Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1025 The Deputy Station Master's "Romantic Encounter"

Meanwhile, after hanging up Song Heping's call, Afanti sat in his chair and pondered for a moment before picking up another landline and dialing a number.

The call connected quickly, and Afanti only said one sentence: "Have Kazimi from the intelligence department come to see me immediately."

……

Three days later.

The scorching sun of the Persian Gulf relentlessly poured onto the steel and concrete structure of Kuwait's Shuweh port, like molten gold.

The air distorted in the high temperature, and the salty sea breeze, carrying the stuffy smell of engine oil and rust, blew over the busy crowd on the dock.

The massive Marlin, like a weary gray steel whale, rests quietly in its designated deep-water berth.

Its massive size still makes it look imposing against the backdrop of the surrounding container ships, and the prominent Military Sealift Command (MSC) logo and Stars and Stripes on the bridge flutter slightly in the hot wind.

At this moment, this steel behemoth is opening its dark side hatches and massive stern ramps, greedily devouring the "cargo" that is being continuously transported in.

The docks were transformed into a massive and highly efficient war logistics hub.

Heavy trucks lined up, their engines roaring, towing sealed containers or weapon systems covered with heavy tarpaulins to the bottom of a massive marine crane.

Dressed in camouflage and drenched in sweat, the U.S. logistics soldiers and port workers, like busy worker ants, operated the equipment under the command of officers and the supervision of civilian staff holding electronic inventory devices.

"Sector B! Secure those last three M777s! Double-check the cables! Don't let them get tossed into the sea when we get there!"

A hoarse voice rang out through the loudspeaker amidst the noise.

The one who shouted was a stocky middle-aged man wearing khaki overalls stained with oil and a dark polo shirt often worn by CIA agents.

His name is Terry Walters, deputy station chief of the CIA Kuwait station.

At this moment, he was standing on a slightly elevated command platform at the dock, holding a walkie-talkie in one hand and wiping the sweat from his eyes with the other, his gaze sweeping over every step of the loading operation like a hawk.

Several M777 light howitzers, their barrels removed and painted in desert yellow camouflage, were being slowly lifted by a huge crane boom and carefully sent into the stern compartment of the "Marlin," which resembled the mouth of a giant beast.

Below, workers shouted and pulled the securing steel cable.

"Containers in Area A! Numbered KWT-ALPHA-771 to 785! Load them first! These are light weapons and ammunition destined for Lebia! Double-check the list! If even one container is missing, I'll skin you alive!"

Terry yelled into the walkie-talkie, his voice hoarse from days of shouting and lack of sleep.

As far as the eye could see, the docks were piled high with war materials: boxes of ammunition marked "5.56mm NATO" and "7.62x39mm" were stacked like mountains; Humvees and armored personnel carriers painted olive green and covered with tarpaulins; bundles of anti-tank missile launchers...

Besides these, there were many more sealed containers, and only the codes on the list and people like Terry knew what was inside—it could be communications equipment, night vision goggles, or even accessories for small drones used on the front lines.

The entire dock was filled with a strong, unique prelude to war, a mixture of metal, machine oil, gunpowder, and sweat.

Terry has been here for three whole days. Supervising, coordinating, checking, urging, getting angry…

He felt as if his nerves were taut like a bowstring stretched to its limit, and as if he had swallowed a handful of sand.

The instructions Vincent sent from Langley became more and more urgent, and the pressure was passed down layer by layer, eventually all falling on the shoulders of him, the deputy stationmaster in charge of specific port loading.

Saif was urgently requesting supplies on the Savinnu front, while Washington was pressing for results in delivering the arms. Meanwhile, at the port, there were issues with the high temperatures, the massive amount of supplies, and the efficiency of cooperation from the Kuwaiti side…

Everything was driving him crazy.

"Fuck!"

Terry cursed under his breath, watching the crane pause its operation due to the slight sway of a container, and he wished he could jump down and operate it himself.

He picked up the walkie-talkie again, his voice distorted with extreme fatigue and frustration: "Damn it! Hurry up! All loading must be finished before sunset! The ship must leave port at high tide! If we're delayed, we'll all be in big trouble!"

Time slipped away little by little amidst sweat and roaring noise.

As the last heavy flatbed truck, fully loaded with ammunition, slowly drove into the bottomless stern of the Marlin, the massive ramp rose and fell heavily with a dull thud, accompanied by the hissing of the hydraulic system. Only then did Terry's taut shoulders suddenly collapse.

The golden glow of the setting sun dyed the shimmering sea red and also painted the huge gray hull of the "Marlin".

The ship's horn sounded a long, deep blast, announcing the end of the loading operation. The tugboat then carefully began to push the massive 10,000-ton vessel away from the dock.

Terry let out a long, long sigh, as if he were expelling all the stale air and pressure that had been building up in his lungs for three days.

He felt completely drained, with only exhaustion filling his limbs and bones like lead.

Sweat soaked through his polo shirt, clinging tightly to his back.

"Finally... damn it... finished installing..."

He muttered to himself, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible. He took out his phone, ready to send Vincent a brief confirmation report.

Just then, the phone screen lit up, not with an email notification, but with a call from a local number.

Terry glanced at the number, his furrowed brows surprisingly relaxed a little, and the corners of his mouth even twitched slightly upwards.

He answered the phone, his voice heavy with fatigue, but his tone was much lighter: "Hey, Aziz, my old friend."

A warm, enthusiastic voice came from the other end of the phone, speaking quickly and energetically: "Terry! My dear friend! God help me, I finally got through! I heard you've been spinning like a top at the port these past few days? How's it going, are you done yet?"

"Just finished."

Terry rubbed his throbbing temples and said with a wry smile, "I feel like I'm about to be dried out by the sun."

"Hahaha!"

Aziz laughed heartily on the other end of the phone, “You’ve worked hard! Great America needs warriors like you! But warriors also need to be rewarded and relaxed! Tonight, you have to come out! Same place, the ‘Golden Plantagenet’ Club, to celebrate your victory! Wash away the stench of your sweat! I’ve got a few bottles of the Macallan delicacy you’ve been raving about, and… some real ‘scenery’ to make you forget your fatigue!”

Aziz's voice was full of suggestive allure.

Terry hesitated for a moment.

His professional caution prevented him from immediately agreeing.

But the body is screaming for rest and indulgence.

The mission was accomplished, the tension suddenly eased, and a wave of exhaustion washed over me.

Aziz Khalid was an important local informant and "friend" he had cultivated for a long time, an oil trader with connections in both the legitimate and criminal worlds in Kuwait, and also an important source of unofficial intelligence and a source of his lavish lifestyle.

Maintaining this "friendship" is, to some extent, part of his job.

Moreover, Aziz always managed to find ways to provide him with the ultimate in pleasure.

“Okay, Aziz.” Terry’s voice held a hint of expectation. “You’ve convinced me. Wait two hours, I need to go back and take a shower and change.”

“Fantastic! I’ve been waiting for you, my brother! Tonight, let’s enjoy ourselves like kings!” Aziz’s voice was filled with the joy of victory.

Eight o'clock at night.

It was late at night when Terry's taxi stopped in front of the unassuming, heavy teak gate of the "Golden Plantage" house, which was embedded in the ancient stone wall.

The bustling neon lights of Kuwait City are shut out; here, only a simple, antique-looking copper lamp on the lintel emits a dim, yellowish glow.

Two well-tailored, sharp-looking guards in traditional Arab robes silently opened the door. Behind the door lay a world of unparalleled luxury that instantly transported one away from reality.

A huge, high-ceilinged atrium comes into view, topped with a glass dome inlaid with countless small lights, like a dazzling galaxy.

Beneath my feet lay a top-quality Persian handmade carpet, its surface smooth and lustrous to the touch, its intricate patterns dazzling, so thick it almost swallowed my ankles. The air was filled with a strange blend of aromas—expensive ebony, freshly picked rose petals, the smoky scent of roasted coffee beans, and a faint, alluring hint of exotic perfume.

In the center of the courtyard stands a breathtaking fountain shaped like a golden date palm tree. The pure gold branches and leaves shimmer under the soft lighting, and clear water gushes from the "leaf tips" and "fruits" into the pool below, which is filled with colorful gemstones, creating a melodious tinkling sound.

Well-dressed, elegant, or mysterious male and female guests gathered in twos and threes around comfortable velvet sofas or low Arabic-style couches, chatting and laughing in hushed tones.

The waiters moved about like shadows, their trays holding crystal glasses that reflected a mesmerizing light.

There was no noisy music here, only a veiled musician in the corner playing a melodious Arabic tune on the oud, the sound flowing like silk in the luxurious air.

"Terry! My brother! Welcome to heaven!"

Aziz Khalid's enthusiastic voice rang out.

He was of medium build, slightly overweight, and wore a seemingly simple but actually very expensive custom-made white linen robe, with a discreet Patek Philippe watch on his wrist.

He opened his arms and greeted Terry with a strong hug, his chubby face beaming with a "sincere" smile.

“Aziz, every time I come here, it feels different.”

Terry looked around and sighed sincerely, as if the fatigue of the past few days had been somewhat relieved by the extreme luxury before him.

"God has been so generous to you; oil has brought you wealth."

"God is just as generous to his friends!"

Aziz laughed heartily, affectionately putting his arm around Terry's shoulder and leading him through the atrium into the deeper part of the courtyard. "Come on, the box is ready. Tonight, it's just for us, and for real fun!"

They passed through a heavy wooden door, inlaid with ivory and malachite, which was respectfully opened by two waiters, and entered a more private box.

The level of luxury here is even greater. The walls are covered with deep blue velvet, embroidered with intricate star patterns in gold thread.

A low, rosewood table inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory occupies the center, already laden with mouthwatering delicacies: a whole lamb roasted to a golden brown and crispy perfection, exuding the aroma of saffron and cinnamon; a small mountain of saffron rice sprinkled with pine nuts and raisins; various fruits as fresh as if they were still glistening with dew; and colorful Arabic desserts served in crystal-clear containers.

What's even more eye-catching is the wide array of drinks on the table.

Besides the top-quality single malt whisky that Terry specifically requested, there were also vintage champagne, top-quality French red wine, and even a few bottles of rare aged cognac with antique packaging and yellowed labels.

Several ice buckets held chilled drinks, and elegant Cuban cigar boxes sat nearby.

In one corner of the private room, a scantily clad, graceful Eastern European woman was adjusting an expensive sound system, while another knelt beside a hookah, skillfully filling the delicate glass container with premium tobacco mixed with honey and fruit spices.

Sweet-smelling smoke rose from the hose of the hookah.

"Sit down, sit down, my dear friend!"

Aziz warmly invited Terry to sit down on the tatami mat covered with thick cushions. "Would you like something to whet your appetite first? Freshly squeezed pomegranate juice? Or would you like our 'Desert Rose' to make you a special one?" He gestured to the woman adjusting the sound system.

"Let's start with something 'thirsty'."

Terry pointed to the whiskey in the ice bucket, but his eyes couldn't help but drift to the two stunningly beautiful women.

Aziz laughed knowingly, picked up a bottle of Macallan Premium and poured Terry a full glass of amber liquid, the ice cubes clinking against the glass.

"To our friendship! To your successful completion of a challenging task! And to... the wonderful evening to come!"

Aziz raised his glass.

"Honor your friendship!"

Terry raised his glass as well, the rich aroma of peat and fruit instantly filling his nostrils. He tilted his head back and took a big gulp, the fiery liquid sliding down his throat, instantly igniting his tired body and his long-suppressed desires.

After three days of tension, the nerves began to relax and crumble rapidly under the triple impact of alcohol, the luxurious environment, and the temptation of the opposite sex.

The music was changed to an electronic mix with an ambiguous rhythm.

At Aziz's signal, the Eastern European woman who was adjusting the sound system swayed over gracefully and sat down next to Terry, her exotic perfume wafting towards him.

Another woman lit a hookah and offered the delicate mouthpiece to Terry's lips. Delicious food, fine wine, beautiful women, and intoxicating smoke…

The sensory feast completely overwhelmed Terry.

Aziz was very good at controlling the pace. He stopped talking about any work-related topics and just kept urging people to drink, telling stories and jokes about the local wealthy circles, making the atmosphere more relaxed.

Terry drank glass after glass, the rich flavor of the fine whiskey numbing his guard.

The sweet aroma and smoke of the hookah made him feel somewhat lightheaded.

The woman's soft body and suggestive touches beside him aroused his blood even more.

The pressure and exhaustion that had been building up for days seemed to have found an outlet.

Alcohol blurs the concept of time.

Terry only remembered that he seemed to have drunk a lot, laughed loudly, called Aziz his brother, and even danced with the two women, with the physical contact becoming increasingly bold and unrestrained.

Aziz's chubby, smiling face appeared near and far in the hazy light and smoke.

Two hours later.

"...No...Aziz...can't hold on any longer..."

Terry felt dizzy, his tongue was tied in knots, and the scene before his eyes began to blur.

"Haha, it seems our warriors need a rest!"

Aziz's voice seemed to come from afar, tinged with laughter, "Don't worry, everything's arranged. A top-floor suite, the best view room, so you can sleep as soundly as the Sultan." He waved his hand.

Terry felt himself being helped up by two strong, silent waiters, his body as limp as noodles.

He was vaguely led through a magnificent corridor and into a quiet, silent elevator.

As the elevator ascended, the slight feeling of weightlessness made his stomach churn.

After an unknown amount of time, he was led into a room that seemed large and dark, with a faint, pleasant fragrance in the air.

He felt as if he were placed on a large bed that was as soft as a cloud.

Someone helped him take off his shoes and coat.

Then, it seemed as if a soft, warm body leaned closer, carrying the familiar scent of perfume from the Eastern European woman who had been adjusting the sound system in the private room earlier.

She seemed to be whispering something, her voice soft and alluring, her cool fingers tracing his forehead.

Terry's last conscious thought was grasping a soft hand before he was completely swallowed by the endless darkness and the vortex of alcohol.

　Asking for a monthly ticket! Asking for a monthly ticket!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)