Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1028 Backhand
Lebia, the "Musician" defense command.

The heavy curtains blocked out the scorching Mediterranean sun and the hustle and bustle of the city.

The room was dimly lit, with only a few encrypted communication devices and computer screens emitting a faint blue light.

Song Heping sat in a large leather chair, his gaze calmly fixed on the screen of the satellite encrypted phone.

The screen displayed Afanti's shrewd and calculating face, which now showed obvious anxiety.

"Song, the first round of attacks is over, but the situation is not good."

Afanti's voice came through the encrypted line, tinged with barely perceptible urgency, "As you predicted, the pirates couldn't crack that tough nut. The American helicopters reacted too quickly and had too much firepower, sinking several ships. The rest were terrified and ran faster than rabbits. Now, the 'Marlin' is definitely surrounded by American warships, like an iron barrel. A billion dollars... I'm afraid you won't find any more desperados willing to touch it."

He paused, his tone carrying a questioning undertone and a barely perceptible hint of complaint, "The plan... might fail..."

The light from the screen shone on Song Heping's face. Instead of the disappointment or anger that Afanti had expected, a barely perceptible smile appeared on his face.

"fail?"

Song Heping's voice was deep and steady, carrying a sense of absolute certainty that he was in control of everything.

“Avanti, you are too focused on the waves on the surface of the sea. They haven’t even entered the Red Sea yet. The real storm often brews in places you can’t see.”

He gently put down his cigar, leaned forward slightly, and his gaze seemed to pierce through the screen, seeing into the distance. "Continue to release messages. The bounty remains in effect. By the way, increase the bounty amount for me, add another 2 million, and increase it by 2 million every day for the next five days. Let those scared-away jackals know that those mountains of US dollars are still there, and whoever has the ability can take them."

"But…"

Afanti almost choked on his own saliva.

Song Heping has gone mad...

“Money isn’t everything!”

"No buts."

Song Heping interrupted him, his tone leaving no room for argument, "You just need to do your job and let the news spread. Don't worry about anything else."

A sharp glint flashed in his eyes.

“The good show has just begun.”

Before Afanti could respond, Song Heping cleanly and decisively cut off the communication.

The screen went dark, and the room returned to its dim state.

He picked up a seemingly ordinary smartphone from the table, quickly typed a series of commands on the screen, and then pressed the send button.

Only a short message was displayed on the screen:

"Initiate Project Echo."

In a penthouse apartment of a skyscraper in Manhattan, New York, overlooking a panoramic view of Central Park.

Outside the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, the city's dazzling lights resembled a scattered galaxy.

Angel stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, wearing a perfectly tailored silk robe, holding a glass of red wine in her hand.

Last night she had just finished a long board meeting and attended a charity gala. She was busy until 2 a.m. when she got home and didn't go to bed until then. Yet, her eyes showed a hint of professional weariness.

The phone vibrated on the glass coffee table next to me, and the screen lit up, displaying the message from distant Lebanon: "Initiate Project 'Echo'."

Angel's gaze sharpened instantly, like a lazy cheetah catching the scent of its prey.

All weariness vanished, replaced by a cold focus and a subtle excitement.

Without the slightest hesitation, she put down her wine glass, picked up her phone, and quickly dialed a number she had prepared beforehand.

“It’s me, Angel.”

Her voice was calm and efficient, without a trace of unnecessary small talk. "I have a major news story here. Get all the pre-set channels ready immediately. I require it to be released with the highest priority. I want it to be the focus of every news channel during prime time tonight. Explode it."

“No problem, Miss Angel.”

A brief confirmation came from the other end of the phone.

Angel hung up the phone, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at the city below, whose rules she knew all too well.

Central Park is lush with green trees, and in the distance, cars stream along the roads. Information flows like blood through countless unseen channels.

A cold smile curved her lips.

In Song Heping's game, she was the key piece, and now she had been placed.

That evening, at 9 p.m. Eastern Time, during prime time.

In countless family living rooms, television screens are lit up.

The news anchors' serious faces appeared on the screen, and the background music carried a hint of tension and suspense.

Breaking news!

The CNN anchor spoke rapidly, his expression grave: "We have just received exclusive news that the large cargo ship 'Marlin,' flying the American flag, was attacked today in international waters of the Arabian Sea by a massive and extremely ferocious pirate attack! The footage is incredibly shocking!"

The screen immediately cut to a blurry but impactful mobile phone video clip: In the twilight, a massive gray cargo ship struggled to maneuver at sea, surrounded by a dense swarm of black speedboats that attacked like a pack of wolves. Gun muzzle flashes twinkled like stars, and explosions sent up huge columns of water.

The scene then shifts to a stunning shot of US helicopters firing in mid-air, with Hellfire missiles striking their targets and creating towering fireballs!

"The attackers were reportedly numerous and used heavy weapons, including rockets, making the situation extremely critical! Fortunately, at the last minute, a US Navy shipborne helicopter that received a distress signal arrived in time and, with its powerful air support, repelled the pirates and rescued the USS Marlin and its crew..."

The news quickly went viral on social media, with topics such as the Marlin and pirates instantly topping the trending charts.

People were shocked by the rampant piracy and the scale of the attacks.

However, this was just an appetizer.

Following closely behind, major mainstream media outlets such as Fox News and MSNBC, as well as influential online news aggregation platforms, followed up with reports almost simultaneously, with remarkably consistent narratives.

Soon, the focus of the program subtly shifted.

In the CNN studio, senior international affairs commentator Robert Chambers was invited as a guest.

"Thank you for the invitation, host."

Chambers adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his expression serious. "Regarding this shocking pirate attack, while the public is relieved that the crew was rescued, a more crucial and disturbing question must be raised: What exactly was the 'Marlin' carrying? Why was it in that sensitive area? Was it merely a routine commercial voyage?"

The host then prompted, "Mr. Chambers, you seem to be implying something? Do you have some information that is not publicly known?"

"host."

Chambers leaned slightly forward, looking directly into the camera with a sense of mission to uncover the truth.

"Based on cross-verified information from multiple reliable sources, the true destination of this so-called 'civilian cargo ship' is war-torn Lebia! And what it carries in its hold is not ordinary commercial cargo, but... a large quantity of deadly munitions! Including small arms, anti-tank missiles, and possibly even heavy weapons such as large-caliber artillery."

The studio erupted in uproar.

The host gasped in surprise: "Arms? Sent to Lebanon? Is...is this true? You mean, the US government...?"

"This is not unfounded!"

Chambers stated unequivocally, "It is common knowledge that since Gaddafi's fall, Libya has been mired in chaos, plagued by warlordism and the proliferation of extremist groups. The international community has made tremendous efforts to stabilize the situation and reduce the humanitarian catastrophe. And what is our government doing now?"

He suddenly raised his voice, his question laced with anger.

"They are secretly supplying weapons to one of the forces—the GNA armed group controlled by Saif! According to my information, Saif, based on publicly available intelligence files, had close ties with several groups designated as terrorist organizations before 2011! His hands are stained with the blood of innocent people! And very likely with the blood of our American citizens as well."

He picked up a prepared document: "Look at this! A report on the massacre perpetrated by Saif al-Islam's militants near Benghazi in 2014! They attacked civilian areas inhumanely!"

"And we, having waged a war on terror in Afghanistan and Iraq for more than a decade, have paid the price of thousands of soldiers' lives and trillions of dollars! We still hold the banner of counterterrorism in our hands, yet we are now secretly arming a warlord with a terrorist background behind the scenes? Isn't this the greatest irony and betrayal to the victims of the war on terror? Doesn't this chill the hearts of our allies and make our enemies laugh?"

The host nodded gravely: “This certainly…raises serious ethical and strategic questions. And given Lebia’s current humanitarian situation…”

"This is precisely the most heartbreaking part!"

Chambers took over the conversation, his tone somber.

“A UN report shows that millions of civilians in Lebia are in dire need of food, medicine and shelter! Every day the fighting continues, countless families are displaced and children die from malnutrition and preventable diseases! We should be the leaders in humanitarian aid!”

He paused, gathering his strength, before launching into an even more vehement attack: "But what are we doing now? We're not delivering bread and medicine, we're delivering bullets and missiles! We're adding deadly fuel to an already raging inferno! This is exacerbating a humanitarian catastrophe! This runs counter to our professed universal values ​​and responsibility to maintain international order!"

His voice echoed in the studio and reached every household through the airwaves: "I want to say to the President and the people of Capitol Hill, when you approved such a clandestine and dirty arms transport operation, did you ever think of the innocent civilians struggling to survive in the ruins of Lebanon? Did you ever think of the souls of those who sacrificed their lives in the fight against terrorism? This double standard and short-sighted policy will ultimately backfire on the United States itself! We must demand an explanation from the government! We must demand an immediate stop to this inflaming and complicity-making behavior!"

The camera cuts back to the anchor, whose expression is extremely grave: "Extremely shocking allegations... Mr. Chambers has revealed to us the astonishing details that may be hidden behind the Marlin incident... This is no longer just a pirate attack; it touches upon the moral foundations and strategic credibility of American foreign policy..."

***
Virginia, at the residence of Director Vincent.

Under the soft light, a perfectly seared steak remains on an exquisite bone china plate, while a glass of fine Bordeaux red wine displays elegant "tears" on its rim.

Vincent had just picked up a napkin to wipe his mouth, preparing to enjoy a moment of peace after the meal.

I've been so busy these past few days.

Less than a day after the Marlin set sail, it was attacked by pirates.

Although the naval vessels will escort them on this leg of the voyage, who knows what other tricks Song Heping, that unpredictable madman, might have up his sleeve...

That guy is really making me lose sleep and appetite.

Sometimes, Vincent even felt that competing with Song Heping was too tiring.

This guy……

Even more difficult to deal with than Brother Deng.

The private, encrypted phone rang shrilly like an alarm, and the screen flashed "Simon".

"Chief! Turn on the TV immediately! Any news channel! Right now!"

As soon as the call connected, Simon's voice came through impatiently, so sharp it was almost unrecognizable.

Vincent's heart sank, and an ominous premonition gripped him instantly.

He strode into the study, grabbed the remote control, and pressed the power button with somewhat stiff fingers.

The massive LCD screen lit up. Instantly, Chambers' face, flushed with anger and radiating moral judgment, appeared on the screen, accompanied by his resounding accusations—"Secretly supplying arms...supporting warlords with terrorist ties...exacerbating humanitarian disasters...betraying the war on terror..."

Every word, every sentence, pierced Vincent's eardrums and eyeballs like an icicle.

He stood frozen in place, his knuckles white from gripping the remote control tightly.

The light from the television screen shone on his face, which had instantly lost all color, making him appear like a ghost.

That expensive glass of red wine now seemed to him like thick, viscous blood about to spill.

The illusion of post-meal tranquility was shattered, replaced by the shockwaves of a media frenzy.

The house was deathly silent, with only Chambers' impassioned denunciation and the anchor's somber narration echoing on the television.

Vincent felt a rush of cold blood from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, and his temples throbbed.

Covert action!

Saif's background!
Humanitarian disaster!

Every word was like a poisoned dagger, precisely stabbing at the vital points.

This is far more than just an intelligence leak!

This was a premeditated, precise, targeted bombing aimed at completely destroying this operation and even undermining the government's credibility!

who is it? !
Before he could process this overwhelming storm, another red encrypted phone on his desk rang.

The phone, which connects directly to the White House Situation Room, rang out with a piercing, death knell.

Vincent practically lunged forward and grabbed the receiver.

"Vincent!"

The voice on the other end of the phone was that of the president's National Security Advisor, Thomas Ellis. Usually known for his calm demeanor, his voice at this moment sounded like a thoroughly enraged lion, filled with raging flames.

"What the hell are you doing?! 'Marlin'! Lebia! Saif! Now the whole world knows! It's all over the TV and the internet! The White House press office is being bombarded with calls! Inquiries from Capitol Hill are pouring in like snowflakes! The president just called and yelled at us for a full half hour! Half an hour!"

Vincent could clearly hear the other person's heavy breathing, as if it were right next to his ear.

"Thomas, this..."

"Shut up!"

Ellis's roar interrupted him, "This operation was personally approved by the president! It was top secret! And now? It's become the biggest scandal in the world! A warlord stained with the blood of terrorists! An accomplice to a humanitarian disaster! We've become a laughingstock of the world! Tell me, are the CIA's security measures made of paper?! Or are you, Director Vincent, sitting in your office like an enemy mole?!"

Every word felt like a whip lashing Vincent's face.

He gripped the receiver tightly, his jaw clenched, the muscles in his jaw tense like stone.

"Listen, Vincent!"

Ellis's voice trembled slightly with extreme anger, yet it carried an undeniable, cold command.

“I don’t care what methods you use! Immediately! Clean up this damn mess! The Marlin is a walking time bomb! Get it out of everyone’s sight immediately! Hide it in a port! Immediately! And that bastard who leaked all this! That mole! Dig him out! I want to see his name! Hurry! If I don’t see clear progress and an explanation by sunrise tomorrow… you know the consequences!”

"Snapped!"

The phone was abruptly hung up, leaving only the shrill dial tone ringing in Vincent's ears.

Vincent slowly put down the receiver, his hand trembling slightly.

Not out of fear, but out of a rage that could extinguish reason.

The expensive oak furniture in the study, the famous paintings on the walls, and the tranquil night outside the window all appeared distorted and distorted in his eyes, stained with a bloody crimson.

shame!

An unprecedented shame!

They were manipulated by an arms dealer in Lebanon!

He was stabbed in the back by someone from within his own ranks!

He turned around abruptly and slammed his fist hard on the heavy mahogany desk!
A loud noise echoed in the quiet study.

The pen and paperweight on the table jumped up with a thud.

The mole!

The word hissed in his mind like the tongue of a venomous snake.

His eyes burned with an almost insane rage as he grabbed the phone on the table that was connected to the Langley Core encrypted network, his fingers digging deep into the buttons with his grip.

"Hanks!"

He could almost hear himself grinding his teeth as he spoke.

"Summon the counterintelligence team back to the station immediately! Yes! Right now! Meet me in the small conference room next to my office in thirty minutes!"

***
The following morning, Langley, seventh floor of CIA headquarters, director's office.

The air inside the office was as heavy as lead, and every corner was filled with the smell of gunpowder mixed with anxiety.

Director Vincent stood by the window, his back to the door.

His suit was still impeccably tailored, but the dark circles under his eyes and the deep wrinkles between his brows betrayed the torment of a sleepless night.

The ashtray was overflowing with cigar butts, just like his disheveled mood.

Overnight, the public opinion storm not only failed to subside, but intensified.

The front pages of major newspapers were filled with headlines such as "arms ship," "humanitarian disaster," and "secret operation."

The New York Times even published a strongly worded editorial with a shocking title: "Hypocrisy under the banner of counterterrorism: America's Lebia arms scandal."

The intelligence committees and foreign relations committees of both the Senate and the House of Representatives announced early this morning that they would begin emergency hearings.

The pressure was like a real tsunami, surging in from all directions—the White House, Capitol Hill, the media, and even allied embassies—relentlessly impacting him and his department.

He had to personally order the USS Marlin to change course hastily under heavy escort by U.S. forces and sail to the relatively remote port of Djibouti to temporarily anchor and seek shelter from the storm.

This is tantamount to admitting the truth of the scandal, and is a humiliating retreat.

"Dong dong dong."

A cautious knock sounded on the door.

"Come in!"

Vincent's voice was hoarse.

The door opened, and Hanks, the head of the counterintelligence department, strode in.

He was lean and impeccably dressed in a gray suit, his hair was combed neatly, and his face carried the rigidity and caution characteristic of someone who had worked in secret for many years.

He clutched a thin blue folder tightly in his hand, his face unusually solemn, and a hint of disbelief and astonishment deep in his eyes.

"Director."

Hanks walked up to Vincent, his voice low and deep.

"I found out."

Vincent whirled around, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the folder in Vincent's hand like a hawk's, his gaze almost burning through the folder.

"The result?" he asked.

Hanks didn't answer immediately. He took a few steps forward and placed the blue folder on Vincent's large mahogany desk with both hands.

The folder's cover prominently displays the words "Top Secret - Preliminary Conclusions of Internal Leak Investigation."

Vincent grabbed the folder and roughly opened it.

There was only one piece of paper inside.

A thin sheet of paper.

There were no lengthy analysis reports, no complicated clue diagrams, and no lists of suspicious points.

Only one line of the name was printed, lying alone in the middle of the page, like a bomb dropped into a stagnant pond:
Terry Walters.

The name struck Vincent like a high-voltage current.

His pupils contracted to the size of pinpoints in an instant, and the muscles in his face suddenly stiffened, as if frozen in time.

A chilling coldness surged up his spine and rushed to the top of his head, making it almost impossible for him to breathe.

Terry Walters?

Deputy Director of the Kuwait Intelligence Station?

That taciturn, steady, and even somewhat rigid middle-aged man?
That veteran agent he once trusted and considered absolutely reliable?
The person in charge of loading and unloading the "Marlin" at the Kuwait port?

absurd!

incredible!

It was like a bolt from the blue!

Vincent's gaze was fixed on that name, as if he wanted to pry it off the paper.

The office was deathly silent, save for his heavy, suppressed breathing.

Hanks held his breath, not daring to make a sound.

"I need to see this person within 48 hours. You make the arrangements, and I will interrogate him personally!"

　It's the end of the month! Please vote for me! Please vote for me! I'm updating with 10,000 words today!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)