Moscow's night feels like a vodka-soaked blanket, heavily pressing down on Song Heping's shoulders.
At three in the morning, in the apartnt corridor, he stared through the peephole for a full two minutes. Only after confirming there were no surveillance personnel, did he gesture to the Ferrari behind him.
"The corridor is clear." Song Heping's voice was extrely low. "Rember, once we reach the rooftop, follow the route I marked and don't use the flashlight."
Ferrari nodded, his right hand constantly placed on the Glock 18 at his waist.
Song Heping gently twisted open the door lock, the cold tal reminding him of General Anatoly's icy, ruthless gaze.
Anyone climbing to the position of Defense Minister within the Moscow regi is a tough character.
"Let's go."
He silently slid through the door gap.
The two moved like ghosts through the hallway, precisely avoiding every floor seam that might make a sound.
Song Heping's eardrums swelled with his heartbeat, catching any unusual noise.
When they reached the fire escape, the searchlights from a patrol boat on the Moscow River swept over nearby buildings, casting fence-like shadows on the wall.
"Damn."
Ferrari cursed quietly as he stepped onto the first stair.
"The Russians even deliberately made the stairs this noisy."
Having left Illiguo for Russia previously, Ferrari had already spent a considerable amount of ti in Moscow.
But he was still very uncomfortable here.
He didn't like the food, he didn't like the living conditions, and he especially didn't like the damn narrow bed.
Song Heping did not respond.
His focus remained entirely on the rusty iron door on the top floor—according to his dayti reconnaissance, it should lead to a rooftop platform.
But as his hand just touched the doorknob, suddenly there was the roar of a car engine from downstairs.
The two of them froze simultaneously.
"It's not coming for us."
After a long silence in the darkness, until the engine noise disappeared, Ferrari licked his dry lips: "Right?"
Song Heping pressed his ear to the cold tal door.
The engine noise cut off at the street corner, followed by the muffled slam of car doors closing.
Too coincidental.
He gently pushed open the iron door, walked to the railing on the top floor, and stretched out half his head, using the moonlight to observe the situation downstairs.
In his field of vision, three shadows were getting out of a black sedan at the mouth of the alley.
"It's GRU." Song Heping's pupils contracted, "I guess they've changed shifts."
"They've blocked the alley." Ferrari imdiately drew his silenced pistol: "Force our way through?"
"No." Song Heping took out a climbing rope from the tactical waist bag, "Avoid them, but we need to speed up."
The rooftop iron door creaked like a dying old man.
The cold wind on the rooftop hit him in the face, Song Heping squinted, quickly locking onto the escape route he had long observed—a gap just over three ters to the neighboring building.
This distance is nothing for a trained soldier, but below is a seven-story abyss, any mistake turns into a fatal error.
"I'll go first."
Song Heping secured the rope to the vent pipe, tying a Prusik knot commonly used by Special Forces.
As he stepped onto the railing, suddenly ca a loud crash from the apartnt front door downstairs.
"They've found our escape!"
Ferrari's voice was tight like a bowstring.
Song Heping didn't hesitate, leaping toward the opposite rooftop.
His combat boots slid half a ter before stabilizing, imdiately turning to throw the rope end to Ferrari: "Hurry!"
Ferrari swung over agilely like a monkey, just as they finished packing up the ropes, Russian shouts reached from behind.
A flashlight beam swept over the spot where they had stood monts ago.
"Go!"
Song Heping led the run across rooftops, each step precisely landing on the concrete load beams. Five minutes later, they slid down a fire escape into a dim alley.
They both heard the heavy breathing between them.
This was a deadly escape.
If they failed to escape and fell into the hands of the Russian intelligence agencies or Special Forces, the consequences would be unimaginable.
At the alley entrance, a spark flickered in the darkness.
Song Heping instantly drew his gun and aid.
"Put down the gun, Song."
The familiar voice froze Song Heping's finger on the trigger.
Chef Yevgeny stepped out of the shadows, his signature bald head reflecting pale blue under the moonlight.
"I knew you'd definitely make a run for it tonight."
Ferrari also pointed his gun at the chef: "You planning to intercept us?"
"Intercept?"
The chef sneered and tossed over a set of car keys.
Song Heping reached out and caught them.
"I'm saving your lives, you idiots! Anatoly sent six GRU teams to watch your apartnt, they've already realized you've escaped. Without the right transportation, you won't get out of Moscow."
Song Heping caught the keys, the touch cold: "Why help us?"
The chef took a deep puff on his cigarette, the nicotine blue mist blurring his expression: "Because you're my brother, Song."
A wave of warmth surged up in his heart, Song Heping nodded to the chef.
The chef pointed to the sedan parked by the roadside outside the alley, continuing: "Run quickly, any later and it'll be too late. That gray Lada is clean, the trunk has cash, weapons, license plates, and a few new passports. Head north along the M10 highway, switch to Belarus plates in Tver, then—"
"Wait." Ferrari interrupted him, "Why should we trust you? The car could have a tracker or worse."
The chef's gaze suddenly turned sharp as a knife: "If I wanted you dead, you'd have died in Bucharest."
Ferrari was speechless.
Because the chef was telling the truth.
The chef turned to Song Heping, "You know I'm not acting."
Song Heping stared into the chef's murky blue eyes for three seconds, then nodded: "Thank you."
"Don't rush to thank ." The chef pulled out an old Nokia from his inner pocket, "Check the information inside when you're safe. Now, run, my friends. You must at least leave Moscow Region before dawn."
Song Heping said no more.
Silence spoke louder than words.
The romance between n is just such.
He began to stride forward, brushing past the chef, and they exchanged a glance.
In that glance, there were thousands of words.
Minutes later, when the gray Lada entered the Main Street, Ferrari was still checking firearms: "I still think we should ditch this car. Russians are best at sabotaging brakes."
Song Heping glanced at the rear-view mirror: "Buckle up."
"What?"
Song Heping slamd the accelerator, and the Lada shot forward like a startled wild horse.
Almost simultaneously, a black off-road vehicle lunged out of the side road, crashing into their original position.
But Song Heping's acceleration caused the off-road vehicle to crash directly into a roadside utility pole, its radiator bursting, spraying white steam.
"Shit!" Ferrari turned to look at the ard n jumping out of the off-road vehicle, "It's those GRU bastards!"
Song Heping single-handedly swung the steering wheel, pressing the switch of the interference device he had prepared all along with the other hand.
The Lada charged into the opposite lane, repeatedly changing lanes amid honking horns.
The rear window suddenly shattered, bullets tearing the headrest apart.
"The chef didn't lie to us, they've sent quite a few people to keep an eye on us." Song Heping floored the gas, "Hold tight!"
The Lada took a sharp turn up an overpass, and in the mont when GRU vehicles were blocked by a truck, Song Heping suddenly turned off the headlights, darting down the slope from the ergency lane.
When the tires skidded on the rain-slicked road, he released the brakes instead, using inertia to complete a 180-degree turn, diving into the underpass's freight channel.
Five minutes later, Ferrari exhaled deeply after confirming they had ditched their pursuers: "These damn Russians really are relentless!"
Song Heping glanced at the hidden compartnt under the dashboard—there lay a handwritten note from the chef: Checkpoint at M10 highway 133 km, detour via the old timber factory.
Seems the chef had thought of everything.
He understood his character well.
Knew he definitely wouldn't accept Minister Anatoly's invitation.
Looks like this route was prepared long ago, just waiting for him to use it when he escapes.
Looks like this friendship wasn't in vain.
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