Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1036 The Abandoned Child's Suicide

Lebia, Tripoli.

Inside the Corinthia Hotel near Mitiga International Airport.

This hotel, once hailed as the most luxurious in Lebanon, could not escape the fate of decay during the war. Its magnificent exterior walls are covered with bullet holes and stains, and most of the huge glass curtain wall is broken and hastily nailed with wooden boards, like underwear covered with patches.

However, the hotel and its surrounding central buildings remain a major gathering place for Western diplomats and intelligence personnel.

The top floor of this hotel is the presidential suite, which has now become Saif's temporary residence and his last symbol of power.

The room was filled with the strong smell of cigars and a sense of despair and decay.

Wine bottles, leftover food, and crumpled documents were scattered on the expensive Persian carpet.

Saif paced anxiously behind his huge desk, which was covered with a thick carpet, like a trapped beast.

His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was disheveled, and the collar of his expensive silk shirt was open, revealing his taut neck.

Savinnu has fallen!
Benghazi falls!
Southern cities are turning against their side one after another!

Bad news came like snowflakes, each one like a heavy hammer blow to his heart.

Haftar and Song's armies, like an unstoppable sandstorm from the southern Sahara, are rapidly approaching Tripoli's last line of defense!

After the Marlin sank, the Americans vanished as if they had disappeared, and the promised aid became nothing more than a mirage.

He tried calling his contact in the United States several times, but the other party seemed to know his intentions and hung up without even answering the phone.

In just half a month, the number of troops he had available dwindled, the ammunition depots became increasingly depleted, the morale of his soldiers plummeted, and the number of deserters increased daily.

Despair, like a cold tide, was slowly engulfing him and his army.

A bad feeling had already settled over Saif's mind.

He seemed to be able to guess the Americans' little scheme.

I have lost my usefulness.

They are cutting themselves apart, abandoning themselves.

Especially given that it coincides with their midterm elections, the ruling Democratic Party is already overwhelmed by the Marlin incident and is unlikely to take any further political risks to provide any assistance to its North African warlord.

"It seems the Americans can't be relied on..."

He sighed inwardly.

Sometimes, warlords like him may appear glamorous in Lebia, but in reality, they are living on the edge of a knife.

He initially thought that by clinging to the coattails of the most powerful Americans, he could solidify his power. However, fate intervened, and the appearance of Song Heping shattered his dream.

I originally thought I was the sweetheart of Americans, even if I was just a dog, I was a valuable dog.

I never expected that Americans would immediately distance themselves from me at the slightest trouble, treating me like a worn-out shoe and ignoring me completely.

despair……

Saif felt like his head was about to explode.

Suddenly, a bright idea flashed into his mind.

If you don’t want to stay here, you will have a place to stay!

Even if there are no Americans, there are still British and French people, right?

Correct!
Find them!
They no longer care about loyalty to the Americans.

Screw loyalty!

They betrayed us first!
If either Britain or France can lend a helping hand this time, we will still have a fighting chance!
When the time comes, we'll concede on what we should!

Oil fields, ports, shipping routes.

Give me whatever you want!
As long as I can still hold power, there's nothing I won't sell!
He grabbed the encrypted satellite phone on the table, his fingers trembling slightly from the force.

He had to grasp at his own lifeline—the French!

The French were the vanguard in overthrowing Gaddafi back then. They have huge interests here, and they will never sit idly by while Song and Haftar control the whole of Lebia!

"Please connect me with the French Special Envoy to Lebia, Mr. Philippe! Tell him that Saif Muhammad Azari has urgent business to discuss! It concerns the future of Lebia! It concerns France's core interests in Lebia!"

Saif spoke into the microphone with a pleading tone, yet also with an anxious tone that bordered on roaring.

The French secretary on the other end of the phone spoke in a formulaic and cold voice: "I'm sorry, Mr. Saif. Mr. Philippe's schedule is extremely busy. I just checked his schedule and we cannot arrange a new meeting at the moment. If you have an urgent matter, please leave a message and we will..."

"Leave a message?! I need to see him right now! It's a matter of life and death! It concerns the interests of you French people!"

Saif roared uncontrollably, veins bulging on his forehead.

“Tell him! I am Saif! I am the leader of the interim government of Lebia! He must see me!”

"I'm sorry, Mr. Saif."

The secretary's voice was flat and even carried a hint of detachment.

"The special envoy is indeed unable to make arrangements. Goodbye."

The call was disconnected, the busy tone cold and indifferent.

Saif stood frozen in place, microphone in hand, incredulous.

He had dealt with the French before.

I even frequently interact with the secretary I just spoke to.

They didn't treat themselves like this before!

They were very polite and courteous to me!
He speaks with impeccable gentlemanly manners!
how? !
Today, they treated me like a beggar who came to my door, refusing to even say a few words and just slamming the door and kicking me out?!
SHIT!

Those damn Frenchmen!

He was gripped by immense humiliation and a deeper sense of panic.

A full minute later, like a gambler who had lost everything, he frantically dialed again, this time to the British Embassy in Lebanon.

The French are no good...

The British will do it!
Especially the British.

He knew very well how deep the hatred was between those British gentlemen and this "African ghost" Song Heping.

If I were willing to act as a henchman to attack Song Heping, they would be more than happy to help me!
Wasn't it always like this?

I had collaborated with them before, although that collaboration also ended in failure.

"I am Saif, and I need to speak with the ambassador! Or the head of MI6 here! Immediately! I have matters concerning the security of British interests in North Africa!"

"Hold on."

The secretary on the other end of the phone spoke in a tone as cold as ice in a refrigerator.

This time, the wait was even longer.

After a full minute, the call was finally transferred, but a young, cold male voice with a standard London accent answered: "Mr. Saif? I regret to inform you that the Ambassador and the Chief of Intelligence are currently not at the embassy. They have both returned to their home countries for reporting on their duties and will not be able to return to Tripoli in the short term. We will take note of the situation you mentioned and will contact you if necessary. Goodbye."

After saying that, the other party hung up just as decisively.

"You bastard! You son of a bitch!!"

Saif completely lost it, and like a madman, he smashed the satellite phone in his hand against the wall.

The expensive communication equipment shattered instantly, with fragments flying everywhere.

He was panting heavily, his eyes were bloodshot, his chest was heaving violently, and his fists were clenched as if he wanted to fight someone but couldn't find anyone to fight him.

Now, Saif feels like a used rag, ruthlessly thrown into the trash can by his once-sworn ally!
British and French!

They chose to stand by and do nothing!
They tacitly acknowledged Song Heping's victory!
After extreme anger comes a bone-chilling cold.

Saif staggered back a few steps and slumped heavily into the large chair, as if all his strength had been drained away.

Outside the window, the Tripoli twilight sky was tinged with a sickly orange-red by the smoke rising from the city's edge.

He knew that his time was truly running out.

……

London, on the banks of the Thames, the headquarters of the British secret intelligence agency MI6.

In the office, Ms. M was leaning back in her high-backed chair.

The ashtray in front of her was already overflowing with cigarette butts.

Sitting opposite her was Ayers, the head of the Africa Division, a capable middle-aged man. "Saif has sent another request for a meeting, the wording... almost desperate."

Ayers gently pushed a telegram in front of Ms. M, speaking in a flat tone.

“He claimed there was an emergency involving our interests and security in Lebanon, and he wanted to use that to gain our support.”

Ms. M glanced at the telegram, a sneer playing on her lips, as if she were examining an outdated, low-quality product: "Interests? Security? Does he think we're three-year-olds? Or has he been so terrified of Song Heping that he's started spouting nonsense?"

She took a drag of her cigarette and slowly exhaled.

"His only emergency is probably that he's about to go under and is trying to drag us down with him as a lifeline."

"The Americans have completely withdrawn, and as for the French, Charles just informed us explicitly that they have closed all official channels of communication with Saif."

Ayers added.

"That old fox, Charles, is quick on his feet."

Ms. M snorted coldly, her gaze suddenly turning sharp.

"He himself had cooperated with Song Heping in Sena, and the relationship was already ambiguous. Now, Saif is of no value. Continuing to bet on him will not only throw valuable resources into a bottomless pit, but will also completely offend that madman Song Heping. Look at what he did in Savinnu! He's a butcher! But he's an efficient butcher who controls the situation."

She stood up, walked to the huge map of Africa on the wall, her gaze falling on Lebia, and drew a small circle around Tripoli with her finger: "How much property do we still have here? How important is it?"

"Mainly some business intelligence networks and a few long-term informants, of medium to high value. There are also some civilian personnel who need to be evacuated."

Ayers answered quickly.

"Value is slightly above average..."

Ms. M repeated it softly, her fingers tapping lightly on the map.

"In other words, it's not worth going head-to-head with a mercenary leader who controls most of Lebia's territory, commands a large army, acts ruthlessly, and clearly has no goodwill towards us, especially given that we have no way of cooperating with France and the United States."

She turned around, her eyes cold and resolute: "Notify our leader in Tripoli to activate the 'Ash' evacuation plan. Abandon all non-essential personnel and all assets below Grade A! Only take core personnel and the most valuable intelligence sources. The operation must be swift! It must be covert! It must be completed before Haftar or Song Heping's forces encircle Tripoli!"

“Then Saif…” Ayers asked.

"Saif?"

Ms. M's face revealed an almost cruel indifference, as if she were talking about some insignificant piece of trash.

"He's a smart man; he should understand the rules of the game. Losing comes at a price. He's not the first pawn to be sacrificed, and he certainly won't be the last. Give him an encrypted, informal communication channel and tell him we 'sympathize' with his situation, but 'can't help him.' Wish him...good luck."

She picked up the red secure phone on the table.

"Also, connect me to the North African Affairs Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We need a statement calling on all parties in Lebanon to 'immediately cease fire' and 'resolve differences through political dialogue.' The wording should be... sufficiently 'concerned,' but also allow enough room for maneuver. The situation is complex, and no one knows how things will change in the future."

……

Tripoli, Corinthia Hotel penthouse suite.

Saif sat slumped amidst the chaos, like a soulless statue.

The broken telephone fragments lay scattered on the carpet, just like his shattered imperial dream.

Outside the window, the sounds of artillery fire on the edge of the city seemed to be getting closer, and the muffled explosions could be heard faintly, each one making his heart clench.

They were abandoned.

They were completely and ruthlessly abandoned.

His "allies," Britain, France, and the United States, who had promised him power and wealth, have now closed their doors.

He was left all alone in the eye of the storm, waiting to be crushed by Haftar and Song Heping's steel torrent.

Despair, like a cold poison, seeped into every part of my body.

Just as he was feeling utterly hopeless, another extremely private satellite phone in his pocket suddenly vibrated!
It wasn't the one he usually used, but a number known only to a very few of his closest confidants.

Like a drowning man grasping at a straw, Saif frantically pulled out his phone, and on the screen flashed a heavily encrypted, untraceable number.

He answered the call with trembling hands, his voice hoarse and filled with the last glimmer of hope.

Perhaps they are French?

American?
Or were they British?
Are they unwilling to discuss cooperation openly with me, and have gone underground?
"Hello?! Who is it?!"

There was silence on the other end of the phone for two seconds.

Then, a voice he least wanted to hear at that moment came clearly.

“Saif, I am Song Heping. They like to call me Sang, or ‘African Ghost’.”

It’s Song Heping!

Saif froze, his blood seemingly freezing instantly.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out of his throat.

"You called London and Paris, but no one answered, right?"

Song Heping's voice, transmitted through the radio waves, carried an all-knowing understanding and an indifferent attitude that seemed to control life and death.

Don't waste your energy. Their "good luck" will be your final epitaph.

Saif's heart was gripped tightly by a cold, large hand, making it almost impossible for him to breathe.

Song Heping even knows this!
His shameful struggle in his final moments was completely exposed to this enemy!
"What...what do you want?"

Saif's voice was hoarse, trembling with fear and despair that he himself could not control.

This Song Heping exudes an overwhelming sense of oppression.

"Surrender? Negotiate? Territory? Wealth? I can give you anything! As long as you..." His survival instinct made him throw out all his bargaining chips.

"surrender?"

Song Heping interrupted him, his voice finally carrying a very subtle, cold sarcasm, as if mocking an innocent child.

"Saif, you have no right to surrender. If it were half a month ago, perhaps you would have, but now what do you have as a bargaining chip to surrender?"

There seemed to be faint footsteps on the other end of the phone, and Song Heping paused for a moment.

Indistinct commands and buzzing electronic devices could be heard in the background.

Finally, he seemed to have arrived at a place with a wide-open view.

"Have you heard the rumors?"

Song Heping's voice rang out again, eerily calm.

"That was the wind outside Tripoli. Now the whole city is surrounded by us, including the sea route."

He paused, each word like a cold iron nail, piercing Saif's eardrums and heart:
"You now have two choices: either kill yourself, or wait for Haftar's troops to enter the city, drag you out of your office like a dead dog, and then shoot you in the street. The choice is yours. Perhaps you still have the right to choose a dignified death, and that is your last right."

After saying that, the phone was abruptly hung up.

The busy signal still echoed in my ears, like the death knell.

Saif sat stiffly in the luxurious yet cold chair, clutching the satellite phone that had long since lost its connection.

Outside the window, night had completely fallen on Tripoli, and the fires on the city's edge illuminated half the sky, while the booming sounds of artillery seemed even closer.

The room was deathly silent, save for his heavy, desperate breathing, like a broken bellows.

Raising the flag...

Raising the flag...

These two words echoed repeatedly in his empty mind, crushing his last shred of illusion.

He gently pulled open the drawer, inside which was a Beretta 92F pistol made of karat gold.

He found this gun in the drawer of Colonel Kakashi's office years ago.

As he picked up the pistol, the image of Colonel Gatchai suddenly appeared before his eyes.

"Hehe...hehe...hahahahaha!"

He suddenly burst into loud, unrestrained laughter, and at the end, a tear slid down his cheek.

As he finished laughing, Saif suddenly pulled back the slide to chamber a round, opened his mouth, and like a greedy child grabbing a lollipop, shoved the pistol into his mouth.

bah—

After a gunshot, the wall behind him was covered in crimson.

　Last day! Please vote for me! Please vote for me!
　　
　
(End of this chapter)