Next morning.
The sunlight pierces through Terry's eyelids like burning steel needles.
He lets out a pained groan, suddenly waking from a deep sleep.
His skull feels as if soone is swinging a hamr inside, each heartbeat causing his temples to pound fiercely, bringing waves of nauseating dizziness.
His throat feels as dry as a sun-scorched desert, burning fiercely.
His whole body feels disjointed, muscles aching and powerless.
He struggles to open his heavy eyelids, his blurred vision taking several seconds to focus.
An exaggeratedly high ceiling with a luxurious crystal chandelier hanging, sunlight pouring in through giant floor-to-ceiling windows, softened by expensive Persian carpets and dark velvet curtains.
The air still holds a faint, elusive, sweet perfu scent.
mories rush back chaotically, like broken tides, slling of hangover stench.
Port...
Marlin Fish departing...
Aziz's call...
Golden Broom Club...
Lush box...
Endless whiskey...
The sweet mist of hookah...
Seductive fem fatales...
Then...
Then being taken away...
Soft bed...
The body snuggling up, carrying an enticing fragrance...
Terry suddenly sits up, the abrupt movent causing his vision to blacken, nearly making him vomit.
He looks around—alone in the huge and luxurious bedroom.
The other side of the bed is disheveled, but empty.
Where's the fem fatale?
He cautiously lifts the blanket, wearing only underwear.
He shakily gets out of bed, with a splitting headache, and unsteady steps towards the spacious bathroom. The frosted glass door is open, but no one is inside.
On the luxurious marble vanity, only hotel toiletries are neatly arranged, without any trace of feminine items.
He returns to the bedroom, glancing over the bedside table. Apart from a quaint brass lamp, there's nothing.
No note, no contact information, as if last night was nothing more than an alcohol-induced dream.
"Damn it…"
Terry curses under his breath, rubbing his throbbing forehead.
The discomfort of the hangover and the emptiness after indulgence hit him simultaneously. He feels a bit annoyed, and vaguely lost.
The fem fatale...
Seed to be Sofia?
Or Natasha?
He couldn't even rember the na clearly.
Seems like just a high-end "service" arranged by Aziz, disappearing without a trace by dawn—that's the rule.
Dragging his heavy body to the enormous floor-to-ceiling window, he yanks the thick curtains open. The glaring sunlight makes him squint instantly.
Outside the window is the morning scene of Kuwait City, skyscrapers towering, the distant Persian Gulf shimring.
A new day has begun.
Terry shakes his groggy head, trying to dispel last night's blurred and chaotic images.
It's just a relaxation, a reward after a successful mission, a harmless encounter. He tells himself this.
That fem fatale nad Sofia… or Natasha, just a scenery of this luxurious place, dispersing at dawn.
He turns to enter the bathroom, the hangover headache still torturing him, completely unaware that as he pulls open the curtains, on top of the bedroom door fra, an extrely hidden micro wide-angle cara is there, silently flashing an almost imperceptible red light.
---
The second day after leaving the port.
Marlin Fish slices through the deep blue waters of the Arabian Sea, leaving a long white trail, and sails towards the northwestern Red Sea.
Almost simultaneously as Marlin Fish disappears from the port's sight, an intangible shockwave sweeps through the entire Middle East's underground world, with a force far stronger than Terry's hangover headache.
A ten billion US Dollar bounty information crazily transfers via ancient oral ssages, encrypted satellite phones, chaotic radio channels, even hastily written, rapidly copied notes.
The source is from the depths of the Persian Gulf, where Persia's strongman code-nad "Avanti" faithfully fulfills his agreent with Song Heping.
The content is simple, rude, carrying a heat enough to ignite any greed and ambition:
Target: US Army's arms transport ship "Marlin Fish" (MV Marlin)
Location: Northwest Arabian Sea, heading towards Mandela Strait and the Red Sea.
Bounty: Ten billion US dollars cash, or equivalent arms.
Requirent: Sink the ship.
…
Ten billion.
US Dollar.
Arms.
These words combined, like a scoop of ice water thrown into a boiling oil pot, explode wildly.
Wild Gate, in the HS ard-controlled area, inside a certain rock cave.
Leader Abu Khalid's finger heavily points to the blue area on the map representing the northwestern Arabian Sea.
His voice, low and hoarse.
"Allah's will guides us!"
He scans the faces of several trusted aides beside him, eyes flickering with flas, "Look at this number! Ten billion! Or, those arms to fight against enemies!"
Nearby, a young Commander licks his dry lips, eyes shining with desire yet tinged with a trace of instinctive fear: "Leader, that's an Arican's ship... a steel beast, surely guarded by the fiercest soldiers and the most advanced weapons."
"Soldiers? Weapons?"
Khalid pounds the table fiercely, the flicker of the oil lamp intensifying.
"No shield can block bullets and our rockets! The bounty only states to sink it, without any other conditions! Isn't this a settle deal? They eventually have to pass through the Red Sea Strait!"
His finger stabs the map, directly pointing to Marlin Fish's route across the Red Sea.
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