Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1175 The Agent Who Wet His Pants
"No! What are you doing?! What is this?!"

When Orwell saw the syringe, he recoiled violently, but was held firmly in place by the straps, and could only twist in vain, his pupils dilating with fear.

His performance was very unbecoming of a secret agent.

But Song Heping knew perfectly well that the guy in front of him was reacting normally.

Although Orwell was an agent and a double agent, he was a latecomer to the profession. He was originally a doctor working in Qatar, and was later recruited by the CIA and Mossad.

I'd say he's a latecomer to the profession!

These self-taught spies may have received some professional training, but they are definitely not as well-rounded as special agents or professional agents recruited from university. Their counter-interrogation training is probably only superficial.

Such agents are the easiest to break through.

Especially against Russian special forces, they probably won't last long.

"A kind of... little gadget to liven things up."

Petrovsky spoke in a flat tone, as if he were introducing the ingredients for dinner.

"It can amplify your neural perception, especially pain. It's said to increase the effect by five to ten times. We hope you like it."

"No! Don't! I'll tell you! I..."

Orwell's psychological defenses began to crumble the moment he saw the syringe.

But "Iron Hammer" didn't give him a chance to continue.

He ripped open the sleeve of Orwell's shirt, ignoring his pig-like screams and struggles, and precisely inserted the needle into the vein in his elbow, slowly injecting the clear liquid.

Almost instantly, Orwell's body began to convulse violently, his breathing became rapid and shallow, large beads of sweat instantly appeared on his forehead, his eyes began to glaze over, and he made incomprehensible whimpering sounds.

He seemed to have become unusually sensitive to everything around him; even the friction of his clothes against his skin caused him unbearable stinging.

Petrovsky waited patiently for about thirty seconds, until Orwell's sobs subsided slightly, before speaking again. His voice was not loud, but it struck Orwell's nerves, amplified by the drugs, like a heavy hammer: "Warehouse. Address."

"About twenty kilometers east of Latamila, there is an abandoned... Kabul freight transit station..."

Orwell's voice was broken and intermittent, punctuated by painful gasps, "Number Three... Warehouse Three... underground... there's a secret room..."

"The types, quantities, and sources of the chemicals."

Petrovsky continued to press, speaking slowly but with each word crystal clear.

“It’s…it’s sarin…precursor…and…and mustard gas…raw materials…”

Orwell's mental state completely collapsed under the combined effects of drugs and fear, and he answered almost anything that came to mind: "It was brought in from...from the Turkish border...under the guise of medical supplies...by Mossad...the Mossad provided the channels and the formula..."

Mossad?

Petrovsky's brow suddenly twitched, and even Song Heping's eyes sharpened.

Hoopoe birds usually don't do human things, but I never expected this to be so utterly inhumane.

"Yes, it is……"

Orwell wept uncontrollably, his body trembling uncontrollably. “I…I ostensibly work for the CIA…but…but the real orders came from Mossad…they…they wanted us to use this aid project here as cover, and a week later…in a refugee camp south of Raqqa…to stage a chemical weapons attack…and then…and then frame the Hafez government…”

This guy spilled the beans completely; before Petrovsky's interrogation even began, he had already wet his pants.

Next, Orwell intermittently revealed even more shocking inside information—Mossad's ultimate goal was to use this "chemical weapons attack," which was enough to provoke a strong international reaction, to completely destroy the already crumbling regime of Siriya Hafez.

Once Hafez falls and Syria descends into complete anarchy, the Hoopoe State will be able to use the pretext of a "safe buffer zone" and "preventing extremist groups from acquiring chemical weapons" to launch a major eastward and northward advance from the Golan Heights, which it actually controls, to occupy more Syrian territory and build a larger and deeper strategic defense zone.

"They have big ambitions."

Petrovsky snorted and glanced at Song Heping.

Song Heping shrugged and said, "That's your business."

He was absolutely right.

This is a matter of Russian interests.

It has absolutely nothing to do with me, the owner of an international defense company.

All they wanted was profit, a smuggling route from Peshawar to Central Asia and then to the Middle East.

"What is the specific guard situation of the warehouse? What is the defensive setup?"

Petrovsky continued to press Orwell, giving him no chance to catch his breath or fabricate lies.

“There is… there is about a small squad… about fifteen people… they are Mossad’s peripheral operations personnel… well-equipped… with heavy weapons… there are cameras and alarms at the warehouse entrance… the darkroom requires a password and iris verification… the password is… it’s 'Samson2024'… the iris… is mine…”

Orwell completely gave up resisting and spilled everything he knew, like beans pouring from a bamboo tube.

The interrogation lasted another five minutes, during which Petrovsky repeatedly asked about certain details—a technique of interrogation involving multiple questions and cross-referencing until it was confirmed that Orwell was not lying.

After all the valuable intelligence had been extracted, Petrovsky nodded to "Iron Hammer".

"Iron Hammer" took out another small syringe from the metal box, which contained some kind of sedative.

He injected Orwell again, and the latter's violent trembling and whimpering quickly subsided, his eyes became glazed, and finally his head lolled to the side, and he passed out.

"Take him with you; he still has a use."

Petrovsky instructed "Angel," then looked at Song Heping and the team members around him, "The mission objective remains the same: destroy that warehouse. We can't let that filth be used anywhere. We have to destroy it."

Song Heping said, "Time is of the essence. Mossad has likely already noticed Orwell's disappearance. If you're going to do this, you need to hurry. You must take down that warehouse before they can react." "Everyone, check your equipment and ammunition, replenish your water. Depart in five minutes. Target: Kabul freight transit station, Warehouse No. 3!"

Petrovsky waved his right hand and gave the order concisely.

The team members quickly collected usable ammunition left behind by the militants inside the building, and some drew cool water from the well in the yard to fill their water bags.

"Eagle Eye" controlled the drone to conduct a final large-scale scan of the surrounding area, confirming that no new threats were approaching.

Five minutes later, the team regrouped.

Orwell was crammed into the back seat of a pickup truck and closely guarded by "Angel" and another team member.

The remaining personnel quickly boarded the vehicle.

The engine roared up again, even more rapidly than before.

Several pickup trucks sped out of the courtyard of the mud-brick house like wild horses, rolled across the wasteland, and raced eastward toward the deepening twilight.

The atmosphere on the bus grew even more somber.

They originally thought they were only dealing with ordinary Kolds or bodyguards hired by the White Helmets, but they never expected to be directly confronting Mossad, which is known for its ruthless methods and strong desire for revenge.

The battles to come will only become more brutal and dangerous.

It was already 4:40 PM.

Song Heping sat in the lead car and quickly ate an energy bar.

In the dim light inside the car, he examined once again the warehouse structure sketch he had extracted from Orwell—a sketch drawn on the spot by "Shadow" based on Orwell's dictation.

It was a standard freight warehouse, but it had a reinforced underground chamber and a heavily guarded entrance.

"It's 20 kilometers away, the road conditions are unclear, it will take us at least 30 minutes, and we estimate we won't get there until 5 o'clock."

Looking at the bumpy dirt road ahead, "Shuang," the driver, said in a deep voice.

"too slow."

Petrovsky glanced at the numbers on the tactical terminal.

"'Eagle Eye' drones are sent out to scout routes and the area around the warehouse. We need the fastest and safest route."

"Understood." "Eagle Eye" immediately took action, and the drone accelerated silently like a night owl, flying towards the front of the convoy.

The sun finally set in the west, dyeing the sky red.

Night was about to fall in the wilderness, the temperature began to drop sharply, and a cold wind blew in through the cracks in the car windows, carrying a biting chill.

At the same time, in Langley, Virginia, USA, at CIA headquarters.

Sunlight streamed through the thick bulletproof glass, casting long, slanted patches of light into Simon's spacious office, while the air purifier emitted a low hum.

The red indicator light on the landline phone lit up, accompanied by a low beeping sound.

Simon picked up the phone and heard his secretary's voice coming through.

“Sir, Lamins wants to see you.”

"Lamins?"

Simon paused for a moment, then said, "Let him in."

A dozen seconds later, a soft knock sounded on the door. After receiving permission, a middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit with a serious expression walked in, holding a thin folder in his hand, but the information it contained could be of immense weight.

"Lamins, is there an emergency?"

"Sir, KEYHOLE-12 has just transmitted back images that have been preliminarily decrypted."

The analyst maintained a professionally steady voice as he opened the folder, placed it flat on Simon's large mahogany desk, and pointed to one of the enhanced satellite images.

"Taken at 10:20 a.m. local time in Latamira, it was taken unintentionally and was marked in red by the system, it seems that a battle took place there."

Simon leaned forward slightly, his deep gaze fixed on the picture.

The image resolution is extremely high, allowing you to clearly see the details around the isolated adobe house and its courtyard.

Several images showed the process in succession—there were brief signs of a firefight near the safe house that did not follow the usual patrol pattern, with a few inconspicuous bullets kicking up dust and smoke. Then, multiple people quickly converged from different directions and boarded several pickup trucks parked in concealed locations.

The whole process was exceptionally fast and orderly.

"Image enhancement and dynamic analysis display..."

The analyst continued his report, his tone still steady, but his pace slightly quickening, "The tactical maneuvers of these evacuees were extremely professional. Their movement routes, cover postures, and the timing of vehicle starts and departures all demonstrated a high level of training, far beyond what local militants or scattered guerrillas like 1515 could possess. More importantly..."

His finger moved to one of the close-up screenshots, which showed a slightly blurry profile of someone bending down to get into the passenger seat of the lead car.

"After clarifying the facial contours, we conducted a preliminary comparison. The match rate was as high as 87%. The system identified... this person is highly suspected to be the tracking target—'Song Heping'."

　I recommend my friend, Hua Dongzhixiong, a veteran author on Qidian, to his new book, "Back to 04, I'm a Tough Guy in the Middle East." The story is about military industry overpowering opponents, and the focus is on the Middle East, so I expect it to be very interesting.

　　Those who enjoy military-themed content can check this out and bookmark it; it's still in its early stages.

(End of this chapter)