Ground, Gobi Desert, en route to the Illiguo border.
"Ninety kiloters to the border! The road conditions are terrible, it's likely crossing will be even later than I originally anticipated."
The driver of the lead vehicle, "Shadow," glanced at the navigation screen, his voice cutting off intermittently due to the constant jarring.
The ard pickup truck bounced crazily on the uneven terrain of the Gobi Desert, each jolt feeling like it dislocated the internal organs of the passengers.
Petrovsky didn't respond; most of his attention was focused on the dim yellowish sky outside the window.
Though the US Army fighter jets had already withdrawn, the unease in his heart hadn't diminished in the slightest.
His years of special operations experience told him that the enemy would not give up easily, especially an adversary like the United States.
Losing the option for direct air strikes ant they were likely to employ other more insidious ans.
The convoy, like wounded coyotes, left long trails of dust in the desolate landscape.
Inside the vehicle, no one spoke; only the roar of engines, the crunching of tires over rocks, and the whistling of wind entering the cabin.
The dic, "Angel," was half-kneeling on the bouncing rear floor, using his body to cushion the unconscious "Frost."
His hands never left Frost's abdominal wound, the gauze long soaked with blood, the sticky warmth continuously seeping through his gloves.
Every few seconds, he leaned down to Frost's mouth to feel the faint breath, simultaneously pressing his fingers to Frost's neck artery, monitoring the increasingly weak heartbeat.
"Blood pressure is continually dropping, surgery is urgently needed!"
Over the channel, Angel's voice carried an uncontrollable urgency.
Petrovsky withdrew his gaze from the window and pressed the throat mic: "All units, we are temporarily safe; now we must speed up! Frost needs ergency dical aid! Repeat, speed up!"
United States, Virginia, Langley, CIA Headquarters briefing room.
An encrypted video conference was underway. The screen was divided into blocks, displaying the Pentagon's Joint Chiefs of Staff Office, the National Security Council (NSC), and CIA Operations Deputy Director Simon.
A Staff Chief bearing three-star general insignia on his shoulder broke the silence first: "Gentlen, the outco of the Latamira operation is clear. We lost the target, lost the chemical weapons depot, and the Russian Aerospace Forces flexed their muscles in front of us and successfully drove away our aircraft. This is a strategic and tactical double failure."
He manipulated the terminal before him, retrieving and sharing a file to all attendees' screens.
The upper left corner of the file showed a frontal photo of Song Heping, labeled in English next to it—Code na "Ghost."
"However, it's not all a loss."
The general continued, "We confird that the high-value target 'Ghost', together with the Russian Army's SSO squad, is currently trying to cross the border back to Northwest Illinois in several light vehicles. I believe we still have a window, an opportunity to salvage part of the loss and respond firmly to Moscow."
Simon's heart skipped a beat; he could almost guess what he was about to hear next.
"Target 'Ghost' has deep grievances with Buckdadi, the leader of the 1515 Ard group entrenched in Northwest Illinois and Siria border area. Reliable intelligence indicates that Buckdadi has suffered severe blows under Ghost's command multiple tis, including personnel losses and hijacked supplies, and nearly lost his life once during a raid by Song Heping."
The general's tone remained steady, "This kind of deep-seated hatred can be a strategic asset."
He threw out the core plan: "Coordinate through established, deniable third-party channels to provide Buckdadi with Ghost and his team's specific route, personnel, and equipnt intelligence. Additionally, offer fifty million US dollars to motivate forces to intercept and eliminate Song Heping and the SSO squad at the border."
The briefing room fell into dead silence, only the faint hum of equipnt running.
Simon knew he had to speak; he adjusted his posture and put on a cautious professional expression: "General, the potential risks of this plan require assessnt. Engaging in any form of transaction with a globally wanted terrorist leader like Buckdadi, once exposed, would pose a fatal threat to our country's reputation and counter-terrorism strategy. The unpredictability of the 1515 Ard group is extrely high; we cannot guarantee the investnt of funds and intelligence will yield the expected results, and it might even backfire."
His words were logical.
In truth, he worried about Song Heping's death.
Their interests certainly aligned.
No sooner had he spoken than the National Security Advisor at the head of the table interrupted him: "Simon, the risks are controllable. The CIA has extensive experience and reliable channels for dealing with such 'asymtrical' operations. What I want is the result—to completely eliminate Ghost, severely impact the Russian team, and deliver a clear ssage to the Kremlin. As for the process, I trust you can ensure it's clean and untraceable. This must be executed."
A chill rose in Simon's heart.
He knew clearly that any further opposition would be futile, and might even bring trouble upon himself.
The screen showed the National Security Advisor—everyone who made it to this position is a wily fox.
In front of him, even a slight leak of emotion could raise suspicion.
Suppressing all personal emotions, Simon's facial expression returned to its usual calmness: "Understood, sir. The CIA will imdiately initiate procedures to ensure the mission is completed successfully."
Siria, near a small town on the Illiguo border, 1515 Ard command room.
Buckdadi sat beside a simple camp bed, listening to the low report from his confidant.
His fingers unconsciously rubbed the twisted and ferocious scar above his brow, a reminder of a confrontation years ago that nearly cost him his life.
"Emir, the ssage and the first sum of funds from the 'Trade Team' have been confird. Twenty-five million US dollars, in cryptocurrency, accounts are clean."
The confidant handed a tablet to Buckdadi, the screen displaying the balance of the encrypted wallet and a freshly decrypted intelligence docunt.
Buckdadi's rough fingers slid across the screen, opening the file.
The first page showed Song Heping's sharp-angled, hawk-like gaze picture, occupying all of his vision.
At this mont, ti seed to freeze.
Buckdadi's breath beca heavy, pupils contracted sharply, and the fingers clutching the edge of the tablet turned white due to the force.
Past sha and hatred erupted like boiling magma beyond control.
"It's him..."
Buckdadi's voice was hoarse and low, filled with uncontainable rage and a sick excitent, "This guy actually ran to Siria... and fell into my territory!"
He abruptly raised his head, his eyes filled with ferocity: "Tell 'Trade Team', we're taking this deal! Have them send over the detailed route and timing! Issue my command imdiately, mobilize all brothers capable of fighting in Northwest Illinois, bring heavy machine guns, rocket launchers, mortars! Load all operable pickups with ammunition! I want to use Ghost's blood on the border to commorate our fallen warriors! I want everyone to see the consequences of offending Allah Warrior!"
"Yes! Emir!"
The confidant loudly accepted the order, turning swiftly and rushing out of the room.
Only Buckdadi remained in the room.
He glared intently at Song Heping's photo on the screen, a crooked and cruel smile forming at his lips, revealing yellowed teeth, his voice low like a curse:
"This ti, let's see how you escape my grasp..."
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