At the mont Song Heping dived down, he only felt as if an invisible giant hamr struck his back fiercely. The blast wave lifted him several ters away, crashing heavily onto the hard gravel bank. It seed as though his internal organs had shifted, golden stars danced in front of his eyes, and only a sharp ringing filled his ears.
Smoke and dust filled the air, obscuring his vision. The choking sll of gunpowder and rock dust filled his nostrils.
A burning pain ca from his right arm and back, clearly struck by high-speed flying debris.
He struggled to get up but found a sharp stabbing pain in his left leg. Looking down, he saw a sharp piece of stone deeply embedded in his calf muscle, with blood rapidly dyeing the pant leg red.
"Damn it…"
He cursed under his breath, the intense pain snapping his dizzy brain into clarity.
Clenching his teeth, he mustered all his strength and yanked out the stone shard.
Blood gushed out instantly.
Without looking, he quickly took out a first aid kit, using his teeth to assist his right hand to take out a bandage and wrapped it above the wound to stop the bleeding.
Can't stop!
Stopping ans death!
He gritted his teeth against the agony and dizziness, using both hands and feet, dragging his injured leg, scrambling and crawling toward a deeper, more concealed bend in the riverbed ahead.
Above, the drone's engine roar grew closer, carrying a kind of cruel excitent as if the prey was nearly in its grasp.
It was lowering its altitude, preparing for the final confirmation and kill!
Song Heping, back against the cold rock, chest heaving violently, each breath tugging at the pain all over his body.
He reached for the bulky encrypted satellite phone, fingers trembling slightly from blood loss and cold, but still quickly turning it on.
"Beep… beep…"
The brief seconds waiting for the connection felt unbearably long.
The sound of the drone rotors slicing through the air above grew clearer, like the knell of a Grim Reaper.
Finally, the call connected.
"Avanti!"
Song Heping's voice was hoarse, icy, carrying an irrepressible rage and the taste of blood, squeezed out almost through gritted teeth.
"Where are your people?! Where is your security?! I haven't even stepped on Persian soil when those CIA bastards in your Revolutionary Guard, along with that damned Grim Reaper in the sky, are already throwing a welco party! Is your territory a damn sieve?!"
Langley, CIA headquarters, Director's Office.
"Confird! Director Vincent! The target is in the northwest of the Persian Plateau, on the Illiguo side of the Persian border! The Grim Reaper has returned clear thermal and optical images! It's him! Song Heping! He's injured!"
Williams nearly burst into the office, his voice slightly altered by extre excitent, waving the latest image printouts just obtained from the Tactical Intelligence Center.
Vincent abruptly stood from behind the massive oak desk, his bloodshot eyes from days of frustration suddenly flaring with terrifying light, like burning embers doused with gasoline.
He snatched the images from Williams's hand.
On the printed paper, the technically enhanced image was clear: a robed figure stumbled desperately through the rugged canyon riverbed.
Another thermal image clearly outlined him crouched behind rocks, with obvious heat trails left from his burst of speed.
Despite so blurring and interference, that silhouette and movent style were etched deeply in Vincent's mind from countless intelligence files and videos.
"Song Heping…"
Vincent murmured the na, his fingers nearly crumpling the edges of the print in his grip.
The pent-up anger, humiliation, and frustration of recent days found the perfect outlet at this mont.
A near-ecstatic tremor shot from his spine to his head.
"Finally… finally caught you, slippery mouse! He's still in Illiguo, hasn't entered Persia… Good! Perfect!"
He looked up sharply, eyes blazing with naked murderous intent: "Williams, coordinate imdiately with the 160th Aviation Regint's Special Operations Detachnt in Illiguo, set them into motion right now! I want the most elite Delta or Rangers team! Target: capture Song Heping alive! If faced with overwhelming resistance, kill on sight! Authorize use of all necessary ans! Now! Imdiately! I want him to have no escape!"
"Yes, Director! I'll coordinate with Baghdad and Special Operations Command at once!" Williams snapped a salute, turning to rush out.
"Wait!"
Vincent called him back, eyes gleaming with a poisonous snake's light, "Inform our 'gardener' in the Garden (Persian mole codena)! Tell him, the target is locked on the Illiguo side of the border, coordinates will be synced imdiately! Have him utilize all resources to track the Revolutionary Guard's movents! Avanti, that old fox, will not sit by and watch Song Heping die at the border! He will definitely send soone for rescue! Have the 'gardener' keep a close eye, especially on Zahari's Special Operations Company! Report any activity imdiately! I want a handle on the Revolutionary Guard's every move toward extraction! Let them run into our guns!"
"Understood! Double insurance! He's definitely not getting away this ti!"
Williams nodded heavily, striding quickly away.
The heavy office door closed.
Vincent walked over to the grand floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the neatly trimd lawn of Langley headquarters and the lush forest in the distance.
The bright sunshine ford an eerie contrast with his bloodthirsty cravings inside.
He could almost see the scene of Song Heping being forced to the ground by Special Forces, or becoming a cold corpse.
"It's over, Song Heping."
He softly said to the scenery outside the window, a cold smile curling his lips.
"This cat-and-mouse ga should co to an end."
While Vincent was imrsed in the pleasure of impending victory, Deputy Director Simon Brennan silently returned to his office. He locked the door, his usual gentle and sowhat sluggish expression instantly replaced with a calm and sharp deanor like deep water. He walked to his desk, not turning on the computer, but took out an ordinary-looking old Nokia phone from deep in the drawer, skillfully swapping in a prepaid anonymous SIM card.
He swiftly composed a text ssage, extrely concise, consisting only of two seemingly unrelated sets of words:
"The wolf of Baghdad leaves the den heading northwest for prey, beware the highland cold, take care."
He entered a heavily encrypted satellite phone number, pressing send without hesitation.
The notification light for successful delivery flashed weakly.
Simon imdiately powered off the phone, removed the SIM card, cut it into fragnts with the cigar cutter on the table, tossing it into the ashtray, and lit it with a lighter.
The plastic shards rapidly curled, blackened, and turned to ash in the fla.
He opened the window, letting the breeze disperse the slight odor of burning, his face resuming that harmless gentle expression, as if nothing had ever happened.
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