The camouflage on his face is mixed with dirt, sweat, and congealed blood, forming a paste, with only those eyes peeping through the filthy gaps, burning with a near-madness, chilling cold glow.
Every breath is heavy and hoarse, carrying tiny blood foam, spraying into the cold air.
He lifts his head, his bloodshot eyes precisely lock onto the sky, that circling, cold tal creation—MQ-9 "Reaper".
He knows, the high-definition cara underneath its belly is directed at him.
He knows, every subtle movent, every expression of his at this mont, is being clearly projected across satellite links, onto the screens at the Nevada Air Force Base, and onto the vast screens at the CIA command center in Langley.
He opens his mouth, revealing teeth stained with dirt and blood threads, smiling silently.
That smile is hideous, embedded with a mockery and provocation from deep within hell.
Then, he raises his scarred, ash-covered and blood-stained right hand, pointing towards the sky, towards that unmanned aircraft representing the powerful US war machine, and slowly, with utmost clarity, raises the blood-stained middle finger!
An obscene, bloody insult that spans half the globe!
"FUCK!!!"
In the Nevada control room, the weapon control officer violently slams his fist onto the console, causing the monitor to shake.
His face turns crimson, veins bulging on his neck, eyes fixated on the screen displaying that unmistakable middle finger gesture, a huge wave of humiliation and helplessness suddenly drowning him.
"This bastard! He's provoking us! Provoking the entire United States of Arica!"
The drone operator's breath becos heavy too, cold sweat soaking the palm gripping the joystick.
He looks at the figure under the cara as if returned from hell, a chill creeping up his spine.
The opponent not only survived but is declaring his existence and contempt in the most extre way. He subconsciously glances at the weapon status indicator light—utterly empty.
The last Hellfire has already been fired.
Now, they are like a crab whose pincers have been clipped, capable of nothing but watching helplessly.
This sense of powerlessness is even more suffocating than the previous explosion.
Langley, CIA command center.
A dead silence.
Turned into a morgue.
Everyone is taken aback by the figure on the screen showing the middle finger.
On the gigantic tactical screen, Song Heping's bloodstained face, eyes burning with a frenzy, and that middle finger pointed straight to the heavens, magnified by the high definition cara, its impact unrivaled.
"Oh God..."
A female analyst covers her mouth, her face pale.
Director Vincent sways, his face paling another shade.
His gaze sharp as a knife behind his glasses, fixated on Song Heping on the screen, expressionless yet the twitching vein at his temple revealing the turbulent waves within.
Slowly, deliberately, he murmurs in a tone akin to a dreamlike coldness:
"This is not a man... This is a damn devil... A devil climbing out of hell..."
The staff behind him huddle together in silence, a chill spreading. Vincent's voice is not loud, yet like a dagger piercing the silence in the command room.
"Look!"
A special agent suddenly cries out in shock.
Song Heping retracts the blood-drenched middle finger.
Cold eyes sweep across the Asura scene before him.
To the left, the MH-60M "Black Hawk" that was disturbed by aluminum thermite and forcefully evaded, slants down at the edge of a nearby gravel beach, sending up thick smoke.
The body still burns, the area near the tail beam charred black and twisted.
Several surviving crew mbers are rolling and crawling, trying to escape this giant tal coffin, faces etched with shock and disbelief.
At the cabin door, two special soldiers previously flung out and injured lie there, groaning in pain, struggling to crawl away.
And closer still, is the wreckage of "Black Hawk Two," sent to hell by his hand grenade.
Its broken body has gouged a deep pit on the gravel beach, twisted tal fra ablaze, crackling, black smoke columns rising, emitting the acrid stench of burnt flesh and terrifying man-at burning scent.
Flas lick scattered parts, weapon fragnts, and...
So unrecognizable chunks.
Scenes of hell are no less.
Right at this fla-consud hellish edge, scattered are several US Army special soldiers fallen from the sky or thrown by blast waves.
They wear the sa desert camouflage, yet now devoid of elite coolness.
So lie on their backs, bodies unnaturally twisted, motionless, with dark red blood pooling beneath them; others clutch broken legs or arms, issuing muffled, near-death wails under the tornt of agony and blood loss.
Song Heping's gaze was like a cold probe, precisely sweeping over every still-moving figure, then he drew his already loaded Glock 17 pistol, his steps unwavering, firmly moving towards the closest target.
It was a Delta mber trying to crawl towards the wreckage for cover.
One of his calves had been sheared off at the knee by shrapnel from the explosion, the wound mangled, blood still seeping out, dragging a long, glaringly dark red trail over the rubble.
He heard the heavy, slow footsteps behind him, like a death knell, and turned his head sharply.
What t his eyes was Song Heping's face completely covered with murderous intent, and those eyes devoid of human emotion, as cold as polar ice.
Fear instantly gripped his heart, making him forget the excruciating pain of his severed leg, leaving only the most primal survival instinct.
He made a beast-like whimper, reaching for his thigh, trying to find a self-defense weapon.
Song Heping raised his hand and fired a shot at his face.
BANG—
Nevada Base's drone control room.
In the center of the high-definition screen, Song Heping's every subtle movent of drawing the gun and shooting was captured clearly.
The weapons control officer's eyes widened instantly, his pupils dilated in sheer terror.
He lunged at the communicator, screaming into the microphone, his voice deford with extre fear and rage:
"He's executing our wounded! FUCK!!! Stop him now! Call for air support! Call for ground forces! Anyone who can move! Hurry!!!"
His screams echoed in the control room with a sense of desperate collapse.
The drone operator's face was as pale as paper, yet all he could do was watch the screen helplessly.
The MQ-9's weapon racks were empty, the high-definition cara faithfully carrying out its task, broadcasting an imminent massacre in the clearest and most brutal way to the world's most powerful air force base.
Langley, CIA command center.
On the massive tactical screen, Song Heping's figure wielding the gun and shooting was firmly locked by the high-definition lens.
At this mont, the muzzle of the Glock 17 was slowly lowering, aiming at the back of the head of another severely injured Delta mber.
Ti seed to stretch infinitely, freezing.
Director Vincent's hands on the tabletop trembled uncontrollably.
Behind him, so agents instinctively held their breath, so closed their eyes in pain, and so stared at the screen with twitching facial muscles.
"Sir..."
A young intelligence officer's voice trembled, on the brink of tears, "He... he can't..."
Vincent neither turned back nor spoke.
He just stared at the screen, at the figure about to pull the trigger.
The gaze behind the glasses was as cold as it was complex.
Anger?
Humiliation?
Fear?
Or perhaps...
A hint, even he was reluctant to admit, of apprehension towards this tenaciously terrifying and inhumanly cold adversary...
In the fra, Song Heping's finger remained on the cold trigger, unmoving.
On the rubble beach, even the wind seed to have stopped its wailing.
The legless Delta mber seed to sense sothing, he tried to reach for a weapon, only to find his hand broken...
So he could only turn his head to look at Song Heping, a despairing smile on his face.
Song Heping's gaze showed no fluctuation, his finger on the trigger pulled back steadily and decisively!
Bang!
A dull and brief gunshot tore through the deathly silence of the highland air!
The 9mm Parabellum pistol bullet effortlessly drilled through the skull of the Delta mber at less than a ter away.
The muzzle flash flickered like a devilish grin blooming montarily.
The Delta mber's body jolted forward, then collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, lying motionless on the cold rubble.
Dark red blood mixed with grayish-white fluid quickly gushed from the wound on his head, soaking the ground beneath him.
The image clearly captured the slight tremor of the head at the bullet's entry and the last twitch of the body as life abruptly extinguished.
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