Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1118 The Highway to Hell

Two days later.

Beirut, the Mediterranean pearl once hailed as the "Paris of the Middle East," still maintains its outward prosperity and hustle and bustle, but a silent tension and anxiety permeates the air.

The streets were congested with traffic, and the cafes were bustling with noise, but upon closer inspection, many people's faces carried a subtle hint of fatigue and wariness.

The fragile political balance within Fencen is made even more delicate by its intricate ties with Celia.

This place is not only a stage for intelligence agents from various countries, but also the first stop for countless Syrian refugees to escape to safety, where various emotions and forces converge and collide.

Following the chef's instructions, Song Heping checked into a long-established hotel in the Hamra district.

The hotel may look ordinary, but it has an elegant environment and a strong sense of history.

He stayed in a regular single room, which was slightly old-fashioned but clean and tidy.

Inside the room, after carefully checking the doors, windows, and any possible surveillance equipment, he began to wait patiently.

Outside the window was a typical Beirut street scene, with a cacophony of Arabic, French, and English sounds drifting in.

As evening approached, the old-fashioned telephone in the room suddenly rang, its shrill sound deafening.

Song Heping and others listened to the receiver only after it rang three times.

A deep male voice, speaking English with a slight Slavic accent, came through without any pleasantries: "Sir, regarding your previous inquiry about dinner recommendations, the restaurant manager would like to confirm whether you would like to try authentic hamburger flavors or prefer Eastern European cuisine?"

Song Heping replied in a calm and even tone: "Eastern European cuisine. Especially borscht, I really miss that taste."

The code was correct.

The other party was silent for two seconds, then quickly said, "One hour later, in the narrow alley outside the hotel's back-of-house exit, a black Mercedes with the license plate ending in 273. Just five minutes away."

After saying that, he hung up the phone.

Holding the receiver, Song Heping was somewhat stunned.

The Russian spies' style of doing things is indeed consistent with the Russian style—simple and brutal.

An hour later, Song Heping, like an ordinary late-night guest, quietly made his way to the hotel’s backyard via the fire escape and slipped into a dimly lit narrow alley.

The old black Mercedes was already parked at the agreed location, its engine humming softly.

The car window rolled down, and the driver was an Eastern European man with a stern face, a thick neck, and wearing a dark jacket. His sharp eyes swept over Song Heping, and he nodded slightly, gesturing for him to get in the car.

Song Heping opened the car door and sat in the back seat. The car immediately and smoothly drove out of the narrow alley and merged into the traffic of Beirut at night.

The driver remained silent, like a silent robot, focused solely on driving the vehicle.

He chose not to take the main roads, but instead traversed some dimly lit secondary streets, clearly to avoid possible surveillance.

The vehicle drove through the still bustling city center, gradually heading towards Beirut's southeastern suburbs. The neon lights outside the window gradually diminished, and the buildings became lower and sparser.

The atmosphere inside the car was oppressive and suffocating, with only the hum of the engine and the sound of tires rolling over the road.

After driving for about forty minutes, the surroundings were almost completely dark, with only a few scattered lights indicating that there were still houses in the distance.

The vehicle eventually came to a slow stop beside a long-abandoned olive grove near the Lebanese-Syrian border.

The air was filled with the smell of hay, dust, and a faint odor of discarded pesticides.

"Get out of the car. Follow me. Keep quiet and stay close."

The driver finally spoke, his voice hoarse and brief, carrying an unquestionable tone of command.

He got out of the car first, pulled out a pistol from his waist, and cautiously observed his surroundings.

Song Heping got off the bus carrying his backpack and silently followed behind the driver.

The two walked one after the other through the uneven, overgrown, abandoned orchard.

The night sky was dotted with stars, but the moonlight was obscured by clouds, resulting in very low visibility.

In the distance, the faint barking of wild dogs could be heard, along with a low, muffled sound carried by the wind from the direction of Celia—it was not thunder, but the roar of heavy artillery or a violent explosion.

After walking for about fifteen minutes, a faint, flickering light appeared ahead, like a kerosene lamp.

It was an extremely simple, almost collapsing mud-brick farmhouse.

The driver walked to the door and knocked rhythmically—first two quick knocks, then three slow knocks.

The wooden door creaked open a crack, revealing another wary Eastern European face holding a short-barreled assault rifle.

He quickly glanced at the driver and Song Heping, especially Song Heping's face, then stepped aside to make way and whispered, "Come in quickly!"

The farmhouse was cramped and dark inside, with a kerosene lamp as the only source of light, illuminating a few rough wooden chairs and a broken table.

The air was filled with the smells of cheap tobacco, sweat, and dust.

Besides the man who opened the door, there were two other men inside, both of them typical Eastern European physiques. They were silently inspecting several sets of old uniforms belonging to the Siberian government soldiers and several AK-74 rifles in poor condition spread out on the table. There were also several spare magazines and grenades next to them.

"Change your clothes. Put your passport and all your personal belongings in this bag." The driver who came to pick up Song Heping ordered in broken English, handing Song Heping a set of Celia government army uniform that smelled of mildew and sweat, and tossing him an old military canvas backpack.

Song Heping originally wanted to explain that he could just speak Russian directly to him, as he could understand it.

But then I thought, maybe it's not safe to speak Russian in a place like this.

Without hesitation, he quickly took off his civilian clothes and put on the ill-fitting and rough military uniform.

He took the important items out of his backpack, carefully placed them into the military canvas bag, and left his backpack in the corner of the farmhouse.

"listen."

The man who opened the door, who seemed to be a minor leader, spoke to Song Heping in heavily accented English, his tone unusually serious.

"We'll drive you to the vicinity of the border checkpoint, where someone will meet you. The border is extremely tense lately; the 1515 infiltration team, opposition snipers, and even mercenaries from unknown forces are all active. The checkpoint is very strict, and shooting could happen at any moment. Whatever happens, remain absolutely calm, stick close to our people, don't make any unnecessary movements, and don't speak. Only after passing the checkpoint will you truly be in Celia. Afterwards, you'll be transferred to another vehicle, and someone will take you to Damascus. Understand?"

"OK."

Song Heping nodded in understanding.

He picked up the AK-74 assigned to him, skillfully inspected the bolt and magazine, and then slung the canvas bag over his shoulder.

When they hit the road again, they switched to a more inconspicuous Toyota Hilux pickup truck, covered in dust and dents.

Song Heping and two Russian agents squeezed into the back seat, while another person drove and the junior leader sat in the passenger seat.

The carriage reeked of gasoline and the smell of spoiled mutton.

The pickup truck bumped and jolted as it drove onto the main highway leading to the border—the Beirut-Damascus highway.

This historically significant strategic passage has now become the central stage for showcasing the tragedy of Silia.

The closer you get to the border, the more intense and unsettling the feeling becomes.

The most awe-inspiring sight was the seemingly endless torrent that flowed in the opposite direction from Song Heping and his companions' direction of travel—the refugee wave fleeing Syria.

Dilapidated cars and vans were crammed with people inside and out, with high bundles of belongings tied to their roofs; donkey carts and horse-drawn carriages moved slowly along the roadside; and most of the people were pedestrians with their families, walking with difficulty.

A man was pushing an elderly person in a wheelchair, while a woman held a baby in her arms and led an even older child by the hand.

Terror, exhaustion, despair, and bewilderment were etched on everyone's face. Dust was kicked up by countless footsteps and wheels, blurring vision. The air was filled with cries, shouts, the impatient honking of car horns, and the groans of overloaded engines.

This is an apocalyptic scene of exile, a most direct representation of human suffering.

This contrasts sharply and almost cruelly with the pickup truck that Song Heping and his comrades were riding in, which was heading against the flow of people and resolutely heading into the heart of the war.

The war has been going on for over a year, so there shouldn't be a refugee crisis now.

This means the cook was right.

The opposition Free Army, extremist groups, and armed groups such as 1515 Levant appear to be approaching Damascus.

The already secularized Syrians would probably wet their pants at the mere thought of these fundamentalist armed groups approaching, and those who could leave would naturally choose to flee.

The fence, which is closest to Celia, is obviously the first choice.

More and more checkpoints and roadblocks are starting to appear along the roadside.

First, there were the checkpoints of the Liba Nen army. The soldiers, dressed in relatively neat uniforms, were seriously checking the vehicles trying to enter the country. But they seemed powerless and unwilling to strictly control the surging tide of refugees. They were more focused on maintaining order and preventing stampedes.

The closer they got to the border, the more somber the atmosphere became.

Abandoned vehicles were pushed to the side of the road as obstacles, the number of machine gun positions and lookout posts made of sandbags increased, and the soldiers' expressions became more vigilant.

Finally, the bullet-riddled and damaged building of the Silja border checkpoint came into view on the horizon.

The Syrian flag, with its red, white, and black colors and two green stars, fluttered weakly in the wind, its colors appearing somewhat dull.

Chaos erupted in front of the checkpoint, which was crowded with vehicles and even more people trying to escape.

Armed and tense-faced Syrian soldiers and secret police shouted orders and roughly searched through luggage and documents, creating an atmosphere as tense as a powder keg that could explode at any moment.

The sounds of crying, arguing, the roar of engines, and the shouts of soldiers mingled together, piercing the eardrums.

The pickup truck that Song Heping was in did not queue up, but instead slowly but steadily approached the main building of the checkpoint along a special passage.

The junior agent got out of the car, whispered a few words to a gloomy-faced Syrian army lieutenant who had been waiting there, and handed him a thick envelope and several documents.

The lieutenant expertly squeezed the thickness of the envelope, glanced at the document, then looked at Song Heping and the others in the car, and waved his hand expressionlessly.

The car was given permission to proceed and then slowly drove across the zebra crossing painted on the ground, symbolizing the national border.

The instant the wheels rolled over the boundary line, it felt as if they had stepped into another world. An invisible, heavy pressure instantly gripped everyone.

The smell in the air suddenly changed. In addition to the still heavy smell of dust and sweat, there was a clearer mixture of gunpowder smoke, the burnt smell of burning materials, and a faint... bloody smell.

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)