Sure! Here's the English translation:
Bang——
A pursuer unexpectedly rolled directly off the rooftop and landed in front of the doorway, just two ters ahead of Song Heping as he was about to charge out.
Both sides froze for a mont, caught off guard.
The man had been shot twice but wasn't dead yet.
Upon seeing Song Heping, the man sluggishly tried to raise his gun to shoot.
Song Heping didn't give him the chance, firing two shots first and taking him out.
Then, he swiftly replaced the magazine.
He liked the Glock 17—not to ntion its performance—the ammo capacity was sufficient.
Both sides were fighting like madn.
The n on the rooftop clearly understood that Song Heping had discovered their position, so they began firing wildly at the buildings below through the steel sheets.
This reckless, massacre-style attack would achieve nothing but cause more innocent casualties.
Everyone was consud by bloodlust.
The CIA agents chasing Song Heping couldn't believe that so many of them couldn't trap or kill one person.
anwhile, Song Heping was acutely aware that his life hung by a thread—any mistake could an death, and he'd die far from ho.
"Where did he go? Did anyone see him?!"
Very soon, amid the chaotic cluster of single-story houses, the "Watchers" lost track of Song Heping.
It was like trying to catch a mouse from above a sewer cover—the mouse scurrying through the drains while those above could do nothing but flail around fruitlessly.
After running for an unclear amount of ti, Song Heping's surroundings suddenly opened up.
It turned out to be a brightly lit boulevard.
He quickly scanned the area, relying on the mory he'd built up from aimlessly wandering around during the day to make a judgnt—
His choice of breakout direction was correct.
This was Hacanim Street near the docks. If he continued westward across four more blocks, he'd reach the port.
Of course, he wasn't planning to board a ship directly at the port.
The agreed pickup point was at a small, remote fishing wharf, where a small boat would et him and transport him to the larger ship offshore.
Keeping his usual low profile, Song Heping hid the hand holding his gun behind his canvas backpack as he hurriedly crossed the street to the other side with his head down.
He planned to pass the crossroads ahead, turn into a street to the right, and then keep going along the left-hand side; the path would lead directly to the coastline.
This stretch seed surprisingly smooth, with no pursuers disturbing him.
Song Heping hurried along, sticking close to the edges of buildings on the street.
He was now quite close to the sea; in the distance, he could already see the massive oil storage tanks and crane tops at the shoreline.
Following the periter wall of the port to an isolated spot, Song Heping planned to enter the port area and move along the coastline. It was much less likely he'd be spotted there compared to walking on open roads.
The two-ter-high wall posed no challenge at all for Song Heping.
At a secluded section of the wall, he effortlessly climbed over into the port area.
So parts of the port were quiet; the busier sections were the cargo yards near the harbor.
Song Heping chose to stick to the secluded areas, occasionally passing by a truck. Its massive wheels ground against the concrete ground, producing a piercing screeching sound.
At an intersection, just as Song Heping thought he'd finally shaken off those pesky CIA agents, he suddenly heard the roar of an engine. To his right, two black Chevrolet SUVs were racing toward him, crushing rotten dates fallen from a cargo truck along the road.
"Shit!"
Judging by the speed and direction of the vehicles, he knew these were people coming for his life.
There was no need for words.
He drew his pistol and fired repeatedly at the cars.
Bang, bang, bang—
Bang, bang, bang—
Glass shards sprayed from the windshields, bullet holes blossoming across the glass like spiderwebs.
The Chevrolets swerved hard, veering toward the container yard by the roadside, hiding behind the stacks to avoid Song Heping's bullets.
Song Heping had no interest in drawn-out battles with them.
He was outnumbered, and direct confrontation wasn't a wise move. Mobility and tactical strikes were the best approach.
He turned and sprinted toward the warehouse zone with all his speed.
His heart thundered like an engine pushed to its limits; Song Heping felt like it might burst out of his chest.
His physical stamina was depleted beyond asure after such a long encounter.
Walking the streets and scouting the terrain during the day, then this endless chase at night—it all added up.
If not for his exceptional physical condition, he'd have long ago run out of steam and been turned into Swiss cheese.
How had they tracked him down here?
There was no ti to ponder the question now.
But the formidable tracking ability of the CIA cented a mounting pressure on Song Heping.
Using the ten seconds it took for the agents in the Chevrolets to circle behind the containers, Song Heping had already darted into the warehouse area.
The warehouses near the port were enormous, filled with all sorts of goods.
He quickly hauled the massive warehouse door shut and locked it with the bar latch.
But the first pursuer soon caught up, shooting wildly at the tal door.
Bullets pierced the iron door and hit the stacks of goods inside, spraying clouds of red dust into the air.
It was then that Song Heping realized he had walked into the wrong place.
The goods in the warehouse were all bags of chili powder!
The bullet holes in the bags ignited the chili dust, turning the confined space into a hellscape in an instant.
"Damn it!"
Song Heping quickly whipped out his tactical scarf and wrapped it around his face, waiting for the pursuer to stop shooting to reload his magazine. He pressed his pistol barrel against the bullet holes and fired blindly outside.
Outside ca a muffled groan; soone collapsed with a dull thud.
The pursuers shouted in a language that Song Heping didn't understand.
But it sounded sowhat like Hebrew.
Could it be Mossad!?
The damned Aricans had finally called their daddy for help!
The suffocating chili powder in the warehouse made Song Heping suffer greatly, but thankfully the tactical scarf filtered enough of the contaminated air to keep him from choking to death.
However, this place was no longer suitable to stay in.
Song Heping hurried to find a back door.
But he couldn't find one.
Looking up, he noticed a row of windows along the warehouse's top, likely for ventilation.
Backing up a few steps, he ran and climbed up the stacks of goods, quickly reaching the windows.
Surveying the outside, he didn't see any enemies.
Most likely, only the two vehicles of agents had reached this area so far. Now that he was exposed, this place would soon be swarming with agents.
What troubled him most was that the port had likely already been secured, aning they'd calculated his escape route.
This area was a hotbed of black-and-white operations for Mossad's intelligence networks. Even his water route was likely a covert channel used by smuggling or trafficking organizations.
Given Mossad's reconnaissance capabilities, they may well have predicted his movents and determined his escape path.
Song Heping jumped through the window, landed on the ground, and rolled. The salty sea breeze hit his face.
He sprinted toward the dock.
The loading area nearby might have vehicles, which would serve him better than his legs any day.
He hadn't run far when his whereabouts were exposed again.
"He's heading toward the dock!"
The trackers shared Song Heping's location through their radios.
"This guy is a monster! Be careful everyone! If you see him, shoot imdiately—don't underestimate him. CIA agents have already died trying to capture him!"
The port cranes crouched like iron behemoths in the twilight, while silhouettes darted across the rusting deck of cargo ships.
Song Heping finally spotted a Renault parked near an office at the loading area. The office lights were on—it must be for rush orders to load cargo through the night.
He hurriedly climbed into the Renault parked around the corner of the building. The engine hood still radiated residual warmth—this car had likely belonged to one of the port workers inside just minutes ago but no longer held any connection to them.
He stepped on the gas pedal and sharply rotated the steering wheel.
The Renault turned in a sharp arc, shifting its direction southward and speeding out of the port zone.
In the rearview mirror, multiple vehicles appeared.
Song Heping glanced at them, slamd his hand against the steering wheel in frustration, and gazed skyward.
It had to be drones.
He wasn't sure if they carried ground-target missiles.
If they did, he might as well kiss his life goodbye.
But on second thought, it seed unlikely they were ard.
Often, the CIA prioritizes fuel efficiency and extended flight duration by reducing or removing weaponry from their drones, using them purely for surveillance.
Moreover, this was Liben, an exceedingly sensitive zone. Deploying drones to attack ground targets here would be considered an invasion of foreign airspace. With nurous United Nations Peacekeeping Forces stationed, any such move would escalate into an international scandal.
Song Heping wiped the sweat dripping down his forehead.
He was drenched.
The task of breaking through a net of operatives built by a team of agents wasn't easy for anyone.
At least he found so relief in the fact that Kelly clearly regarded him as a serious threat.
The sheer number of agents deployed suggested she'd stripped her own team down to barebones. This boosted the odds of success for Disaster Star and their strike.
Bang, bang, bang—
Bang, bang, bang—
Bullets followed the taillights, leaving sparks along the breakwater barriers. A strange purplish fla suddenly flickered in the rearview mirror.
The agents in the SUVs couldn't hold back anymore—soone leaned halfway out and fired an automatic weapon wildly toward Song Heping's Renault.
With one hand gripping the steering wheel, Song Heping reached into his canvas bag with the other, retrieving a white phosphorus hand grenade. Pulling the pin, he glanced at the mirror to estimate the timing and distance before briefly holding the explosive, then gently releasing it out the car window.
The white phosphorus grenade was sothing he had specially requested from Avanti.
Given that he was tackling this mission solo, having white phosphorus in his arsenal was invaluable.
It was either kill or be killed.
Boom—
The white phosphorus grenade exploded like fireworks in the night.
The SUVs behind couldn't react in ti, hitting the flaming "firework" head-on.
The phosphorus burned on their vehicles with a sizzling sound, like molten iron eating away at tal. Within monts, the white-hot flas engulfed the vehicles.
The leading SUV caught fire, flipped over several tis before landing upside down.
The second SUV crashed into the overturned vehicle, producing a deafening clamor, finally coming to a halt with its radiator bursting open and spewing mist everywhere.
Song Heping braked, stopped the car, and got out—all in one fluid motion.
Holding up his pistol, he walked forward, shooting as he went, shattering the rear windshield of the second car.
Emptying one magazine, he quickly swapped in another, then threw a hand grenade into the overturned front vehicle.
Boom—
The already mangled lead SUV suffered another devastating blow.
No one inside could survive that.
Within ten-odd seconds, Song Heping circled around to the rear of the second SUV, cautiously advancing.
A fresh wound adorned his left cheek, dripping blood.
The injury had co from the window jump earlier, and he hadn't had ti to treat it.
Licking the blood that had reached his lips, Song Heping inspected the second SUV. He spotted two figures slumped forward in the front seats and glimpsed tattoos on their exposed arms.
He approached slowly, moving to the passenger side where the shattered window gave him a clear view. Finally, he identified the tattoo on the pursuers' right arms—two-headed snakes coiling around a dagger, the insignia of Mossad's Special Operations Unit.
One of the agents was barely alive, bleeding from countless wounds but still straining to stretch his hand toward the door. That was where his gun was stashed.
Bang—
Song Heping fired a shot at his head, sending him on his way.
This concludes the translation following all the provided requirents and formatting.
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