Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1079 "Guests" Arrive

Black Hawk Canyon, northern highlands of Iligo.

The night was as dark as ink, and the biting wind howled and whistled through the rugged rock walls, whipping up fine sand that pattered against the tent.

In the valley, most of the soldiers were already wrapped in rough wool blankets and curled up in the sheltered spots of the rocks to sleep. Only the patrol sentries and hidden sentries took turns patrolling according to Song Heping's arrangements.

Song Heping sat in his makeshift tent, a blackened copper kettle on a small stove in front of him bubbling away, brewing a rich cup of Arabic tea. The spicy ginger and the cool mint aroma mingled together, filling the small space.

He sipped his scalding tea, his gaze frequently glancing at the military watch on his wrist. The luminous hands clearly showed that midnight was fast approaching.

Every passing second felt like adding another bit of weight to a taut bowstring.

The tent flap was suddenly flung open, and a blast of cold air rushed in.

Samir walked in, his aura chilly, his face showing barely concealed confusion and anxiety. "Boss, it's almost 11 p.m. What are we waiting for? The nights here are freezing cold. The soldiers don't say anything, but they're all very puzzled. I'm thinking of going to explain to them again..."

Suddenly, he seemed to realize that he had said too much, so he stopped talking.

Song Heping didn't look up, but slowly stirred the residue left by the melted sugar cubes at the bottom of the cup with a small silver spoon, and then poured him a cup of boiling tea.

"Be patient, Samir."

His voice was calm with a strange languor, which seemed out of place in the somber atmosphere outside the tent.

“We are waiting for some ‘friends,’ some friends who can help us find some clues.”

"friend?"

Samir took the teacup to warm his hands, his brow furrowing even more. "Besides us, there are only 1515 mad dogs and wolves gnawing on bones here... Where did these friends come from?"

Before the words were finished, a series of extremely hurried yet deliberately low footsteps came from outside the tent, the sound of boots scraping against gravel was particularly clear in the still night.

The curtain was lifted again, and a captain in charge of perimeter security appeared in the tent.

His face was a mixture of tension and excitement as he lowered his voice and reported urgently, "Chief! Mr. Song! One of our three-man patrol teams has spotted a small caravan about 1.5 kilometers from the western exit of the canyon! There are about twelve to fifteen people, and they are behaving very suspiciously, acting furtively. They have been surrounded and detained by us!"

Song Heping and Samir looked up and exchanged a glance almost simultaneously.

In Song Heping's eyes, what flashed for a moment was not surprise, but a sharp glint that resembled that of a hunter, as if the prey that had been waiting for a long time had finally triggered the trap.

Samir, on the other hand, was genuinely surprised and uncertain.

"A camel caravan? So late, in this godforsaken place?"

Samir's voice was full of suspicion. "They could be smugglers. This place is close to the Persian border, and the Persians often smuggle in-demand goods... But... they could also be spies from 1515! They're like mole rats, they can get anywhere!"

"Go and have a look before we talk."

Song Heping put down his teacup with a swift and decisive motion.

He stood up and picked up the AK-74 rifle that was leaning against the side.

"Tell everyone to remain on high alert. Without orders, do not reveal your location or make any noise. Take our 'invited' guests to the quarantine area I designated earlier."

"understand!"

The platoon leader nodded emphatically, then quickly turned and disappeared into the darkness.

A few minutes later, Song Heping and Samir, surrounded by Nassin and several members of the "Desert Fox" squad, quickly arrived at a relatively open rocky depression on the outskirts of the camp—which had been temporarily designated as a quarantine zone.

A caravan of about thirteen people was surrounded in a circle by more than thirty armed and stern-faced militiamen. The militiamen's gun barrels were slightly lowered, but their fingers were pressed against the protective ring, ready to fire at any moment.

Several dromedary camels seemed to sense the tense atmosphere, pacing uneasily, snorting white breath, ruminating on hay, and emitting a strong animal odor.

These people were dressed in typical Bedouin nomadic robes, their headscarves were tightly wrapped, they were travel-worn, their faces were rough and dark from years of wind and sand erosion, and they had just the right amount of humility and fear after being intercepted by armed men.

Their clothing, equipment, and demeanor all seemed to perfectly capture the image of a desert traveler.

Samir took a deep breath, stepped forward, and questioned in a deep voice in Arabic with a local accent: "In the name of God, who are you? Nighttime is the time for sand foxes and scorpions. Why aren't you warming yourselves by the campfire? What are you doing near this canyon?"

The leader, an elderly man who appeared to be around sixty, stepped forward shakily, placed his right hand on his chest, bowed slightly, and answered in Arabic with a heavy southern rural accent, his voice hoarse and weary: "Honorable and merciful leader, may God bless you. We are a group of poor shepherds. This damned sandstorm has cost us five of our strongest camels, our entire possessions… We are frantically searching for them, and we've heard they might have wandered into the pastures over here… We only want to cross the valley; we mean no harm. Please, have mercy and let us pass…"

His words sounded reasonable, and his expressions were incredibly lifelike, his eyes filled with pleading and fear.

But Song Heping's gaze, like a precise scanner, calmly swept over the dozen or so people.

Although their robes were covered in dust and even patched, they were too well-tailored. Their movements lacked the slightly clumsy coordination characteristic of shepherds who had long engaged in heavy physical labor, but instead exuded a kind of well-trained agility.

The hands that held the camel reins had calluses, some of them slightly darker in color and barely noticeable, on the web of their thumbs and the inside of their index fingers—marks left from long-term gun training, especially from frequent trigger pulls.

Beneath their fearful and humble exterior, their eyes concealed a subtle, almost imperceptible, assessment and vigilance, like that of a precision instrument. They rapidly and discreetly scanned the number, equipment, and positions of the surrounding militia, rather than displaying the pure, bewildered fear of ordinary herdsmen.

More importantly, Song Heping's intuition, honed through countless brushes with death, was frantically issuing sharp warnings in his mind.

He had experienced the CIA's style firsthand: extremely efficient, yet equally cautious.

The first wave of probes sent will definitely not be the most valuable core elites, but more likely these peripheral pawns or contract workers who are easier to sacrifice and deny, used to test the waters, or even... as bait.

"Search them."

Song Heping suddenly gave an order to Samir next to him in English. His voice was not loud, but in the quiet and oppressive night, every syllable was as clear and cold as an ice bead falling to the ground.

"Search carefully. From head to toe, in the linings of your clothes, the soles of your shoes, your hair—don't overlook any place where things might be hidden. Unload all the cargo, saddles, and water bags from the camels and inspect them thoroughly."

The expressions on the faces of those "shepherds" changed almost imperceptibly. Although they tried their best to hide it and even deliberately showed an insult-like anger, the exchange of glances and the tension in their muscles did not escape Song Heping's eyes.

They can understand English!
"Humph!"

Song Heping sneered inwardly.

It seems I was pretty close to guessing.

Upon receiving the order, the militiamen pounced forward like wolves, pulling the so-called "herdsmen" off their camels and carrying out the body search in pairs.

The search was brutal and thorough.

"You can't do this! We are devout believers! This is an insult!"

A younger "shepherd" struggled to protest in Arabic, but was immediately struck on the back of the knee with the butt of a rifle, and knelt down with a groan.

Sure enough, the search soon yielded results.

"A discovery!"

A militiaman found a tiny object, smaller than a matchbox, in a hidden pocket of the "old man's" clothing.

Song Heping took it, examined it in the cool moonlight, and frowned slightly.

"This is a miniature satellite positioning beacon, which is also a transmitter."

"Gun! They have guns!"

A militiaman suddenly shouted.

The militiamen on guard nearby simultaneously raised their guns.

The militiaman who had cried out pulled a well-maintained, German-made MP9 submachine gun from under the robe of another burly "shepherd," the handle even having a matte finish adapted to the desert environment.

Then, they found folded, high-resolution satellite maps and an infrared pointer pen hidden in the camel saddle.

"Do devout shepherds need this? To guide God?"

Samir picked up the MP9, then weighed the map and infrared pointer in his hand. His face instantly darkened, and he glared menacingly at the dozen or so ashen-faced "herdsmen," his hand resting on the pistol at his waist.

Song Heping raised his hand again, stopping Samir from about to erupt.

He strode up to the lead agent, who was disguised as an old man, and the two were so close that they could almost feel each other's breath.

Song Heping spoke in English, his voice low but carrying a cold, penetrating sarcasm: "The performance was very convincing, but the cost was too high. Tell the people who sent you that you've found your target. Now, fulfill your final duty."

The "old man's" pupils suddenly contracted, and a genuine look of astonishment flashed across his face. He seemed completely unprepared for the other party not only to see through his disguise but also to accurately predict their next mission.

He opened his mouth, and a meaningless syllable came out of his throat.

Song Heping stopped looking at him and gestured to the militiaman holding the beacon beside him: "Samir, turn it on. Continuous firing mode."

"Open?"

Samir was stunned.

Isn't this tantamount to exposing oneself?
"Quick! Open it and do as instructed!"

Song Heping's orders were not to be questioned.

Samir immediately and skillfully flipped the switch on the beacon, and a small green LED began to flash at a fixed frequency—the signal was now being continuously transmitted!
Almost at the same instant the signal was given, Song Heping turned around abruptly and issued a series of pre-prepared orders to the others:

"Nassr, bring your technical team here! Now!"

"You two, tie them all up! Use plastic cable ties, tighten them up!"

"You lot! Gag your mouths! Use rags, stuff them tightly!"

"You, you, and you! Get them! Strip them of all their clothes! Leave them naked! Even their underwear and socks! Now!"

"Attention all personnel! Emergency assembly! Extinguish all fires, including stoves! Discard all unnecessary supplies, carrying only weapons, ammunition, radios, water, and three days' rations! In ten minutes, march rapidly towards the northeastern border! Execute!"

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)