Illigo Northern Plateau, Black Hawk Canyon.
The night was as dark as ink, and the biting cold wind howled as it swept through the jagged rock walls, stirring up fine sand that patted against the tent with a rustling sound.
In the valley, most of the soldiers had wrapped themselves in rough wool blankets, curled up behind rocks sheltered from the wind, asleep. Only patrol posts and hidden sentries patrolled in shifts as planned by Song Heping.
Song Heping sat in his makeshift tent, in front of the small stove lay a smoke-blackened copper pot, brewing rich Arabic tea. The spicy ginger aroma mixed with the cool scent of mint, perating the cramped space.
He sipped the scalding tea slowly, but his gaze occasionally flicked to the military watch on his wrist. The luminous hands clearly showed the ti approaching midnight.
Every second seed to add weight to the drawn bowstring.
The tent flap was abruptly lifted, letting in a rush of cold air.
Samir walked in with the chill clinging to him, displaying an undisguisable confusion and a hint of anxiety: "Boss, it's almost eleven at night. What exactly are we waiting for? The night's cold here could freeze off a man's nose, and although the soldiers don't speak out, they are filled with doubt. I wonder if I should explain again..."
Suddenly, he seed to realize he may have spoken too much and stopped talking.
Song Heping didn't lift his head, he slowly stirred the residue left by lted sugar at the bottom of the cup with a small silver spoon and poured him a cup of hot tea.
"Be patient, Samir."
His voice was calm with a peculiar laziness, completely incongruent with the tense atmosphere outside the tent.
"We're waiting for so 'friends' who can help us find so clues."
"Friends?"
Samir took the teacup to warm his hands, his brows furrowed tighter, "Besides us, there are only Mad Dog from 1515 and bone-chewing Wild Wolf here... Where do the friends co from?"
Before he finished his sentence, footsteps, hurried yet deliberately subdued, sounded outside the tent, the boots scraping against the gravel were exceptionally clear in the quiet night.
The curtain was lifted again, and a captain responsible for outer security appeared in the tent.
His face was mixed with tension and excitent, his voice lowered, hurriedly reporting: "Leader! Mr. Song! One of our three-man patrol units found a small caravan approximately 1.5 kiloters from the western exit of the canyon. Around twelve to fifteen people, very suspicious, acting sneakily, have been surrounded and detained!"
Song Heping and Samir almost simultaneously looked up and t eyes.
In Song Heping's eyes, there was a flash not of surprise, but an almost predatory sharpness, as if the long-awaited prey had finally triggered the trap.
Samir, however, was truly uncertain in astonishnt.
"Caravan? At this late hour, in a place like this?"
Samir's voice was filled with disbelief, "Maybe it's smugglers; this place is near the Persian border, Persians often smuggle so scarce goods here... However... it could also be spies from 1515! They're like groundhogs, burrowing everywhere!"
"Let's go have a look."
Song Heping placed the teacup down, his actions crisp and decisive.
He stood up, grabbed the AK-74 rifle leaning nearby.
"Tell everyone to maintain the highest vigilance, no exposure of positions, no sound without orders. Bring our 'invited' guests to the isolation zone I previously designated."
"Understood!"
The platoon leader nodded heavily, quickly turned, and vanished into the darkness.
A few minutes later, Song Heping and Samir, escorted by Naxin and several mbers of the "Sand Fox" team, arrived at a relatively open rocky hollow on the outskirts of the camp — temporarily designated as the isolation zone.
A caravan of approximately thirteen people was surrounded in a circle by over thirty heavily ard, stern-looking militian. While the gun muzzles tilted slightly downwards, fingers rested on the trigger guards, ready to fire at any mont.
A few single-hump cals seed to sense the tension, restlessly stomping their hooves, snorting white breath, chewing cud, exuding a heavy livestock odor.
These people wore typical Bedouin nomadic robes, their headscarves wrapped tightly, weather-beaten, their faces marked by years of sand erosion and darkness, along with a perfectly tid ekness and panic after being intercepted by ard guards.
In terms of attire, equipnt, and deanor, they perfectly fit the image of desert travelers.
Samir took a deep breath, stepped forward a few paces, and asked in the local accented Arabic: "In the na of Allah, who are you? The night is the ti of Sand Foxes and Scorpions, why are you not by the campfire warming yourselves? What business do you have near this canyon?"
The eldest among them, appearing about sixty, shuffled forward a step, his right hand on his chest, bowing slightly. In a raspy, weary voice, with a heavy southern rural Arabic accent, he replied: "Esteed, kind leader, may Allah bless you. We are a group of poor shepherds; the damned sandstorm made us lose five of our healthiest cals, which are all we own... We are anxiously searching for them, heard they might have run to the grassland here... We just want to pass through the canyon, no malice intended, please have rcy, let us go..."
His explanation sounded reasonable, his expression remarkably executed, his gaze filled with plea and fear.
But Song Heping's gaze, like a precise scanner, calmly swept over these dozen people.
Though their robes were dusty and even patched, the tailoring was too fitted, lacking the particular, sowhat clumsy coordination typical of shepherds engaged in heavy labor for long periods. Instead, there was a subtle hint of well-trained agility.
The hands holding the cal reins had visible, slightly darker calluses at the base of the thumb and alongside the index fingers — marks left by frequent gun training, especially from frequently pulling the trigger.
Their eyes, beneath a façade of fear and ekness, concealed an almost undetectable characteristic of ticulous evaluation and caution, quickly, unobtrusively scanning the number, equipnt, and positions of the surrounding militian, unlike ordinary shepherds' pure and bewildered fear.
What's more concerning, Song Heping's instincts, honed at the edges of life and death countless tis, frantically blared sharp alarms in his mind.
He had dealt with the CIA before, knew their style of high efficiency yet caution.
The initial probe wouldn't consist of valuable core elites, rather expendable, easily disclaid peripheral pawns or contractors used to test the waters, perhaps even...
As bait.
"Search them."
Song Heping suddenly ordered Samir in English, his voice not loud, but in the silent, oppressive night, each syllable was as clear and cold as ice beads hitting the ground.
"Search carefully. From head to toe, clothing layers, shoe soles, hair, don't miss any place that could hide sothing. Unload all the goods, saddles, and water bags from the cals and thoroughly inspect them."
The faces of those "shepherds" subtly changed, almost imperceptibly. Although they tried to hide it and even deliberately expressed a kind of insulted anger, the montary exchange of glances and tension in their muscles didn't escape Song Heping's eyes.
They can understand English!
"Hmph!"
Song Heping secretly sneered in his heart.
It seems his guess was close to the truth.
The militia, upon receiving the order, imdiately rushed forward like wolves, pulling those so-called "shepherds" down from the cals, two by two, beginning to execute the body search order.
The search was rough and thorough.
"You can't do this! We are devout believers! This is an insult!"
A younger "shepherd" struggled and protested in Arabic but was imdiately struck lightly by a gun butt on the bend of his leg, groaning as he fell to the ground.
Indeed, the search quickly yielded results.
"There's a discovery!"
A militiaman found a small item, smaller than a matchbox, from the clothing pocket of the "elder."
Song Heping took it and examined it under the clear moonlight, his brows furrowing.
"This is a miniature satellite positioning beacon, a transmitter."
"Guns! They have guns!"
A militiaman suddenly shouted.
The neighboring militian, responsible for vigilance, simultaneously raised their gun barrels.
The militiaman who shouted pulled out a well-maintained, German-made MP9 submachine gun from under the robe of another robust "shepherd," and the gun handle was even treated for desert environnt with a matte finish.
Next, folded high-resolution satellite maps and infrared pointers were found in the saddle folds of the cal.
"Do devout shepherds need these? To guide the way to Allah?"
Samir picked up the MP9, weighed the maps and infrared pointer in his hand, his complexion instantly turning grim, and looked murderously at the dozen or so "shepherds," his hand resting on the grip of the gun on his waist.
Song Heping raised his hand again, stopping the impending outburst from Samir.
He stepped forward to the leader undercover agent disguised as an elder, so close they could almost feel each other's breath.
Song Heping spoke in English, his voice low but carrying a cold, penetrating mockery: "A great performance, but the cost was too high. Tell those who sent you, you've found the target. Now, fulfill your final duty."
The "elder's" pupils suddenly contracted, his face montarily showing genuine astonishnt, seemingly having not expected the counterpart not only to see through their disguise but also to precisely articulate their next mission.
He opened his mouth, uttering a aningless syllable from his throat.
Song Heping no longer looked at him, signaling the militiaman holding the beacon: "Samir, activate it. Continuous transmission mode."
"Activate?"
Samir was stunned.
Isn't this equivalent to exposing ourselves?
"Quickly! Activate it, follow orders!"
Song Heping's orders were unquestionable.
Samir imdiately deftly toggled the switch on the beacon, and a small green LED light began to flash at a fixed frequency—the signal was continuously being transmitted!
Almost at the sa mont the signal was sent, Song Heping suddenly turned, issuing a series of commands that had long been prepared to the others:
"Naxin, bring your technical team over! Imdiately!"
"You two, tie them all up! Use plastic straps, tighten them!"
"You guys! Gag them! Use rags, pack them tightly!"
"You, and you, and you! Move! Strip all the clothes off them! Leave nothing! Even underwear and socks, strip them naked! Quick!"
"Attention everyone! Ergency assembly! Extinguish all fire sources, including stoves! Discard all unnecessary supplies, only take weapons, ammunition, radios, water, and three days' rations! In ten minutes, march rapidly towards the northeast border! Execute!"
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