Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1055 10% Lethal Concentration
After 7 hours.

Outside VIP-3 ward on the top floor of the surgical building at Tehran Army General Hospital.

The corridor lights were stark white, and two guards in dark combat uniforms stood on either side of the heavy, bulletproof hospital room door.

The two were fully armed, looking as if they were facing a formidable enemy.

There are fixed sentry posts at both ends of the corridor. Anyone who approaches this area without authorization will be immediately stopped, questioned, or even directly detained.

Even the hospital's main gate and downstairs entrance are guarded by various armed sentries, with guards every three or five steps, an absolute level of security for a head of state.

Inside the ward, the lights were deliberately dimmed.

Song Heping lay on the hospital bed, his arms and legs wrapped in bandages, his face slightly pale but his expression calm.

Various monitoring instruments were placed around him, with wires connected to his body, emitting a regular and monotonous ticking sound.

Kavvan sat on a chair by the bed, his back ramrod straight, with a pistol tucked into his waistband.

His face was also grim; with so many comrades having just died, no one would be in a good mood.

He glanced at the doorway from time to time, then at Song Heping, who was resting with his eyes closed.

"Has there been any news from the general's side?"

Kavvan asked in a low voice.

"What? Are you in a hurry?"

Song Heping did not open his eyes.

Kavvan quickly explained, "I'm anxious, I'm anxious to see who the traitor is."

Song Heping shook his head very slightly: "The net has been cast. The bait is here."

He pointed to himself, then tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over the IV bag hanging on the bedside table. The clear liquid was flowing into his veins drop by drop through a thin plastic tube.

"'Poison Needle'... and his master are equally impatient; they won't wait long."

A cold, mocking smile curled at the corner of his lips. "The amount the CIA has offered me is enough to make many people forget their fear and take the risk."

Kavvan followed his gaze to the IV bag and subconsciously clenched his fist: "You mean... they'll bribe medical staff to tamper with the medicine?"

"This is the safest and most discreet way."

Song Heping said calmly, "That's also the method Americans like best. Assassination without leaving a trace. So..."

He looked at Kavvan.

“From this moment forward, anyone who enters this room, anyone who comes into contact with my medication, will be under your absolute surveillance. This includes… doctors and nurses.”

Kavvan nodded emphatically: "Mr. Song, rest assured, the general has instructed that everything will proceed according to your plan. I will keep a close watch on everyone who approaches this place!"

He stood up, walked to the inside of the ward door, and through the observation window on the door, once again warily scanned the silent and desolate corridor outside.

The invisible hunt has moved from the desolate Eagle's Beak Gorge to this white fortress filled with the smell of disinfectant.

Whether the fish will take the bait, whether the poisonous needle will be used—the answer lies in this suffocating wait.

Time ticked by, and on another floor of the hospital building, Dr. Ali Mahdi's office window was tightly shut, the blinds hanging down completely, shutting out the hazy afternoon light of Tehran.

Only the lonely desk lamp cast a dim, yellowish halo over the medical records and prescriptions on the table.

Suddenly, the deathly silence was violently ripped apart by the buzzing of a cell phone on the table.

The screen lit up, but no number was displayed; there was only a glaring blank space.

Dr. Mahadi's hand jerked violently, and the nib of his pen drew an ugly ink mark on the prescription.

He stared at the blank screen, gritted his teeth, and felt a slight sense of suffocation, as if a tattered rag was blocking his throat.

The outstretched finger hovered in mid-air, wanting to fall but retracting several times.

Each buzz of the phone felt like a small hammer, striking his ribs heavily.

Finally, as the fifth vibration was almost over, he pressed the answer button and pressed the cold phone tightly against his ear.

"Dr. Mahadi."

The voice coming from the receiver was a distorted voice, processed by a voice changer.

"Time is ticking away. Every second means the risk increases exponentially. The target is in the ward upstairs from you. Your hesitation is a foolish luxury. Act quickly, then make your escape. There's an SUV with the license plate ending in 045 on the street across from the hospital; that's the vehicle I've prepared for you, along with a fake passport. You can easily drive out of the country by land..."

The voice paused for a moment, and that brief silence was more oppressive than any urging.

“Finish it. Now. Otherwise… the ‘new life’ we promised, along with your daughter’s treatment opportunities in Boston, will vanish as if they never existed. You know the consequences.”

The phone was disconnected.

Only a monotonous busy tone remained, echoing hollowly in the deathly silent office.

Mahadi slammed his phone onto the table as if it were a red-hot branding iron.

He forcefully dug his hands into his meticulously combed gray hair, his knuckles turning white from the effort.

My daughter's pale face flickered before my eyes, and those big eyes that were always full of trust and dependence now seemed like a silent accusation.

Top neurosurgeons at Boston Children's Hospital...

That was her daughter's only hope, the only light at the end of the dark tunnel.

As a doctor, he was all too aware of the current state of medical care in Persia.

The only chance of her being rescued is to send her abroad, to the United States.

This opportunity is currently in the hands of the person on the other end of the phone and could be lost at any moment.

He abruptly pulled open the bottom drawer on the right, his movements so rough it looked like he was tearing something apart.

There were no medical records inside, only a few expired medical journals.

He trembled as he pushed aside the magazines, his fingers groping along the inside of the drawer, his fingernails digging into a small protrusion that was almost blending into the wooden interior.

With a firm press, accompanied by a soft "click," a thin panel at the bottom of the drawer popped open.

Below is a hidden compartment.

Inside was a small, transparent glass ampoule.

The bottle was smooth and cold, containing about 10 milliliters of liquid. The liquid was clear as water, without any color or odor.

10% potassium chloride injection solution.

As a surgeon, he knew all too well the terrifying power of this seemingly harmless liquid.

Potassium ions are crucial for maintaining the normal electrophysiological activity of myocardial cells.

In cardiac surgery or emergency care, it is routine to slowly infuse diluted potassium chloride solution through a central venous catheter under close electrocardiographic monitoring to correct hypokalemia.

However, the consequences of rapidly injecting undiluted, high-concentration potassium chloride (such as a 10% solution) into a peripheral vein, or more fatally, into the bloodstream, are devastating.

High concentrations of potassium ions can instantly disrupt the resting potential of myocardial cells, causing them to remain in a state of continuous depolarization and unable to generate effective action potentials.

The result is cardiac arrest—usually rapid pulseless electrical activity (PEA) or ventricular arrest.

This process can be so fast that it catches people off guard.

In theory, a rapid intravenous injection of just 10 ml of 10% potassium chloride solution would be enough to completely shut down a healthy heart within minutes.

The death report will state: sudden cardiac death, cause unknown.

Especially in the case of a "patient" who has just suffered an external injury and whose physical condition is already unstable, such a death would hardly arouse deep suspicion.

It is rapid, deadly, and difficult to pinpoint directly during an autopsy unless serum potassium ion concentration is specifically measured.

The icy touch of the ampoule traveled through his fingertips, chilling him to the bone.

He picked it up and held it up to the light.

The clear liquid swayed slightly inside the glass wall, refracting a faint light, like the purest form of death.

“The electrolytes that sustain life…the scythe that harvests life…” he murmured to himself as he looked at the cold liquid.

"I am a doctor... I swear I will... not hurt anyone..."

The echo of the vow struck the wall hollowly in my mind, sounding so pale and powerless.

My daughter's clear eyes reappeared, filled with a longing for life.

He abruptly closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and suppressed his conscience. The smell of disinfectant that filled his nostrils had never been so unforgettable.

He gripped the ampoule tightly in his hand, the cold glass digging painfully into his palm, before quickly and discreetly slipping it into the breast pocket of his white coat.

The pocket lining was thick, completely encasing the bottle without revealing its outline.

He stood up, the hem of his white coat brushing against the edge of the table.

He needs a “legitimate” reason.

His gaze swept across the table, landing on several blank intravenous infusion labels. He picked up a pen, his knuckles white from the pressure, and wrote on the labels:

Patient: Song Heping, VIP-3
Medication: 500ml of 0.9% sodium chloride injection
Usage: Intravenous drip, maintain administration.
The handwriting was as neat and clear as ever, carrying the calm and authority unique to doctors.

Nothing unusual.

He tore off the label and took it in his hand along with a few unimportant inspection record sheets clipped to the clipboard.

The hard edge of the clamp became his only point of support at that moment.

He opened the door, and the omnipresent, stark white light of the corridor instantly pierced his eyes.

The corridor was eerily empty.

The air felt like solidified plaster, pressing heavily on my body.

The smell of disinfectant was even stronger here, mixed with a faint metallic and old blood scent—a unique aroma belonging to the field of war wound surgery.

The sound of footsteps echoed on the polished marble floor, hollow as if striking a massive coffin.

Each step was jarringly clear, as if announcing his arrival to the entire floor.

The two fixed sentries at either end of the corridor turned slightly as he moved, locking onto him like searchlights.

Their hands rested seemingly casually on the assault rifles slung across their chests, their knuckles slightly protruding, ready to unleash their power at any moment.

Closer still, outside the VIP-3 ward, the two guards stood there like two guardian deities. As Mahadi approached, one of them raised his hand, signaling him to stop and undergo examination.

Mahadi stopped, straightened his back, and slightly raised the clipboard and IV label in his hand to show them to the other person.

His throat tightened, and he could almost hear the roar of his blood rushing to his temples.

"Routine fluid replacement."

His voice tried to maintain its usual composure and professionalism, but the last syllable inevitably carried a barely perceptible tremor.

He pointed to the ward door.

The guard in front didn't speak, but glanced at him again with his cold eyes, his gaze seeming to linger for a moment longer on the spot in his breast pocket, before gesturing for Mahdi to raise his hands.

Mahadi did as instructed.

Mahadi felt his heart clench, almost leap out of his chest.

He held his breath and waited.

Time seems to be stretched infinitely.

After checking the area and confirming there were no offensive weapons, the guard nodded very slightly and stepped aside to make way, but his body remained in a tense, alert posture.

The guard near the door extended a tactical gloved hand and silently turned the heavy doorknob of the ward.

The door slid open silently, opening a crack.

The light inside the ward was dimmer than in the corridor.

The monotonous "beep-beep" sound from the monitoring instrument struck Mahadi's eardrums.

He took a deep breath, as if trying to draw the last bit of oxygen from the murky air to calm himself down, and then stepped inside.

The door behind him closed silently, cutting off the light and air from the corridor, and also cutting off his last escape route.

The moment Kavvan stepped in, his sharp gaze shone like a searchlight, fixing him firmly in place from head to toe.

There was no trust in those eyes, only pure, naked scrutiny and unwavering vigilance.

Mahadi felt a chill creep up his spine.

He forced himself not to look at Kavvan, and instead focused his gaze on the hospital bed.

Song Heping lay there.

The bedside lamp was deliberately turned down to its lowest setting, and the dim yellow light barely outlined the contours of his face.

The bandages wrapped around his arms and legs stood out starkly white in the dim light.

His eyes were closed, and his face appeared paler than paper in the dim light, but his expression was unusually calm.

The monitor's wires were connected to his body like tangled snakes, and the green waveforms and numbers jumping on the screen were the only active things in this dim space.

"Dr. Mahadi."

Song Heping's voice suddenly rang out, sounding exceptionally clear in the deathly silence dominated by the sounds of instruments.

He opened his eyes and his gaze fell on Dr. Mahadi's name tag.

"My heart rate seems a bit unstable."

His tone was as flat as if he were discussing the weather.

Mahadi's heart sank suddenly, as if a cold hand had gripped his heart.

On the monitor screen, the heart rate number steadily fluctuated between 75 and 80, and the green waveform was as regular as a textbook.

He instantly realized that this was a test, a trap!
Song Heping didn't mention anyone's heart rate!
A doctor with something to hide might subconsciously assume that the doctor is referring to an abnormal heart rate...

Cold sweat instantly poured out of his pores, soaking the white coat on his back.

Fell into a trap!

Stay calm!

Stay calm!

He suppressed the feeling of blockage in his throat and tried his best to make his voice sound professional and normal.

"Mr. Song, the instrument shows that your heart rate is currently within the normal range."

As he spoke, he walked quickly to the IV stand, his movements seeming somewhat hurried, as if he wanted to end it all as soon as possible.

He reached out, his target the nearly empty, clear liquid—0.9% saline solution.

His movements were fluid and professionally skilled, but his fingertips trembled slightly uncontrollably.

By simply unplugging this connector, he can legitimately replace the "new saline solution".

The ampoule he hid in his white coat pocket, containing the deadly 10% potassium chloride, would be quickly and discreetly injected into the IV line with a pre-prepared disposable syringe the instant he pretended to connect a new IV bag.

High concentrations of potassium ions, along with the saline solution, will rush directly into the target veins within minutes, reaching the heart.

Mission accomplished.

My daughter will be saved.

He kept repeating this thought in his mind, like chanting his only life-saving spell.

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)