"Chef!!"
Song Heping's heart suddenly contracted.
But at this mont he had no strength to spare!
He had no ti to check if the Chef was dead or alive.
The enemy's pickup truck had taken advantage of the chaos to move closer, and the heavy machine gun's fire made stones fly in his area, preventing him from lifting his head!
Worse yet, seven or eight militants had taken advantage of the drop in firepower after a human bomb explosion to howl and leap into the outermost fortifications, engaging the last few defenders in brutal hand-to-hand and close-range gun battles!
The dull sound of bayonets piercing flesh, the terrifying crack of rifle butts smashing bones, the shrill screams of the dying, the furious roars of the fighters...
Instantly turned this small ruin into the most primitive blood-and-guts grinder!
The final line of defense was on the verge of collapse, threatening to break down at any mont!
Song Heping's eyes had turned blood-red.
He fired the last magazine from his rifle and, without hesitation, drew the Glock 17 pistol from his waist, darting forward like lightning.
Bam!
A single shot accurately took down an enemy who was about to stab a governnt soldier's chest with an AK bayonet.
Now, Song Heping's state had reached a level akin to being possessed by a god of death.
It was as if the killing impulse in him had reached its peak, everything was muscle mory, with the extre training received in the 203 unit's killing techniques, skills, and physical power being fully utilized at this mont.
He swiftly moved between cover, his pistol firing crisp shots continuously.
Bam!
Bam!
Two more precise shots hit two enemies who had just jumped into the cover, knocking them down with headshots before they could stand properly!
His bravery greatly inspired the surviving defenders.
The last three or four Wagner mbers and governnt soldiers able to fight also burst out with a dying courage, using any weapon they could find—rifles without ammo as clubs, entrenching shovels, even picking up bricks and stones—to fight the enemy madly!
Finally, at the cost of nearly everyone being injured, they eliminated all the enemies that had charged into the position!
But the cost was devastating.
At this mont, those left standing on the position, including Song Heping, were fewer than five!
Everyone was wounded, their blood dripping!
And that enemy's ard pickup was still rampant a hundred ters away, with no signs of the heavy machine gun fire weakening, suppressing them rigidly, not allowing them to lift their heads.
It seed that they were organizing another attack.
And this attack would arrive soon.
Song Heping took a deep breath of the scorching, blood-scented air, then surveyed his surroundings.
Finally, his eyes fell on the body of a sacrificed Wagner mber not far away—there lay the last RPG-7 launcher, and beside it a solitary PG-7VL rocket.
No hesitation!
He suddenly darted over, grabbed the cold launch tube and heavy rocket, and loaded it as quickly as possible!
Then yelled at a nearby governnt soldier bandaging his arm: "Cover !"
The soldier was startled for a mont, then gritted his teeth and nodded, picked up an AK with half a magazine of bullets left, and abruptly shot towards the pickup's direction to attract fire!
Just within the few tenths of a second when the enemy's heavy machine gun was briefly drawn elsewhere—Song Heping suddenly leaned out more than half of his body from the cover, with the RPG-7's heavy launch tube on his shoulder, the simple chanical sight instantly aid at the pickup spewing fire like mad!
Calm!
Breathe!
Predict!
Fire!
All in one go!
Hiss—
Boom!!!
The rear of the launcher spewed out fire several ters long, the rocket dragged a long trail of fla and smoke, whistling as it flew out!
Cutting a straight death trajectory, it slamd hard onto the pickup's hood accurately!
Boom——!!!
A huge fireball instantly engulfed the pickup's front half!
The fuel ignited, causing a secondary explosion! The whole vehicle turned into a burning pile of scrap tal with a loud noise, instantly vaporizing the machine gunner and driver!
The exploded fragnts scattered everywhere.
This last shot seed to yank out the backbone of the furious attacking Victory Front militants, their offensive suddenly stalled.
On the position, a brief and extrely eerie calm appeared.
It seed that those Victory Front militants were also stunned by this scene.
The next wave of attacks they were organizing suddenly halted.
In the distance, only the crackling of burning vehicle wreckage, scattered gunfire in the distance, and the suppressed moans of wounded n echoed in the air.
Song Heping dropped the empty launcher and staggered toward where the Chef had fallen.
His fingers trembled as they felt the Chef's carotid artery—still pulsing!
A quick examination revealed he was mainly knocked unconscious by the explosion, with a bleeding head injury from impact, and a few shrapnel cuts, but seemingly no fatal injuries.
"Chef, wake up! Wake up!"
He reached out and slapped the Chef's cheek harshly.
"Cough... cough cough..."
Perhaps due to Song Heping's shaking, the Chef coughed out a few breaths filled with bloody foam, and his eyelids trembled slightly before he slowly opened them.
His blurry vision focused on Song Heping's anxious face, he struggled to tug at the corners of his mouth, trying to show his usual rogue smile, but it turned into a grimace of pain.
"Damn... I guess... Satan doesn't want either..."
Song Heping let out a long breath, dragging him to a segnt of relatively intact broken wall, sitting down heavily.
The two rested their backs against the cold, rough concrete wall, breathing heavily, their chests heaving like bellows.
Extre exhaustion and a sense of collapse after the adrenaline subsided washed over them like a tide.
The air was filled with a thick sll that wouldn't dissipate—of blood, gunpowder, burnt flesh, and various indescribable death scents, causing nausea.
They sat in silence, starting to chanically check the remaining ammunition on them.
Song Heping: Glock 17 pistol, with two full magazines left, totaling 34 bullets.
Rifle ammunition: zero.
Grenades: zero.
Chef: AK-74U short assault rifle, with half a magazine left in the chamber, estimated not more than 15 rounds.
Pistol?
Long since lost sowhere.
Grenades: zero.
The Chef spat out the blood foam and dirt in his mouth, his voice hoarse like sandpaper rubbing, carrying a sense of extre fatigue relief and deep regret: "Hey... brother... we're out of everything... seems like... this is it."
Song Heping didn't speak, rely nodded silently, his gaze sweeping over the bodies of comrades scattered around and the enemies nearby, eyeing them nacingly yet daring not to advance for now.
He instinctively reached for the pockets of his tactical vest, seeking that precious satellite phone.
He intended to ask Jiang Feng or Arseny how far their actions had progressed.
However, he only felt a pile of shattered plastic parts and twisted antenna fragnts—the phone had long since been hit by stray bullets or shrapnel, completely destroyed.
"Damn..."
Song Heping smiled wryly without words.
But soon he felt relieved.
Nothing seed important anymore.
Whether Otaba or Dehuk could be successfully taken, the outco for himself and the Chef seed only limited to two—living or dying.
Like the two sides of a coin.
Doesn't matter.
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