Mercenaries, I Will Be King Chapter 1306 - 1118: The Highway to Hell

Two days later.

In Beirut, the diterranean gem once hailed as the "Little Paris of the Middle East," the apparent bustle and hustle were still maintained, yet a silent tension and anxiety perated the air.

Vehicles were clogged on the streets, and the cafes were buzzing with noise, but on close inspection, many people had a faint, almost imperceptible look of fatigue and vigilance on their faces.

Liben's fragile political balance was becoming more delicate due to its intricate links with Siria.

This place was both a stage for intelligence agents from various countries and the first escape destination for countless Syrian refugees, where various emotions and forces collided.

Following the chef's instructions, Song Heping checked into a seasoned hotel located in the Hamra District.

The hotel seed ordinary but had an elegant environnt and a strong sense of history.

He stayed in a regular single room, slightly old-fashioned in its setup but clean and tidy.

In the room, after carefully checking the doors, windows, and possible surveillance devices, he began patiently waiting.

Outside the window was a typical Beirut street view; mixed sounds of Arabic, French, and English vaguely floated in.

By evening, the old-fashioned telephone in the room suddenly rang, the sound was piercing.

Song Heping picked up the receiver after it rang three tis.

A male voice with a deep, slightly Slavic-accented English ca through, without any pleasantries: "Sir, regarding your previous inquiry about dinner recomndations, the restaurant manager wants to confirm whether you wish to try authentic Lebanese flavors, or do you prefer Eastern European cuisine?"

Song Heping replied in a calm, unfluctuating tone, "Eastern European cuisine. Especially borscht, I really miss that taste."

The code matched.

The other party was silent for two seconds, then quickly said: "In an hour, the narrow alley outside the logistics passage exit of the hotel, a black rcedes, license plate ending in 273. Only wait five minutes."

After saying this, he hung up the phone.

Holding the receiver, Song Heping was sowhat stunned.

Indeed, the style of these Russian operatives was consistent with that Da Mao flavor—simple, straightforward.

An hour later, like a regular guest returning late, Song Heping silently slipped through the fire stairs to the hotel's back yard and ducked into a dimly lit narrow alley.

The old black rcedes was already parked at the agreed spot, its engine purring softly.

The car window rolled down, revealing a hard-faced Eastern European man with a thick neck wearing a dark jacket; his sharp gaze swept over Song Heping, he nodded slightly, signaling him to get in with his eyes.

Song Heping opened the car door and sat in the back seat. The vehicle imdiately moved smoothly out of the alley, rging into the night traffic of Beirut.

The driver said nothing, like a silent robot, simply focusing on driving the vehicle.

His chosen route was not the Main Street but rather so dimly lit secondary streets, clearly avoiding possible surveillance.

The vehicle passed through the still bustling city center, gradually moving towards the southeastern suburbs of Beirut. The neon lights outside increasingly faded, and the buildings beca lower and sparse.

The atmosphere inside the car was stiflingly oppressive, with only the hum of the engine and the sound of tires on the road.

After driving for about forty minutes, it was almost completely dark around, with only a few scattered lights indicating the presence of distant dwellings.

The vehicle eventually stopped gently beside an old, long-abandoned olive grove near the Lebanon-Syria border.

The air was filled with the sll of dry grass, dust, and a faint scent of abandoned pesticides.

"Get out. Follow . Stay quiet and keep close."

The driver finally spoke, with a hoarse, brief tone, exuding an undeniable command.

He got out first, drawing a pistol from his waist, vigilantly observing the surroundings.

Song Heping carried his backpack and silently followed behind the driver.

One after the other, they trod carefully through the uneven, branch-laden abandoned orchard.

The night sky was studded with stars, but clouds obscured the moonlight, and visibility was low.

From afar, ca the faint sound of wild dogs barking and, from a further distance—in the direction of Siria—the wind carried a low rumble, which was definitely not thunder, but the roar of heavy artillery or violent explosions.

After walking for approximately fifteen minutes, a faint flickering light appeared ahead, resembling a windproof kerosene lamp.

It was an extrely simple, almost collapsing adobe farmhouse.

The driver knocked rhythmically at the door—two quick knocks followed by three slow ones.

The wooden door creaked open slightly, revealing another vigilant Eastern European face, holding a short-barreled assault rifle.

He quickly sized up the driver and Song Heping, especially focusing on Song Heping's face, and then stepped aside to clear the way, whispering, "Get in quickly!"

The inside of the farmhouse was cramped and dim, with the kerosene lamp as the only light source, illuminating a few rough wooden chairs and a broken table.

The air was thick with the scent of poor-quality tobacco, sweat, and dust.

Besides the man who opened the door, there were two others inside, all with the typical burly physique of Eastern European n, silently examining several sets of the worn uniforms of the Silia Governnt Army soldiers and several moderately maintained AK-74 rifles laid out on the table, along with so spare magazines and grenades.

"Change clothes. Put your passport and all personal belongings into this bag."

The driver who ca to pick up Song Heping ordered in broken English, handing Song Heping a set of Syria Governnt Army soldier uniforms that reeked of mildew and sweat, and tossing over an old military canvas backpack.

Song Heping originally wanted to explain that they could speak directly in Russian; he could understand.

But on second thought, perhaps speaking Russian in such a place wasn't safe.

So without any hesitation, he quickly took off his casual clothes and changed into the ill-fitting and coarse military uniform.

He took important items out of his backpack and carefully placed them into the military canvas bag, leaving his backpack in the corner of the farmhouse.

"Listen."

The man who had opened the door earlier, seemingly a small leader, said to Song Heping in heavily accented English, his tone extrely serious.

"We will drive you near the border checkpoint; soone will et you there. The border has been extrely tense lately; the 1515 infiltration team, opposition snipers, and even rcenaries of unknown forces are all active. The checkpoint inspection is very strict, and shooting could happen at any ti. Whatever happens, remain absolutely calm, follow our people closely, don't make extra movents, and don't speak. Only after passing the checkpoint will you actually enter Siria. We will switch vehicles then, and soone will take you to Damascus. Understand?"

"OK."

Song Heping nodded to show his understanding.

He picked up the AK-74 assigned to him and skillfully checked the bolt and magazine, then secured the canvas bag on his back.

When they set off again, they switched to a less conspicuous, dusty, dented Toyota Hilux pickup.

Song Heping and two Russian agents squeezed into the back seat, while another person drove and the small leader sat in the passenger seat.

The cabin was filled with the sll of gasoline and a rancid sheep at odor.

The pickup jolted as it drove onto the main road leading to the border—the Beirut-Damascus highway.

This historically strategic pathway had now beco the central stage showcasing Siria's tragedy.

As they approached the border, a suffocating sense of repression hit them.

Most striking was the endless flood flowing in the opposite direction—they were refugees fleeing Siria.

Old, dilapidated cars and vans were packed with people inside and out, with large bundles tied on top containing their entire belongings; donkey carts and horse carts crowded the roadside, moving slowly; more were families trudging along on foot.

n pushed the elderly in wheelchairs, won carried infants while holding the hands of older children.

Fear, exhaustion, despair, and bewildernt were etched on every face. Dust kicked up by countless feet and wheels blurred the view; cries, shouts, impatient car horns, and the groan of overloaded engines filled the air.

This was an apocalyptic scene of exodus, a most direct portrayal of human suffering.

In stark, almost harsh contrast, was the pickup Song Heping rode, resolutely heading into the heart of conflict against the refugee tide.

The war had been going on for more than a year; logically, there shouldn't still be a refugee wave now.

This ant the Chef was right.

The opposition Freedom Army, extremist organizations, and 1515 Levant seed to be closing in on Damascus.

The once secularized people of Syria must be terrified by the approach of these fundantalist ard groups, and those who could leave would certainly choose to flee.

The closest option to Siria was evidently Lebanon.

More checkpoints and roadblocks began to appear along the roadside.

First were the Lebanese military checkpoints, where soldiers in relatively neat uniforms sternly inspected vehicles attempting to enter, but they seed neither able nor willing to strictly control the overwhelming refugee influx, focusing more on maintaining order and preventing trampling.

The closer to the border, the more intense the atmosphere beca.

Abandoned vehicles were pushed to the roadside as obstacles, more machine gun positions and observation posts made of sandbags appeared, and the soldiers' expressions grew increasingly vigilant.

Finally, the bullet-riddled, damaged buildings of the Siria border checkpoint appeared at the far end of their sight.

The red, white, and black tricolor flag with two green stars of Siria hung limply in the wind, its colors sowhat dimd.

The area before the checkpoint was chaotic, packed with vehicles and more people trying to escape.

Ard Siria soldiers with tense faces and secret police shouted orders, roughly searching through luggage and docunts, creating an explosive atmosphere like a powder keg that could ignite at any mont.

Crying, argunts, engine roars, and soldier's shouts mingled, piercing the eardrums.

The pickup carrying Song Heping did not line up but instead approached the checkpoint's main building slowly yet determinedly via a special passage.

The small leader agent got out, quickly whispered a few words to a Siry Army Lieutenant who was waiting with a sullen face, and passed over a thick envelope and so docunts.

The lieutenant skillfully pinched the thickness of the envelope, glanced at the docunts, then briefly looked at Song Heping and the others in the vehicle, and waved his hand expressionlessly.

The vehicle was allowed to pass, then slowly drove over a stripe on the ground symbolizing the border line.

As the wheels rolled over the boundary line, it felt as if they had stepped into another world. An invisible, heavy pressure instantly gripped everyone.

The sll in the air suddenly changed; besides the ever-present dust and sweat, it was much clearer now—a mix of smoke, the charred sll of burning, and a faint, elusive hint of... blood.