The twilight at Tina Bay glimred with a bloody sheen. Song Heping was crouching in the easternmost latrine of the fishing village, holding a satellite phone. His nostrils were filled with the salty odor brought by the sea breeze and the stench wafting up from the open pit latrine below. Overhead, a swarm of flies buzzed around densely like bombers descending on a city during World War II.
In the distance, the laughter from the bonfire party mingled with the sound of the waves, occasionally reaching his ears. anwhile, he was discussing a grand plan in units of US dollars with Ferrari.
This was the second day of their rest in the small fishing village.
Tomorrow night, according to Nura's plan, they would head to the seaside to board the smuggling group's small fishing boat, load the weapons into the cabin, and then travel south along the coastline to the northern region of Egypt, where soone would be waiting to receive the delivery.
Once the task was completed, the Bedouin smuggling group would have finished their mission and could receive the previously agreed-upon remuneration.
In the past two days, Song Heping's stamina had fully recovered, and Sara was also gradually improving under the careful care of the village's residents. Early this morning, she was already able to get up and move around the village with the support of others.
Everything seed to be turning for the better.
But Song Heping did not dare to relax his vigilance.
Neither Mossad nor the CIA would easily let him off.
The calmness might be just as abnormal as the impending storm.
He hadn't had any leisure these past two days, maintaining constant contact with Ferrari.
Ferrari had been busy these recent days.
Busy with money laundering.
Song Heping asked him to transfer at least one billion US dollars to Z-east to facilitate withdrawals for future uses in this area.
Ferrari did not disappoint him.
This German with partial Chinese ancestry carried out his work with the flexibility of a native Chinese and the ticulousness of a German.
Although money laundering sounded simple, in reality, it was a technical job.
To launder one billion US dollars into Z-east, the best destination was Dubai.
That's right.
The current hotspot for investnts in Z-east—Dubai.
The booming sectors there are finance and real estate.
Suddenly erging as a financial giant in Z-east, Dubai is actually a haven for laundering money.
During the years 2007-08, publicly available figures showed that Dubai delivered as many as 150,000 apartnts from just the top five developers, with housing prices doubling within five years, as if the world's wealthy and hot money were all pouring toward it.
In Dubai, there are currently around 80 private developers selling their properties, aning that even if no new projects were launched in the next two years, at least 180,000 houses would enter the market. Dubai's population is about 1.3 million, mostly comprising expatriate workers or investors working here.
Over the next two years, investnt bank analysis reports predict a 70-100% increase in rent.
When a bubble forms, it usually bursts at so point. But currently, Dubai does not face such a possibility, thanks to its highly developed financial industry.
Here, banks exercise very lenient scrutiny over the funds. Thus, a significant amount of untraceable money can enter Dubai. Even if you bring millions to open an account in a Dubai bank, the custor manager would only ask casually where the money ca from. You could make up any excuse—profits from gold mining in Africa or tobacco farming in Zimbabwe.
No matter how implausible the excuse, they would respond with "OK" and hastily open an account for the esteed guest.
The rapidly rising housing prices and the unrestricted, unmonitored financial system here fulfill all the needs for money laundering.
As soon as the funds enter Dubai's hidden network, they are invested in real estate, held for a few months, and then sold.
In and out, the funds are instantly laundered.
Over the past two days, Ferrari had been engaged in such activities.
During dinner ti each day, he would call to report the progress to Song Heping, describing how many billions had been laundered into Dubai.
While squatting over the latrine, listening to Ferrari talk about billions of dollars, Song Heping suddenly had a whimsical thought—no matter how wealthy one is, you still have to use the toilet. Whether it's a gilded restroom or a patch of grass in the wild, the sensation of relief remains unchanged, without much difference.
Suddenly, there was a sudden commotion as cold crows took flight in the distance.
Song Heping glanced in that direction, realizing the birds' disturbance wasn't normal.
Thud thud thud—
He faintly heard a familiar sound in his ears.
Silencer!?
Song Heping's hair stood on end. He hastily wiped his rear and pulled up his pants as quickly as possible.
Through the woven palm leaf walls of the latrine, he saw shadows swiftly moving across the reef thirty ters away.
The moonlight danced on their shoulders, revealing the distinctive outline of M4A1 rifles.
"Shit!"
He cursed under his breath, his right hand reaching towards his lower back.
Yet, he felt nothing.
He had no weapon...
Just as he twisted his body, the dried branches beneath his feet snapped, producing a faint crackling sound.
The sound was particularly jarring in the quiet night. The nearest shadow spun around abruptly, and three bursts of fire spewed from a silencer in the night.
Wood chips scattered.
Song Heping rolled sideways out of the latrine, bullets trailing his heels and embedding into the sand.
The salty and wet sea breeze mingled with the sll of fresh blood—fifty ters away, Uncle Hassan lay flat on his back at the abandoned lighthouse, his throat wounds still gushing blood.
"We're under attack..." his shout cut off by another burst of gunfire.
Song Heping's temples throbbed. He recognized the attackers' attire: desert camouflage combat uniforms,
Tactical vests marked with the New Moon Scimitar insignia, the elite assault team of the Buntland pirates.
From the direction of the bonfire party in the village ca the clattering sound of warheads striking tal, followed by won's screams mixed with cries of pain.
"Sothing's happened!"
Song Heping vaguely guessed the general cause.
There was no need for an investigation to know it was related to Mossad.
He quickly rolled and hid in a nearby sandy trench, crawling forward rapidly in a low stance.
The shadow holding the assault rifle had arrived by the latrine, firing another burst at the bullet-riddled latrine.
This action exposed his tactical proficiency.
Even though he was part of the elite Buntland pirate organization, he was not a match for a properly trained soldier in Song Heping's eyes.
The magazine emptied.
The guy hesitated for a mont.
Because he had just received the rifle yesterday and had been using the old AK47 before this, he was still unaccustod to the fast firing rate of the M4A1.
As he was changing the magazine, Song Heping had already circled to his other side, lunging at him and knocking him to the ground. His knee slamd heavily into the man's chest.
The sensation of bone cracking transmitted through the combat pants. Song Heping swiftly twisted the man's gun-wielding wrist and cranked it backward. As the M4A1 fell into the sand, his thumb had already pressed into the pirate's eye socket.
Amid the screams, Song Heping snatched the rifle.
Warm blood flowed through his grip into the trigger guard. He slled the aroma of cal milk wine overturned far away—the sign of the feast's climax and the imminent death toll.
At this mont, the other two shadows realized their comrade was down and turned their gun barrels toward Song Heping.
But their combat proficiency was no match for the elite special soldier Song Heping.
Thud thud thud thud thud—
Song Heping replaced the magazine and opened fire half a second quicker than them.
The two fell on their backs without even having a chance to scream.
...
A few minutes ago, two hundred ters away at the main square, Nura was holding a silver liquor pot, pouring sweet wine for the children.
The whole lamb roasted on the bonfire dripped grease. Suddenly, a sharp whistling sound pierced the air, followed by blood splattering on her exposed shoulder.
"Get down!"
She scread, throwing herself on the elderly village chief.
Three bullets brushed past her hair, shattering the lamb's head on the grill.
The crowd celebrating instantly dispersed like a startled school of sardines, with won clutching their heads knocking over honey jars, the golden syrup mixing with blood into an eerie amber.
The massacre targeting the fishing village had already begun.
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