Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1084 Cleansing Operation (2)

Less than two hours.

In western Mosul, there is a seemingly ordinary grocery store with slow business.

Amir, codenamed "History Teacher," is ostensibly the owner of this unassuming grocery store, but in reality, he is one of the CIA's longest-serving and most important undercover agents in Mosul.

He had just received a vague and delayed instruction from Director Vincent, relayed through the Iligo intelligence station, via a shortwave radio hidden in a secret compartment behind the shelf: "Raise the alert level and attempt to contact the Keller team to confirm the status."

This vague instruction was like a cold needle, piercing through the calm shell he had cultivated over the years, bringing a strong sense of unease.

Increase vigilance?

What major event has occurred?
Contact the Keller Group?

Isn't that a special mission team responsible for external operations and targeted eliminations?

Why is it suddenly necessary for these deeply infiltrated personnel, who usually maintain one-way communication, to proactively contact external action groups?
Years of living a life of constant danger made him sense the pervasive sense of peril in the air—a deathly stillness before impending doom.

He walked to the shop entrance, leaned against the door frame, and seemingly leisurely surveyed the messy and dilapidated street scene. In reality, he was like the most vigilant cheetah, his eyes scanning every seemingly ordinary pedestrian, every corner that might be hiding danger, and every passing vehicle.

On the surface, everything seems the same, filled with postwar numbness and daily struggles.

suddenly!

A series of extremely harsh, unusual screeching sounds and engine roars came from the street corner.

Two armed pickup trucks, fitted with DShK heavy machine guns and welded with rough steel plates, slammed into piles of discarded tires and debris on the side of the street like runaway bulls, screeching as they came to a screeching halt!
More than fifteen members of the 1515 "Enigma" gang, dressed entirely in black, wearing black hoods that only exposed their eyes, and carrying various AK-series rifles, moved with brutal but swift tactics. Like hyenas that had smelled blood, they jumped out of the car in an instant, their target clear and their head straight for his grocery store!

Pedestrians on the street screamed in terror and scattered in all directions, hiding in nearby houses.

"Oh no! We've been exposed!"

Amir's heart was pounding in his throat.

This precise, swift, and highly targeted armed arrest is by no means an ordinary extortion, random inspection, or random intimidation!
His survival instinct made him retreat sharply, trying to rush back into the store to trigger the emergency document destruction device hidden behind the old bookshelves and open the secret passage leading to the abandoned house next door.

That was his last hope of escaping.

But it was all too late!
The other side acted faster than we could have imagined!
boom! !

The shop door was kicked open by a strong armed man wearing military boots, and the hinges groaned in pain!

"Don't move! In the name of Allah! You hidden traitor! You American lackey!"

Several dark, gun-smelling muzzles instantly locked onto him, exuding an undeniable murderous intent.

Amir's brain was calculating the probability of survival in a hundredth of a second.

The Glock 19 pistol hidden under the cashier was his last resort.

His fingers trembled slightly, and he subconsciously moved a centimeter in that direction.

This tiny, almost imperceptible defensive move led to the opponent's merciless, preemptive, and fatal attack!

"He wants a weapon!" the leader of the armed men shouted, pulling the trigger almost simultaneously!

Rat-a-tat-tat—!

The deafening roar of AK rifle fire instantly filled the small shop! At least three rifles fired simultaneously, and several 7.62mm bullets, carrying scorching air currents, instantly tore through Amir's chest and abdomen. The enormous impact slammed him violently against the shelves behind him, causing canned goods, snacks, and daily necessities to tumble down and rain down on his body, which was quickly soaked in blood and convulsing violently.

His eyes widened in shock, resentment, and a hint of bewilderment as he watched those hideous faces gather around him, his vision rapidly darkening and blurring.

One last, shattered thought flashed through my mind: How did they find me...?

Without the slightest hesitation, the militants, like well-trained hunting dogs, began to roughly search the shops.

They clearly knew what they were looking for.

Shelves were knocked over, floors were pried open, and walls were knocked on for inspection.

Soon, the hidden radio and encryption devices, the Glock pistol that hadn't been triggered, several spare passports of different nationalities, a stack of US dollars, and several miniature explosive devices were found and piled together.

"Found them! They're all Kafilho's spy tools!"

One of the militants shouted excitedly, as if he had discovered a huge treasure. The leader pulled out a walkie-talkie and excitedly reported in Arabic: "Target 'History Teacher' eliminated! Lair destroyed! Large amount of evidence seized!"

A few hours later.

Sunset on the desert highway in Tal Afar leading to the Syrian border.

Sarah, codenamed "Hyacinth," is using her identity as a nurse for an international medical aid organization as a cover. She is driving a dusty Toyota Land Cruiser SUV along a bumpy dirt road, trying to reach an emergency contact point.

She also received that unsettling, delayed instruction, and another secret contact in her small town had suddenly gone missing a few hours earlier, with all calls going unanswered.

A strong, professional sense of crisis prompted her to abandon all pretense and decide to immediately initiate emergency evacuation procedures.

However, just as she approached a key checkpoint controlled by 1515, her heart sank.

Today's checks were exceptionally strict, and the atmosphere was tense.

Vehicles lined up in long queues, moving slowly. From a distance, it was clear that the checkpoint had more than doubled its troop strength, with not only machine guns and pickup trucks as a deterrent, but also several men dressed differently from ordinary soldiers.

These people appeared to be members of the 1515 Armed Security Department. One of them was holding a mobile phone and constantly peeking at the screen. He then conducted extremely detailed facial comparisons and document checks on every vehicle and every person, displaying a rude and suspicious attitude.

Sarah's heart raced, and her palms were sweating.

She quietly took out a small cyanide capsule hidden in the necklace pendant and clutched it tightly in her hand; the cold touch was her last vestige of self-control.

She knew that if the legendary list did exist and was leaked, her photo and basic information were likely among it.

The fear became a reality.

As her car slowly moved toward the checkpoint, the security officer holding the tablet glanced at the screen, then looked up and stared intently at her face, comparing it repeatedly for two seconds. A sharp, cold glint flashed in his eyes, like a hunter spotting his prey!
"Get out of the car! Immediately! Hands up!"

He shouted sharply, his voice shrill and threatening.

The surrounding armed men, like vicious dogs on command, immediately raised their guns and surrounded the car, their muzzles almost touching the car windows!

Sarah's face turned pale instantly, but her eyes remained unusually calm, even carrying a hint of relief.

She did not attempt any futile defenses or resistance.

She knew that from the moment she was targeted, it was all over.

The ordeal after being arrested will be a thousand times more painful than death, and will inevitably implicate many more people.

The moment the armed men roughly pulled open the car door, she used her body to shield herself, quickly stuffed the capsule into her mouth, and crushed it with all her might!
The severe cyanide toxicity takes effect almost within seconds.

She suddenly convulsed violently, her body tilting forward uncontrollably, slamming heavily onto the steering wheel, and the car horn blared piercingly.

Blood gushed uncontrollably from her mouth and nose, her pupils dilated rapidly, and her life force was rapidly fading away.

The armed men, who were about to make arrests, were taken aback by this sudden turn of events.

The security officer angrily stepped forward, roughly checked her carotid artery, and then cursed, "Damn it! She took poison! What a waste for that heretic bitch!"

They then searched the vehicle and found a hidden satellite phone, encrypted communication equipment, and a microfilm in a compartment in the trunk and in the spare tire, definitively confirming her identity as a spy.

Night is falling in a remote village near Sinjar.

Masoud, codenamed "Oil Seller," was a local villager who was recruited by the CIA as a low-level informant with the lure of money and development opportunities. His main responsibility was to report simple information such as the movement of 1515 armed personnel and the movement of vehicles in the village and surrounding areas.

He had just returned from the evening market, having bought a bag of dates and some mutton. He was completely unaware of the dramatic changes happening online and at higher levels, let alone that his code name and village information had appeared on a death list.

At dinner time, the village dogs suddenly started barking wildly.

Immediately afterwards, the roar of engines and the screeching of brakes shattered the tranquility of the countryside. Two armed pickup trucks and an off-road vehicle surrounded his simple mud house, their blinding headlights illuminating the courtyard as if it were daytime.

More than ten men, armed like wolves, jumped off the vehicle, their guns pointed in various directions.

"Masood! Get out here! You traitor to Allah! You American lackey! You are cursed!"

The leader of the underlings was shouting and cursing through a megaphone.

Massoud was so terrified that he dropped the bowl in his hand and it shattered on the ground.

He scrambled out of the house, knelt in the courtyard, trembling uncontrollably, and waved his hands in vain, protesting: "Injustice! Your Honor! I am a devout believer! I have been framed! Someone must have framed me!"

But the militants wouldn't listen to any of his pleas.

Several men stormed into the house, ransacking the place, smashing furniture, and prying open the floorboards.

Soon, they found a small signal transmitter wrapped tightly in tarpaulin and a stack of US dollars, clearly a reward, in the pit where he had hidden the grain. It was the "reward" he had received for transmitting intelligence about the movement of a convoy last time.

The evidence is "conclusive".

“I didn’t! I was forced! They gave me money…”

Massoud was forced to kneel on the ground by two armed men. In despair, he cried out for help to his neighbors who had been awakened but only dared to peek out from behind doors and windows in fear. But all he received in response was deathly silence and indifference.

One of the militants, who appeared to be a leader, took out his phone and began filming the “enforcement of Islamic law,” while another pulled out a gleaming, curved Arabic dagger.

"In the name of God, eliminate the apostates and spies of Kafir, and purify this land!"

The blade flashed, leaving a pale arc in the headlights.

The piercing cries and pleas for mercy abruptly ceased. A head rolled to the ground, the headless corpse collapsed, and blood quickly stained the dry earth.

Outside Mosul, at a car repair shop, there is a safe house codenamed "Garage".

The situation here is completely different.

"Garage" is an important CIA contact point and equipment storage point outside Mosul, guarded by two field agents (codenamed "Mechanic" and "Apprentice") who have received basic combat training.

They also received instructions to increase alert and were given vague warnings of a potential network outage through encrypted channel snippets.

As three vehicles carrying 1515 armed men sped toward them, the "mechanic" was on guard from a hidden observation post on the roof.

"Enemy attack! At least fifteen people! Armored vehicles!"

He growled into the walkie-talkie while simultaneously grabbing the M4 carbine beside him.

"Activate emergency procedures! Destroy documents! Prepare for a breakout!"

The "apprentice" responded from downstairs, quickly stuffing flammable paper into an iron bucket, setting it on fire, and running towards the prepared SUV.

A fierce firefight erupted instantly!

The "technicians" occupied the high ground on the rooftop, using precise short bursts of fire to suppress the militants trying to rush into the yard.

boom!boom!
A gunman who had just jumped out of the passenger seat of the pickup truck fell to the ground.

Da da da!
The machine gunners in the armed pickup trucks began firing wildly at the roof, sending bricks and rubble flying everywhere.

The "apprentice" attempted to drive his off-road vehicle, which had been fitted with steel plates, through the back door of the repair shop to escape, but a 1515 pickup truck rammed right into him!

boom!
The two cars collided violently!
The "apprentice" was dizzy from the impact, but he reacted quickly, pulling out his pistol and firing continuously at the approaching enemy outside the window!
boom!
boom!
An armed man who tried to open the car door was shot in the chest and fell to the ground.

However, the disparity in numbers and firepower is too great.

More militants flanked the vehicle from both sides, and a hail of bullets rained down on it, sparks flying and spiderweb-like cracks appearing in the bulletproof glass.

The "mechanics" on the roof tried to provide cover, but were pinned down by heavy machine gun fire and unable to raise their heads.

An RPG-7 rocket, trailing a plume of flame, hurtled toward the main repair shop building!

Boom! !
With a deafening roar, a corner of the roof collapsed, and flames shot into the sky! The "mechanic's" figure disappeared into the explosion and thick smoke.

Without fire support, the "apprentice" was in dire straits.

The car door was forcibly pried open, and several gun barrels were pointed at him.

He emptied his pistol and was eventually dragged out of the car like a stray dog, where he was brutally beaten and tied up.

Important equipment and some undestroyed documents from the repair shop fell into the hands of 1515.

The bloody cleansing storm, like an out-of-control plague, spread wildly and at an alarming speed and in the most brutal way throughout northwestern Iligo.

Some agents were dragged out of their homes in their sleep; some had their signals intercepted while trying to deliver a warning in their last moments; some, like Sarah "Hyacinth," chose to end their lives with dignity; many more, like Massoud "Oil Vendor," were low-level informants who were swiftly executed in despair and confusion; and occasionally, when they encountered tough nuts like "Garage," brief but intense firefights would break out.

The CIA's Northwest intelligence network, painstakingly built over many years with countless resources, suffered a devastating, near-paralyzed blow within just a few hours, leaving it severely weakened.

CIA Langley Headquarters, Integrated Command Center.

The atmosphere was like an ice cave. When the initial sporadic reports of anomalies and lost contact began to come back through the extremely fragile and delayed backup channels, Vincent still clung to a pitiful hope that it was just a localized accident or a communication failure.

But when a deluge of bad news from different locations and sources—confirmed deaths, raided safe houses, fierce firefights, captured targets, executed informants—overwhelmed the command center’s big screen, piecing together a horrifying picture of the entire Northwest network being systematically, purposefully, and efficiently torn apart, shattered, and destroyed, Vincent’s face turned deathly pale, his forehead instantly covered in cold sweat, and his fingers trembled uncontrollably.

"Mosul... The 'history teacher' has been confirmed dead in the crossfire; the safe house was completely destroyed, and equipment was lost..."

"Tyler Affair... 'Hyacinth' confirmed to have committed suicide by poisoning at the checkpoint..."

"In the Sinjar region...at least five key informants have been confirmed to have been publicly executed..."

"Intense fighting broke out at the 'garage' safe house outside Mosul, and communications were eventually lost. The 'mechanic' may have been killed, and the 'apprentice' may have been captured..."

"The checkpoints on all major routes to the border are conducting unprecedented checks, and at least three more groups of people attempting to evacuate have lost contact..."

"Several secondary network nodes, including Bashka and Tarfar, have completely lost all communication signals..."

"Sir...we...we are losing the entire Northwest Network! Systemic collapse!"

A senior analyst reported, his voice trembling and his face ashen, as if reciting a eulogy.

Vincent felt his mind go blank, his ears ringing, as if he had been hit directly by an invisible bomb.

He took a sudden step back and leaned heavily against the cold tactical control panel, barely managing to support his somewhat limp body.

At this moment, all the clues, all the anomalies, and all the doubts finally connected cruelly and clearly!
The air raid failed...

The unusual situation at the canyon site...

Keller's entire squad has mysteriously disappeared...

That list of unknown origin...

Song Heping took an unusually risky approach to the arrest.

His entire logic...

All of this was not aimed at a simple escape or superficial revenge!

Song Heping's true objective, from beginning to end, has been this invaluable intelligence network, which can be considered the CIA's heart and eyes in northwestern Iligo.

He used the 1515 knife, the most insane knife, with extreme cunning and ruthlessness, to carry out the most bloody, thorough, and untraceable perfect cleansing for him!
"Song! Peace!"

Vincent practically forced those three words out from the deepest part of his chest, his voice hoarse, filled with unprecedented rage, an extreme sense of humiliation from being thoroughly mocked and manipulated, and a chill that seeped into his very bones.

He felt like a poor chess player whose every move was completely seen through and precisely predicted by his opponent.

"Sir, we must immediately initiate the highest level of emergency evacuation procedures! Perhaps... perhaps we can still rescue some people on the edge!"

The operations manager urged urgently, his face also drained of color.

"Immediately! Issue the highest-level evacuation order, covering all channels! Order all remaining personnel in the Northwest Network to abandon everything at all costs and evacuate to pre-designated safe points or the border! Immediately!"

Vincent gave the order almost hysterically, his voice completely distorted by extreme emotional turmoil.

"Sir! Our action team, which was on standby in Bakhta, has been scrambled. Can we authorize them to risk their lives to reach and reinforce several of the most critical locations...?"

An officer in charge of special operations liaison urgently requested instructions.

"Approved! Approved in full! Grant them the rules of engagement and firing authorization! Hurry! Save as many as you can!"

Vincent waved his arms, completely out of control and losing all composure.

The order was issued swiftly, and encrypted radio waves carrying desperate instructions shot into the turbulent northwestern skies of Iligo.

But everyone in the command center, from high-ranking officials to the lowest-ranking operators, knew perfectly well that—

It's all too late.

From the start of the operation at 15:15 until now, precious and deadly hours have passed.

For infiltrators deep within enemy territory whose identities have been exposed, these few hours represent an insurmountable chasm between life and death.

Many evacuation orders were issued but then disappeared without a trace, leaving only a suffocating silence.

The command center fell into dead silence.

Vincent stared blankly at the large screen, where the signal lights representing agents and informants were turning into a blinding red (missing) or a despairing black (confirmed dead) at an unprecedented speed.

The flickering, extinguished lights seemed like the tolling of his funeral bells in his personal vision.

He could almost clearly "see" Song Heping on that remote and desolate Persian plateau, looking at the ever-growing list of the dead, a cold and mocking smile playing on his lips.

Not far behind him, Simon Mitchell still stood silently, his face bearing just the right amount of heaviness, shock, and sympathy, perfectly blending into the sorrowful atmosphere.

However, deep within those profound eyes lay a cold calm, and even a barely perceptible hint of satisfaction.

Song Heping's "using someone else to do his dirty work" was extremely skillful and ruthless.

This almost completely destroyed one of Vincent's most important intelligence assets in Iligo and even the Middle East, and the loss is incalculable.

He knew that Vincent's position as director was likely to be severely shaken along with the collapse of the Northwest intelligence network.

Such a major setback requires accountability from both the White House and Capitol Hill.

As for himself, the deputy, who is highly experienced and seems to have always been detached but is actually very insightful, is the most likely candidate to take over the mess and even compete for the director's seat in the future.

He even felt an extremely complex emotion towards that adversary and "friend" far away on the Persian Plateau.

This shadowy struggle spanning the continent is far from over.

But without a doubt, Song Heping won this round cleanly, decisively, and with utter fatal force.

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(End of this chapter)