sawinu is lost..."
His finger swiped sharply northeast, landing on a major port city symbol along the diterranean coast.
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