Nevada Control Room.
"Ah---!!!"
The weapon officer let out a beastly howl, as imnse pain and humiliation drove him to slam his forehead against the hard control panel!
With a dull thud, blood instantly stread from his temple. Oblivious, he desperately pounded the tabletop with his fists.
"Devil! He's a devil!!"
The operator slumped in the chair, his face ashen, staring blankly at the still twitching body on the screen. His stomach churned violently until he could no longer hold back, bending over as he vomited all over the floor.
Langley Command Center.
The command room was deathly silent.
Only the faint buzzing of the equipnt resounded, like a dirge for the dead.
Vincent slowly closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as if to expel all the air from his lungs.
On the screen, Song Heping had already straightened up.
He didn't even glance at the corpse at his feet, as if brushing away a speck of dust.
Dragging his injured leg, he walked with a semblance of the Grim Reaper's coldness towards his next target — a Ranger soldier lying unconscious at the edge of the burning wreckage.
The muzzle of the Glock 17 pistol rose steadily again, aiming at the unconscious soldier's forehead.
"God..."
A female agent murmured, her voice laced with tears.
Bang!
Another dull gunshot rang out.
In the footage, the head of the comatose soldier suddenly tilted to the side, and a distinct hole appeared on his forehead.
He didn't even manage a groan before his life ended.
Song Heping's stride did not pause.
Like a pre-programd killing machine, he moved among the burning helicopter debris, twisted tal shards, and scattered bodies.
Each pause was accompanied by a brief, lethal gunshot.
Bang!
A soldier clutching a broken arm, trying to reach for his holstered pistol, was shot in the chest and suddenly fell backward.
Bang!
An aircrew mber trapped under tal debris, desperately calling for help, was silenced abruptly.
Bang!
A wounded man groaned unconsciously in vague pain, coming to peace the mont the bullet kissed his forehead.
Each flare of the muzzle lit up the high-definition screens at the Nevada Base and Langley Command Center clearly.
These wounded or deeply shocked pilots and US Special Soldiers had no chance to fight back against the Executioner, Song Heping, resembling lambs waiting for slaughter.
Blood flowed unchecked over the stony ground, reflecting an eerie sheen under the firelight.
Song Heping maneuvered across the landscape of flas and smoke, finally halting in front of the last person.
This was the soldier he had injured with a hand grenade, flung from the right Black Hawk cabin onto the ground.
One of his legs was fractured, his internal organs were hemorrhaging fiercely due to a ruptured spleen, and the excruciating pain with blood loss left him muddled, yet the survival instinct urged faint wriggles.
He seed to perceive the shadow of death descending, forcing his murky eyes to strain open a crack to see Song Heping standing before him.
Terror dilated his pupils instantly.
He opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to say sothing, but could only emit gurgling sounds as bloody saliva oozed from his mouth.
Song Heping looked down at him without a hint of emotion on his face.
He slowly raised the bloodstained, brain-splattered Glock 17, the cold muzzle trained on the soldier's fear-distorted face.
In the control room at Nevada Base, the weapon officer had collapsed, slumped in the chair, blood from his forehead drying on his face, his eyes hollow, as though his soul had been drawn out.
The last Hellfire missile had been his shot.
That was the final chance to end Song Heping's life.
Had it succeeded, this massacre scene wouldn't be unfolding now.
It was the straw that broke his ntal state.
Beside him, the operator held his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking silently.
Langley Command Center.
Vincent stared intently at the screen, his eyes blazing with an enough rage to incinerate everything.
Behind him, a deep silence oppressive enough to choke prevailed.
Song Heping's forefinger rested on the trigger.
At that mont, the dying soldier seed to muster his last breath, a wild madness tinged with fear and venom erupting in his gaze at the brink of despair.
He used all his strength to lift his hand to reach for the hand grenade hanging on his tactical vest.
One has to admit, he was quite the tough guy.
No begging for rcy.
No surrender.
He wanted to take Song Heping down with him.
But it was all in vain.
This slightly tragic act of defiance was clearly captured by the drone's high-definition cara.
The corner of Song Heping's mouth seed to twitch upwards, ever so slightly.
That smile carried an inexhaustible taunt of affirmation.
Then, he pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The gunshot was crisper, colder than any before.
The bullet pierced precisely through the soldier's forehead, extinguishing his final trace of madness and venom completely.
The soldier's head thudded heavily back to the ground, his eyes remaining wide open, blankly reflecting the burning inferno and the devil with the gun.
Song Heping slowly lowered the gun.
The Glock 17's slide was locked back after the last bullet was fired, a faint wisp of smoke lingering at the barrel.
He surveyed the surroundings.
Two invaluable MH-60M "Black Hawk" Special Ops helicopters: one had entirely beco blazing wreckage, while the other leaned askew in the distance, emitting black smoke.
On the gravel beach, more than twenty bodies in desert camouflage lay scattered, blood pooling beneath them into dark red streams, silently flowing and seeping into the war-torn land.
The air was thick with an overpowering scent of blood, gunpowder, burnt flesh, and death, so suffocating it was hard to breathe.
Only the MQ-9 "Grim Reaper" drone continued to hum lowly and helplessly in the sky.
Nevada Air Force Base, drone control room.
The weapons control officer slumped in his chair, eyes vacant as he stared at the carnage on the screen, and the figure standing amid the pile of bodies.
Under the high-definition lens, the congealed blood scabs on Song Heping's face, the dark bloodstains on his clothes, and even the gun smoke lingering at the muzzle, were all clearly visible.
On the console, the weapons status indicator still glaringly read "EMPTY" (ammunition depleted).
A great, nauseating sense of powerlessness and icy fear wrapped around his heart like a poison snake.
"He...he killed everyone..."
The operator's voice was dry and hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing together, "Right in front of us...like slaughtering livestock..."
The weapons control officer shuddered violently, as if woken by those words.
He picked up the communicator with trembling hands, his voice distorted and high-pitched from extre fear and a sort of post-collapse hysteria:
"Command Center! Command Center! This is Grim Reaper control station! Target... target confird alive! Repeat, target confird alive! He...he..."
He swallowed with difficulty, a peculiar gurgle emanating from his throat, as if the next words required all his remaining life force to utter.
"...He executed all our surviving ground personnel! All of them! Right in front of the drone! Site... site confird, no survivors on our side! Over!"
It was as if all his strength had been drained, the communicator slipped from his hand, clattering on the console.
Langley, CIA operations command center.
The distorted and collapsing report from the weapons control officer echoed in the deathly still command room.
Every word hit the heart of everyone present like shards of ice.
"Executed... all surviving personnel..."
"Site confird, no survivors on our side..."
On the massive tactical screen, there was a panoramic view of Song Heping standing amidst the sea of corpses and blood.
He slowly lifted his head, and that face, completely covered in bloodstains, once again faced the drone's cara.
Then, he raised his left hand, also stained with blood, that wasn't holding the gun.
Not the middle finger this ti.
He faced the cara, fully aware of those watching him from miles away on a screen, and with excruciating slowness and a solemn air, he raised his right hand, bringing the Glock 17 pistol, just used for a brutal execution, still in slide-lock, beside his temple.
The cold barrel pressed tightly against his bloodstained temple!
"What is he trying to do?!"
An agent shouted out, his voice breaking.
Director Vincent's body went rigid, pupils constricting suddenly!
On the screen, the corners of Song Heping's mouth still held that previously mocking curve.
Then, his lips moved slightly.
Under the high-definition lens, that lip movent was captured and enlarged with incredible clarity.
He was speaking!
Speaking silently to the cara, to the eyes behind the drone, to Vincent in Langley's command center.
Vincent stared intently at that enlarged lip movent, missing no minute muscle action.
He understood.
That silent word hit his mind like a searing bullet:
"Trash!"
Click—
Song Heping's index finger suddenly pressed the slide release.
The slide snapped back empty.
Utter mockery and contempt!
Vincent could no longer control his rage and humiliation, slamming his fist down on the hard tal command table.
"Find him!"
Vincent's voice was filled with fury and murderous intent.
He whipped around, his bloodshot eyes scanning every panicked subordinate behind him.
"Utilize all resources! Sky and earth! I want him caught dead or alive! I want to sever his head myself! Imdiately!!!"
The entire command center erupted again.
Ear-piercing alarms were sounded, red warning lights spinning madly.
"Contact the Pentagon! Highest priority! We need all satellites, all reconnaissance planes! Cover the entire Persian border area!"
"Activate all dormant agents within Persia! At all costs! Target description: East Asian male, severely injured, extrely dangerous!"
"Contact the NSA! I want all communication records, contacts within Illiguo! Dig three feet deep!"
"Inform the Persians... no, apply pressure through secret channels! Damn it, they must cooperate! Or suffer the consequences!"
The orders rained down like hail, each word carrying Vincent's resolve to obliterate the target.
The massive screen fragnted into countless small sections, satellite maps, communication link charts, agent files, real-ti footage of border outposts...
Vast streams of information began to pour in furiously.
And the main screen continued to lock onto the burning gravel beach.
Song Heping maintained that action of placing the gun against his temple, frozen for a full three seconds.
Then, he slowly lowered his arm.
The gun barrel moved away from his temple.
Having done all that, he no longer looked up at the drone in the sky.
As if it were just a aningless speck of dust on the roadside.
He turned around, dragging his injured leg towards the border line.
The satellite phone in his pocket vibrated.
Taking it out and glancing at the screen, Song Heping pressed the call button.
"Song, I've sent people to pick you up, where are you?"
Afan's voice ca from the other side of the call.
Song Heping pondered for a few seconds, then replied in a deep voice: "Towards Rumier Lake, send soone you trust to pick up."
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