The opulence within the President's Mansion was suffocating: the Venetian crystal chandeliers refracted the morning light into colorful halos, the marble floors were so polished they reflected images, and every three ters on the walls hung a portrait of Noel—from a "hot-blooded youth" who launched a coup to the image of an "absolute leader," it was like a sick exhibition of personal worship.
Sena is a poor country.
For a country so impoverished, the luxury and extravagance of the President's Mansion made it obvious to what extent Noel's corruption had reached.
"Narcissistic and decadent pervert."
Collins squeezed out a comnt through his teeth, "No wonder his people want to revolt."
The door to the communication room at the end of the second-floor corridor was ajar, and the static noise unique to radio equipnt emanated from within.
Through the gap in the door, he saw two Air Force-uniford technicians sweating profusely, adjusting the equipnt, with one of them speaking rapidly into a microphone in French.
Collins turned back and gestured to Ferrari for a flanking maneuver.
Ferrari nodded, took an anesthesia injector from his tactical belt.
The two openly pushed the door open and entered—
After all, they were wearing governnt army uniforms, complete with officer ranks.
The two people in the communication room turned to see Collins and Ferrari, and were montarily bewildered.
The two before them were unfamiliar faces, unseen before.
"Who are you..."
The communications officer with the higher rank stood up, trying to inquire about their identities.
After all, it was an exceptional ti, and perhaps they were temporarily deployed from other units to strengthen the President's Mansion security.
Before he could react, Collins was already in front of him, smiling and with a sudden hand movent.
A syringe was directly plunged into his neck.
Collins pressed firmly.
The anesthetic quickly flowed into the body of the communications officer.
As for Ferrari, he didn't waste words, he stepped forward and jabbed the other technician, who had just turned his head to figure out the situation, in the neck, then firmly covered his mouth and pinned him to the chair.
Three seconds later, the two technicians collapsed to the ground like puppets with cut strings.
Collins quickly checked the communication equipnt, removed all the fuses from the control console, and then drew out his silencer-equipped pistol, emptying the magazine into the communication equipnt until they sparked and smoked, then stopped.
"Communication room is under control. Boss, what's your status?"
"I'm on the third floor."
Song Heping moved quickly down the third-floor corridor, according to the blueprints, the presidential suite was at the end.
Rounding a corner inlaid with ivory, he bumped into three soldiers of the Presidential Guard.
These handpicked guards wore black uniforms with precision, gold badges on their chests.
"Halt! You—" The leading captain's pupils suddenly contracted, recognizing the subtle color change on Song Heping's arm patch.
No room for hesitation.
Song Heping swiftly raised the muzzle of his AK74U for a three-round burst, the first two bullets piercing the foreheads of the captain and a sergeant, the third went astray—the surviving guard had already rolled behind a Roman column, hitting the alarm button simultaneously.
The harsh electronic alarm resounded throughout the building, the ergency lights turning the corridor crimson.
"We've been blown! Execute Plan B!" Song Heping yelled into his headset, "Jiang Feng, rendezvous with Collins imdiately and control the helicopter on the helipad!"
"Can you handle it alone?!"
"I can!"
He charged at the guard, smashing a gunstock into the guard's temple as he aid his rifle. The sound of cracking bone was drowned by a new round of explosions.
More footsteps ca pouring in from all directions, bullets began drilling a series of holes in the masterpiece paintings behind him.
On the third-floor corridor, four fully ard guards had already established a temporary defensive line.
They hid behind antique furniture with gilded edges, the laser sights of their FN SCAR rifles tracing deadly red lines through the smoke.
Song Heping pulled an M84 flashbang from his tactical vest, flicked the safety lever with his thumb, and tossed it toward them.
After the blinding light and 170-decibel boom, he rushed into the smoke, solving the temporarily blinded sentries with two short bursts.
The other two hid behind a thick oak wine cabinet to counterattack, 7.62mm bullets whizzed past Song Heping's ear, exploding paint blossoms on the oil painting behind him.
He rolled behind a marble pillar, hot shell casings clinking against the floor.
While rapidly changing magazines, Song Heping noticed the web of his right hand had cracked—the butt strike earlier had used full strength.
The situation was spiraling out of control, the originally planned covert infiltration had turned into an assault.
Suddenly, a series of deafening explosions ca from the west side, followed closely by Collins' shouts in his earpiece, "Helipad is secured! Repeat, helipad is secured! Get the fuck up here!"
Seizing the mont when the guards' attention was diverted, Song Heping executed a precise shot through the wine cabinet, causing the guard behind to fall flat on his back.
The other tried to retreat, but Song Heping hit his femoral artery, blood quickly spreading a dark stain on the carpet.
"Noel!" Song Heping kicked open the carved wooden door of the presidential suite, the lock's fragnts scattering, "The ga is over!"
Inside the suite, President Noel of the Sen Republic was aiming a gold-plated Walther PPK at his temple.
The dictator, who had ruled the country for fifteen years, wore only a silk robe, his graying hair a bird's nest, his bloodshot eyes flashing with a caged-animal desperation.
"Don't co any closer!" Noel scread, retreating, the pistol shaking violently, "I'll kill myself! You'll get nothing!"
Song Heping calmly raised the AK74U assault rifle, the red-dot sight's reticle locked onto Noel's wrist, "Go ahead, try it. See if my bullet is faster than your trigger finger."
At this critical juncture, the suite's bathroom door suddenly burst open.
A young woman in a silk nightgown rushed out, standing in front of Noel. Barefoot, her chestnut curls fell disheveled across her pale cheeks.
"Don't shoot!" she cried, spreading her arms wide, the diamond bracelet on her wrist sparkling in the morning light, "Please! He's my father!"
Song Heping's pupils contracted slightly—this was Noel's twenty-two-year-old daughter Isabel, information hadn't indicated she was also in the President's Mansion.
Collins' intermittent voice buzzed through the earpiece, "Guards... are gathering... at least thirty people... we can't hold for much longer..."
Song Heping's aim did not waver, he locked eyes with Noel's terrified ones, "Put down the gun, co with . I promise your daughter's safety."
Noel's lips trembled, his Adam's apple bobbing.
Bang—
Song Heping shot Isabel in the leg.
"Ah—"
The girl scread in agony.
"No—"
Noel also exclaid in shock.
Ultimately, the gold-plated pistol fell to the imnsely valuable Persian carpet, thudding dully.
"A wise choice," Song Heping stepped forward, iron grip clutching Noel's collar, "Now, we're heading to the helipad. If you want to live, order your guards to lay down their arms."
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