This was almost the standard assessnt process for rapid shooting.
Both sides had closed in at close quarters, and the opponent had undoubtedly identified him as the target.
He had to strike first, or there would be no way out.
Absolutely fast!
Relatively accurate!
Without hesitation, Song Heping drew his gun and fired.
The speed of drawing and firing that he mastered during his days in the Special Forces was now pushed to its absolute limit.
Bang, bang, bang—
The opponent had just started to pull his gun from under his clothes, but Song Heping's bullets had already arrived.
The warheads pierced three holes in the chest.
Direct hits!
But an unexpected turn occurred.
Despite taking three shots, the opponent seed to only stagger backward slightly, not imdiately collapsing to the ground.
Bulletproof vest!
Song Heping quickly reacted, moving rapidly to the left—towards a street corner leading to a narrow alley.
If there's one, there must be two.
A visible enemy in front ant there was surely a second lurking nearby.
Facing them head-on would put him at a severe disadvantage!
Unexpected situations test a Special Soldier's ability to react and their innate qualities.
Being a top-tier Special Soldier hinges greatly on their reflexes under pressure.
Fearless amidst danger, calm, and decisive.
These are essential qualities of a Special Soldier.
The CIA agent with the bushy beard was actually a "Watcher."
His orders were to rapidly converge on the Hamra District from his defensive position while searching for Song Heping en route. When found, he was to imdiately send out intel and neutralize the target at the fastest possible speed.
This was a kill order.
Kelly had already classified Song Heping as an extrely dangerous individual.
No capturing alive, just a corpse.
This was her most pressing thought at the mont.
To eliminate Song Heping was to clean up the current ss entirely.
Otherwise, the consequences would be devastating.
Bang, bang, bang—
The bushy-bearded man fired several shots at Song Heping while retreating.
But Song Heping was already moving, with several tourists and pedestrians between them.
The bullets whizzed past the bystanders.
Soon, one unlucky person went down.
A European tourist scread, clutching his shoulder and staring at the blood dripping between his fingers, screaming as if he'd seen a ghost.
The scene spiraled out of control.
The location of Beirut itself was highly sensitive.
Various attack incidents over recent years had just started to quiet down.
But the scars and mories still lingered in everyone's hearts.
The street gunfight instantly transported the local vendors, shopkeepers, and residents back to the terrifying years gone by.
Everyone scread, panicked, and ran in chaotic terror like headless chickens.
Song Heping fired first to claim the initiative.
As the opponent began retaliating, he struck more pedestrians.
During his second rapid shooting move, Song Heping didn't give the opponent another chance, firing two shots straight to the head.
Bang, bang—
The bushy-bearded man had just aid his gun but hadn't yet squeezed the trigger before receiving two lethal rounds.
Blood and brain matter exploded from his forehead, splattering the nearby pedestrians.
A woman dropped to her knees, her face covered in blood, hysterically screaming and repeatedly touching her own face before realizing it wasn't her brains.
Song Heping had already moved to the street corner.
He couldn't determine if there were any more accomplices behind the bushy-bearded man.
However, he caught a glimpse of two n in their thirties moving toward him through the chaotic crowd not far away.
Unusual behavior signals trouble.
Under ordinary circumstances, people would flee the firefight scene.
Moving against the flow ant they weren't ordinary people.
Song Heping instantly understood and darted into the alley, blending with the panicked crowd heading westward.
After running almost 500 ters, the situation ahead seed to stabilize.
The surrounding people appeared unaware of what had just happened on the previous street, leisurely strolling under the evening lights.
This was a street of local specialty shops, flanked by small vendors displaying their goods on long tables, shouting to attract custors.
Song Heping repositioned his canvas bag to the front, holding his gun behind it to cover his weapon.
After all, running around with a gun in hand would attract attention, and keeping the bag in front gave him so added protection—perhaps enough to save his life.
Ahead, the narrow pedestrian street was bustling with people. A mixture of food aromas, Arabic shisha, spice scents, and strong body odors from European tourists filled the air, creating an almost suffocating blend.
A group of military police suddenly appeared ahead, hurriedly heading toward the previous conflict zone.
The crowd quickly parted ways as tourists watched in shock, unaware of the gravity of the situation.
Song Heping quickly turned toward a roadside stall, pretending to examine the local goods to avoid confronting the military police head-on.
The military police finally passed by and disappeared into the distance.
The tourists seed to return to normalcy.
On the stall in front of Song Heping were various items, including saffron and Arabic-styled carved boxes—wooden, copper, and tin ones. However, these were clearly new items, not historical antiques. They were likely sourced from China's Wenzhou small commodity market through local wholesalers.
Taking advantage of the mont, Song Heping began observing the surrounding terrain while preparing his next step for escape.
The area was likely crawling with CIA agents. The biggest problem now was that Song Heping didn't know whether they were cooperating with Liban's intelligence agency or Mossad.
Once Mossad was involved, things would get much more complicated.
This organization's infiltration and operational capabilities in the Middle East were top-notch, deeply entrenched after years of effort. No one knew how many sleeper agents they had.
They would undoubtedly complicate his escape plan.
Song Heping lowered his head, pretending to pick out goods while secretly observing his surroundings. He felt the surface of a tin case holding saffron, but sudden tension rose along the back of his neck, and his nose caught a faint scent amidst the market's spices.
The faint sll of gun oil.
A sll engraved in the bones of every soldier.
A month into military service, he'd started learning to clean guns. From then on, it beca routine—a daily affair. The gun is like a lover, and gun oil is as indispensable as salt in cooking.
"Damn!"
Song Heping cursed in his heart.
He knew that danger was closing in.
Three ters away, a vendor selling nuts in a white hat had unusually thick knuckles and was haggling with a custor in Turkish, but the exposed skin at his cuff was glaringly pale.
To his left, an elderly woman dressed in a black robe carried a basket whose copper kettle handle reflected unnaturally cold tallic light.
Song Heping slowly moved the hand concealed behind his backpack, focusing his gaze on a nearby antique copper mirror. In its reflection, he spotted three young n in soccer jerseys advancing in a fan-shaped formation. One had a pronounced bulge near his ear with a wire connected to it—a classic piece of hidden earpiece equipnt used by covert agents.
Bang, bang, bang—
Just as the three n were about to draw their weapons, Song Heping sprang forward like a tiger, executing a tactical roll.
The enemy's first bullet shattered a ceramic jar full of cumin, sending a cloud of brown dust into the air. In the spice rain, Song Heping maneuvered low and fired his Glock 17 pistol continuously.
Saffron and bullets blossod simultaneously in midair, and the man in the white hat's forehead bled with pogranate-like splashes.
The black-robed woman pulled two shock bombs from her copper kettle and hurled them toward Song Heping, but he kicked over a nearby table of shisha pipes, shielding himself from the explosions.
Boom—
Boom—
Many nearby people were clutching their ears as they collapsed to the ground.
But Song Heping had already dashed into the spice shop's rear kitchen amidst the deafening blasts.
Bullets chased his feet, drilling crescent-shaped holes into the plaster walls. Around him, olive oil barrels burst open, spilling yellow-brown liquid mixed with warheads onto the ground, splashing on Song Heping.
Inside the shop, he grabbed a drying rack full of sheep intestines and secured it against the door handle, glancing outside to see a man rushing toward the front door with a shotgun.
No hesitation—he sprang onto a storage beam just as the shotgun fired steel pellets, peppering the wooden door into honeycomb fragnts. The stored jars of pickled cucumbers, garbanzo beans, and olives exploded into a ss of splattered juices.
"He's inside the pickling shop! Blast the door open!"
A shout in a distinctive Arican accent ca from outside.
Song Heping retrieved a hand grenade from his backpack, yanked out the safety pin, and listened to the crunching sound of boots crushing ceramic shards.
Boom—
Boom—
The shotgun-wielding man continued firing. The wooden door disintegrated under the barrage, and the interior—the pickled goods and spices—beca a chaotic tapestry of sprays, powders, and splatters resembling a hellish oil painting.
When shadows filled the doorway and the enemy approached, Song Heping released the grenade's lever. After counting for two seconds, he lobbed it toward the doorway.
The delayed explosion blew apart an entire earthen wall. Amid the mushrooming dust cloud, agonized screams pierced through the chaos. The shockwave surged through the room, scattering dirt and spice powder everywhere.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Song Heping sprinted through the spice shop's rear storage. Outside, the uninjured pursuers blindly fired into the room; bullets pierced the wreckage of the wooden door, sending cinnamon sticks and laurel leaves swirling. The air turned acrid and orange-yellow, making it almost impossible not to sneeze.
Inside the storage room, the shopkeeper huddled in a corner clutching his daughter, trembling with fear.
It couldn't be denied—he was the most innocent party involved.
Song Heping nodded at him, said nothing, and continued onward.
No ti for apologies.
Perhaps he'd find an opportunity to send them money soday as compensation for their loss.
Exiting the storage area, he advanced into another building.
Now, Song Heping focused on running toward the western direction.
No plans.
Plans never keep up with rapid changes.
Every decision relied on gut reactions.
No evaluation or prediction.
No ti!
There was simply no ti!
Not even important!
Absolutely unimportant!
Survive!
Escape!
That was the key!
His breathing grew heavier.
Suddenly, footsteps echoed above him.
Many of these shopfronts and buildings were hastily built, with roofs made of cheap iron sheets or flimsy colored steel. When soone stepped across them, they emitted a chilling creak.
The pursuers' footsteps reverberated across the iron-roof overhead. Song Heping abruptly halted, concealing himself in the corner of the room and listening intently. As the sounds closed in, he sharply raised his gun and emptied almost half a magazine.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang—
After the volley, screams erupted from the rooftop, followed by the thud of a heavy object falling to the ground...
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