Sudan's capital Khartoum, scene of a press conference at the President's Mansion.
Defense Minister Abdul Rashim stood behind the podium covered in a deep blue tablecloth, with two huge projection screens behind him.
The left showed radar records of US Army drone flight paths, while the right displayed infrared images of Sam-6 missiles launching into the sky.
"This is a blatant violation of Sudan's sovereignty!"
Rashim's voice echoed through the hall via the simultaneous interpretation system.
"We call upon the international community to condemn this violation of the UN Charter."
Flashlights beca a sea of lights, the clicks of shutters ringing out continuously.
A Reuters reporter raised his hand to ask, "Minister, there are reports that the drone was shot down by a private military company called 'Musician' and not the Sudan Governnt Army. What is your comnt on this?"
Rashim's expression remained unchanged: "The Sudan Governnt maintains good cooperation with all legally registered security contractors. The important thing is that no country has the right to send ard drones into our airspace."
A CNN reporter from the back suddenly asked loudly, "The US State Departnt just issued a statent claiming these drones might have been conducting anti-terrorism missions. Can you confirm whether the targeted entity was related to a terrorist organization?"
Rashim's gaze turned sharp: "The intelligence we have shows these drones targeted a camp where a legitimate businessman and his employees reside. If the US has any evidence that it was a terrorist base, it should be presented through proper channels. Once verified, we will dispatch a specialized team to liaise and resolve the issue, rather than sending killer drones."
At the sa ti, in the tent at the Atlon Oasis, Song Heping turned off the live broadcast.
He turned to a dozen rcenaries in the tent and raised his coffee cup.
"To victory," he said succinctly.
Everyone raised their cups in response, a cheer erupting in the tent.
Jiang Feng walked over and handed him a satellite phone.
"Call from the Northern Sudan Military Intelligence Bureau Chief," he said in a low voice, "He wants to know where we got the Sam-6 system."
Song Heping took the phone, a rchant-like smile appeared on his face: "Minister, I heard you're interested in the Sam-6 missile system?"
"Mr. Song, we are interested in all effective weapons."
"Hmm..."
Song Heping revealed the smile of a cunning rchant.
"That thing is hard to obtain. I struggled to find four sets, and they were acquired through special channels. If you're really interested, I can help, but I can't offer a discount considering your country's financial situation..."
The implication was already there.
I have the goods, but can you afford them?
"Gold mines."
The Minister was straightforward.
"Two gold mining rights, in exchange for ten sets of Sam-6 systems. Do you find this price reasonable? I believe there isn't a more favorable deal in the world."
His straightforwardness actually stunned Song Heping.
Two gold mine rights?
In exchange for ten sets of Sam-6 systems?
Is this Minister out of his mind?
Is there such a good deal in the world?
"I want to know which two gold mines' rights are involved."
Song Heping imdiately beca cautious, thinking it over carefully.
"Huwa and Dalka gold mines."
The Minister quickly reported the nas.
Upon hearing these nas, Song Heping smirked inwardly.
I see...
How could such a good deal co to ?
Damn it!
Both of these gold mines are in Northern Darfur, one southwest of the Atlon Oasis, the other in a northwestern direction. Both gold mines are in areas where ard forces crisscross.
To put it simply, neither gold mine is under governnt control.
The Minister using these two gold mines for trade is essentially a cost-free business, empty-handedly grabbing benefits!
Jiang Feng beside him hurriedly waved his hand, indicating this condition could not be accepted.
Song Heping, however, remained calm, thinking the conditions through before responding, "Alright! Deal."
"That's great! When will you deliver?" The Minister beca eager imdiately.
Song Heping said, "Don't rush, Minister, I also have my conditions."
"Conditions?" The Minister's tone imdiately turned somber: "What conditions? Mr. Song, don't forget we've helped you quite a bit."
"I know." Song Heping said, "I am not an ungrateful person, but our transaction must have a formal procedure. Let's do this, within three days, I'll et you in Khartoum. Bring along the heads of relevant mining departnts, and we'll formalize everything. Business ans contracts, and we're a legitimate company."
Hearing Song Heping ntion signing a contract, the Minister felt reassured.
"No problem! I'll be in Khartoum awaiting your arrival, it's a deal!"
"It's a deal."
"Pleasure doing business!"
"Pleasure doing business!"
After ending the call, Jiang Feng beside him beca anxious.
"Old Chief, are you crazy?! Even if those two gold mines aren't under their control, they've been occupied by other ard organizations for years. What right does he have to trade what's not his with us? Besides, our Sam-6 systems were originally stolen, where's your source? Even if you went to Illiguo to find Yusuf, you might not get any. Now that the Aricans are watching us, after this incident, they're likely to tighten control!"
Jiang Feng's concerns were not unfounded.
Yet, Song Heping appeared calm, comforting him: "When the boat reaches the bridge, it naturally straightens, solutions outnumber difficulties. I know everything you've said."
"You know, yet you agreed to it? This is a definite losing business!"
"Yes, I also think this deal takes advantage of us."
Ferrari also voiced his objection.
"The Sudan Governnt wants to do a no-cost business."
Song Heping glanced at the brothers sitting around, raised a finger and pointed in the air: "Rest assured, this business won't lose, I have a plan."
"What plan?"
Ferrari was very curious.
The goods are difficult to obtain, and the gold mines used for trade are not theirs.
It's a dead end no matter how you look at it.
"The wise have their own plans," Song Heping said confidently, "Wait until I unveil my plan, then you will understand."
Rainy day, Washington D.C, 12:30 PM.
Pence Vincent stepped out of Langley Headquarters holding a cardboard box as the sky began to drizzle.
Inside the box were accumulated personal items from his fifteen-year career: photographs of his wife and children, the Distinguished Service dal awarded by the President, and the Swiss Army knife he particularly cherished.
The guard at the gate gave him one last salute. Pence nodded in acknowledgnt with difficulty, and then headed to the parking lot.
His driver was no longer waiting for him there—the HR departnt had revoked all his access half an hour ago.
His phone vibrated.
It was a ssage from Jasper:
"They took away all the hard drives. Half of the people in the Special Operations Departnt have been suspended pending investigation. Good luck, sir."
Pence shoved the phone back into his pocket, letting the rain soak through his suit.
He recalled the fateful eting seven days ago when they discussed how to eliminate Song Heping without leaving a trace.
Now, that damn China man is not only alive, but has made the CIA pay a heavy price.
A black Chevrolet Suburban slowly pulled up in front of him.
The window rolled down, revealing the stern face of Richard Morris, a mber of the Senate Intelligence Committee.
"Get in the car, Vincent," Morris said, "The committee needs to understand the whole story."
Pence let out a bitter smile and opened the car door.
He knew what awaited him next was weeks, if not months, of hearings, investigations, and dia interrogation.
And all of this stemd from the man who had set the perfect trap in the desert.
Rain slid down the car windows, blurring the outside world. Just like his career, forrly clear and defined boundaries now muddled and indistinct.
At that mont, his phone vibrated again.
He took a look at it.
It was a ssage from Campbell—
"Pence, we need to et tonight and talk."
...
Nightti, Washington D.C, Georgetown private club.
Pence stood in the private elevator, watching the numbers jump from 1 to 5.
The elevator walls were polished redwood, reflecting his haggard appearance.
A twenty-three-year intelligence career ending with being swept out the door.
The elevator doors slid open silently.
At the end of the hallway, next to the carved oak door, stood two bodyguards; the muscle lines bulging under their suits revealed their profession. As Pence approached, one of them reached out to stop him.
"Mr. Vincent, please cooperate with the security check."
Pence raised his arms expressionlessly.
The bodyguard scanned him with a detector, then checked the briefcase he brought. After confirming it was safe, the other bodyguard pressed his earpiece and whispered a few words, then pushed open the heavy oak door.
"Mr. Campbell is waiting for you."
The room was dimly lit.
The faux fire in the fireplace flickered, casting shifting shadows on the Persian carpet.
Behind an eighteenth-century antique desk, Campbell sipped whiskey from a crystal glass, his silver-gray hair neatly combed back, blue eyes like blocks of ice that never lt.
"Pence." Campbell didn't get up, just gestured to the chair opposite him, "Sit."
As Pence sat down, he noticed on the desk a copy of the Washington Post; the front page featured a photo of him being surrounded by reporters on the steps of the White House, the headline glaring "CIA Deputy Director Resigns Amid Drone Scandal."
"Sothing to drink?" Campbell asked, "I have Glenfiddich from 1945."
"Whatever," Pence's voice was hoarse.
Campbell poured out two fingers high of the amber liquid and pushed it over. Pence downed it in one go, the alcohol searing his throat but unable to warm his icy heart.
"You know why I'm here," Campbell cut to the chase.
Pence rotated the empty glass: "For Song Heping."
"That China man, we know about what he's been up to, we always have a common enemy," Campbell's voice was eerily calm, "Let tell you, the 'Elder Council' isn't happy about your resignation."
"What does it matter if they're unhappy? Are you offering a new job?"
Pence's fingers tapped the tabletop unconsciously. He knew what the "Elder Council" was—a shadow power network composed of military-industrial complex giants, oil tycoons, and retired high-ranking intelligence officers, their influence perating every corner of Washington.
"I'm just a civilian now," Pence smiled bitterly, "The Special Operations Departnt is undergoing a purge, my people are all suspended pending investigation."
Campbell took out a brown paper bag from the drawer and slid it towards Pence: "Take a look."
Pence opened the paper bag; inside were a dozen satellite images.
The latest one was taken six hours ago, showing Song Heping's camp at Atlon Oasis being expanded, with several trucks loading anti-air missiles visible on the photo's edges.
"The Sudan Governnt has given him the status of an official contractor," Campbell said, "Now he legally owns an air defense system and might even be training their troops."
Pence flipped to the next photo, his breath catching—a candid shot of Song Heping eting with the Northern Sudan Defense Minister in a hotel in Khartoum.
"What are they discussing?"
"Our intelligence shows Song Heping is selling arms to Sudan," Campbell's fingertip tapped the photo, "Including the SAM-6 system that shot down our drones."
Pence suddenly understood Campbell's real purpose for eting him.
This wasn't a consolation, it was an interview—to test if he still had utility.
"You want to take out Song Heping," Pence t Campbell's eyes directly, "But the White House won't approve any official action at this ti."
Campbell revealed his first smile of the night: "So we need... unconventional solutions."
The wood in the fireplace crackled.
Pence felt a peculiar excitent, like the feeling he got many years ago when he first participated in a black operation.
Being ousted from the CIA didn't an he lost all his leverage.
"I have a plan."
Pence leaned forward.
"But it will require support from the 'Elder Council.'"
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