At the dock, a Mossad attack squad began boarding the ship.
These guys were wearing heavy bulletproof vests and gas masks, ard to the teeth.
Each received orders: this ti they were facing an extrely dangerous ex-special forces mber. If they saw anyone, there was only one command — shoot to kill!
Under the moonlight, a few crystalline droplets shimred on the mottled winch on the deck.
The foremost attacker stopped in his tracks.
He reached out and gently touched the droplets.
The liquid was sowhat viscous, almost solidified.
"Blood."
He raised his hand and made a tactical hand sign—"The enemy is injured."
Then he pointed to the door ahead.
That was the entrance to the cargo hold.
The team cautiously spread out, the lead attacker turned and retrieved a small bulletproof shield from another team mber's back.
This shield had limited coverage, only protecting the upper body.
But it was better than nothing.
As long as shots didn't hit vital areas like the heart or head, there was still hope of survival.
The descending stairs were dark and cold, each step causing the tal to creak lightly.
At the bottom, a larger door appeared ahead.
Entering there would lead to the cargo hold.
Three team mbers lined up in a column, hiding behind the shield-bearer moving forward slowly.
The door was pushed open.
Cold air rushed out like mist.
This was a freezer hold, likely for transporting refrigerated food.
A pungent fishy sll floated in the air, detectable even through the gas masks.
Looking around, there were batches of crates held together by nets, neatly stacked, marked with the words "Frozen Fish".
Additionally, there were a lot of silver-white fish without crates, all stored in nets.
Suddenly, a figure flickered in the distance.
The lead team mber instinctively pulled the trigger.
Ratatata—
Ratatata—
The attacker continued firing.
But before he could shoot, Song Heping had disappeared into the darkness, steel core bullets scattering ice shards behind him.
"Spread out! Search!"
The team leader issued the order, then reported forward.
"Target spotted, cargo hold at the bottom of the ship!"
The three quickly split into a triangle formation, advancing with mutual cover.
Just a few ters away, the team leader's pupils suddenly contracted.
Above them hung a dark object, seemingly equipped with a tir, its rectangular screen displaying flashing numbers.
He recognized it as equipnt from their own organization, typical Mossad action gear.
And what shocked him more was that it was counting down...
"Bomb!"
He scread piercingly.
"Retreat!"
The three turned and ran.
But it was too late.
Hiding in the shadows, Song Heping had already sliced through the ropes holding frozen fish.
Tons of fish cascaded down like a silver-white waterfall, smashing the nearest agent to the ground, instantly burying him under countless fish.
After the fish collapsed, Song Heping erged like a ghost from the darkness.
The team mber who had just gotten up didn't have ti to react. The Glock 17 was already pressed to his head and the trigger was pulled.
Bam—
The attacker staggered and fell to the ground like a broken sack.
Seeing their comrade attacked, another mber who had just crawled out of the pile of fish didn't bother to re-aim, too close for that, he simply lunged at Song Heping.
Song Heping dodged, hooking his foot to knock the opponent off balance to the ground. Before he could get up, a military boot stomped on his throat.
Crack—
The unfortunate guy hadn't figured out what happened, his throat already crushed.
Bang—
The last Mossad attacker raised his shotgun, firing at Song Heping.
Song Heping sorsaulted, advancing instead of retreating, the sole bullet grazed his Bullet-Proof Plate tearing through side muscles.
Using the pain to stay lucid, he threw a blood-soaked tactical scarf, entangling the bald attacker's wrist, and smashed the MP5 stock into his nose.
Crunch—
The Mossad mber's nasal bone shattered, eyes tearing up from pain, snot and blood spurting from his nostrils.
Song Heping seized the shotgun, aid at the opponent's head, and pulled the trigger.
Bang—
The sole bullet shattered the man's face, sending him straight to et his maker.
As Song Heping searched for ammo, another shadow appeared at the door.
The person hadn't arrived, bullets had.
Papapapa—
Papapapapa—
Bullets hit the compartnt walls and floor around him, producing crisp collision sounds.
Song Heping had to abandon his search for weapons.
Though he was desperately short of them.
Prolonged firefights left his ammunition and Hand Grenades nearly depleted. Now he was truly out of resources.
Fighting on seed hopeless.
A minute later.
Song Heping escaped from the cabin, reaching the aft deck.
There were so empty containers stacked there, presumably still carrying cargo.
Under the moonlight, the containers cast jagged shadows, Song Heping leaned against cold steel plates, gasping for breath.
Saltfishy sea breeze mixed with smoke brushed his tongue, he licked his cracked lips tasting the rusty flavor of his blood.
Inventorying ammo.
The MP5 submachine gun had four bullets left in the last magazine.
Glock 17 pistol had three rounds in the magazine.
Two C4 explosives tied to his body, the rest blown up the fish.
Blood gushed from the right leg injury with each move.
Song Heping holstered the Glock 17 underarm, his fingers touching the waist last two fragnt grenades—steel casings peeling with blood scabs.
Thirty ters away, Hebrew orders barked short and swift, tactical boots crushing glass from three directions.
Song Heping tore off the blood-soaked tactical scarf, using it to tie his leg, the putrid diesel sll mixed with blood rushing to his nostrils.
The spotlight on top of the container suddenly lit up, he rolled into the shadows just as a string of 9mm rounds sparked at his feet.
"Co on!" He roared, tossing a grenade.
The explosion's shockwave flipped two shield-bearing tactical teams, tal fragnts flying everywhere, Song Heping lunged for the nearest cover like a leopard.
His left shoulder smashed into a cent pillar, he heard his ribs crack.
Moonlight was suddenly swallowed by dark clouds.
At twelve o'clock, a shotgun chambering sound echoed, Song Heping pulled out the carbon steel dagger strapped to his calf.
As the first shadow burst through the smoke, he slid past the enemy's gun barrel, stabbing the dagger precisely into the gap in the bulletproof vest collar.
Warm arterial blood splattered on his face, he seized the shotgun, firing at the second enemy's jaw.
Skull fragnts mixed with brain splattered onto the container's iron walls.
Kill!
Kill!
Kill!
Song Heping stumbled backward, exhaustion and injuries robbing his balance.
His back soon hit the damp container, sticky liquid flowed down his neck into his collar, his hand wiping his face was sared with blood, unable to tell sweat, enemy's blood, or his own.
But he felt no pain.
In the distant sea, the freighter's horn pierced the night but couldn't drown the roar of his heartbeat.
Right front, a tanker truck exploded, fiery flas silhouetting seven ghostly figures.
Song Heping touched the chest-mounted ammo carrier, his fingers on the C4 detonator.
Maybe now rushing in with them on a mutual suicide trip was the best option.
Captured?
That word wasn't in his dictionary.
"Bang!"
A shadow suddenly darted out from the left.
Song Heping felt his temple struck hard, vision went black, collapsing onto the foul-watered ground.
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