Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 840 I'd Rather Be a Peace Dog

Khalid's house was more spacious and tidy than he had imagined.

Although not very wealthy, the lady of the house, Rita, was clearly a woman of great taste, keeping the small home spotless.

"sit down."

He invited everyone to the living room, where they sat down on the sofa.

Unlike the Muslim homes that Song Heping had visited before, the furnishings here were more European in style.

Khalid introduced himself as a professor of English literature at Aden University, his wife Rite is a doctor, and their daughter Nina has just turned six.

The little girl stared curiously at the three strangers, especially Nura—the Asian man with bloodstains on his face and shoulders who both frightened and intrigued her.

Have you eaten anything?

Looking at the three disheveled men, Khalid's first thought was about food.

Speaking of food, I really didn't eat anything.

In that life-or-death situation, there was no time to eat...

"Not really."

Antonov was not polite at all.

This Russian guy has a very outgoing personality.

Do you have any food here?

He was not polite at all.

Actually, his backpack contained personal rations and energy bars.

But nobody likes that thing.

"Rite, prepare some food for the guests."

Soon after, the aroma of cardamom and cumin filled Khalid's dining room.

Rita brought out a cast iron pot from the kitchen, the stewed beans inside steaming and covered with a layer of golden oil.

Song Heping noticed the French brand "Le Creuset" branded on the side of the pot—a luxury item in war-torn Yemen.

“Please don’t find it too simple,” Ritter said in fluent English, her fingers lightly brushing the headscarf behind her ear. “The market hasn’t been operating normally for three days.”

Antonov's eyes were fixed on the beans bubbling in the pot, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

Song Heping knew that this Russian giant hadn't had a hot meal for two days. The energy bars in his individual rations could only sustain him and couldn't satisfy the Slavs' craving for hot food.

"It smells wonderful."

Nura rarely spoke first, but his gaze fell on the little girl hiding behind her mother.

Nina showed half her face, her big eyes curiously examining the man whose face was covered in scars.

Khalid broke open a naan bread that was still warm from the oven, and the aroma of the bread immediately filled the room.

"It's homemade; the flour was the last batch I stocked up on last week."

Song Heping took the naan bread, feeling the elasticity of the dough with his fingertips.

He tore off a piece, just like Khalid had done, and dipped it in the broth from the stewed beans.

The beans are stewed until soft and melt in your mouth, and the complex flavors of minced garlic, onions and unidentified spices burst on your tongue.

For a moment, he felt as if he had returned to the kitchen of his maternal grandmother's house in the Fujian countryside during his childhood.

"Is there cinnamon in it?" Antonov suddenly asked.

Rita looked at him in surprise: "You can taste it? This is a family recipe passed down through generations, with a touch of cinnamon and dried lemon zest."

“My grandma stews beans like this too,” Antonov said, tearing off another piece of naan bread, “except she used pork instead of olive oil.”

There was a moment of silence at the dining table.

Khalid and Rita exchanged a glance—mentioning pork in a Muslim household is offensive.

But Khalid quickly laughed: "It seems you really aren't locals."

“We are independent investigative journalists. I am an American of Chinese descent, he is Russian, and Nura is Egyptian.”

Song and Pingmian continued their lies without changing their expressions, "We were originally working on a war documentary in Africa, but we recently heard things were getting chaotic here, so we came here hoping to find some material."

"You arrived last week?" Khalid scooped a spoonful of beans into his daughter's plate. "The situation had already started to deteriorate by then. How did you get into port?"

Nura quickly chimed in, "We originally planned to evacuate yesterday, but the port was blocked by protesters."

“They weren’t protesters; most were thugs with political motives!” Rita’s voice suddenly turned cold. “They burned down the port’s medical station, and my colleague Fatima nearly died in the fire.”

Nina suddenly interjected, "Aunt Fatima gave me a lollipop!"

The little girl innocently raised her hands to show how big it was!

This unexpected remark from a child eased the tension at the dinner table.

Antonov took the opportunity to fill a large plate with beans and wolfed them down with the naan bread.

Song Heping noticed that this seemingly rude Russian was actually using his peripheral vision to observe every exit of the room—a professional instinct.

What have you filmed these past few days?

Khalid suddenly asked, his gaze behind his glasses sharpening.

Song Heping was prepared: "The chaos in the streets, and this so-called revolution..."

Khalid put down his spoon and let out a sneer: "Not a coup, but a foolish suicide."

He wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Those young people are holding up signs about democracy and freedom, but they don’t know that Washington is counting money behind their backs.” Song Heping noticed that the professor’s fingers were trembling slightly under the table as he said this—not from fear, but from suppressed anger.

Rita wiped her daughter's mouth and added softly, "Every day, there are young people injured in the hospital; they're shouting revolutionary slogans as they die."

Her voice suddenly choked up: "Last week, a boy who was not even twenty years old had his intestines blown out, and he grabbed my hand and said 'For freedom'."

Nina seemed to sense her mother's sadness, and quietly grasped Rita's fingers with her little hand.

“Why don’t you leave?” Nura suddenly asked, her voice softer than usual. “With your qualifications, you could find better jobs in the UAE or Qatar.”

Khalid's expression hardened: "This is my home. If intellectuals like me run away, who will tell Nina's generation the truth?"

He patted his daughter's head.

“Those Western media outlets only report on Yemen what they want people to see. If you had said you were from the BBC or CNN, I definitely wouldn’t have let you in.”

Song Heping chewed on his naan bread thoughtfully.

Khalid's remarks were unlike those of an ordinary university professor; they came from someone who had experienced such profound suffering. He noticed a group photo hanging on the restaurant wall—a young Khalid in military uniform, standing next to an armored vehicle.

"You served in the military?" Song Heping pointed to the photo.

Khalid's gaze suddenly drifted to the distance: "Former army captain and medic. Discharged from the military five years ago for opposing the firing on his own citizens."

He shook his head with a wry smile.

"Ironically, the very practices I once opposed are now being used even more aggressively by those so-called opposition figures."

Nina suddenly slid off the chair, ran to Song Heping's side, and curiously touched the bandage on his arm.

"Does it hurt?" the little girl asked in her childish English.

Song Heping froze.

This man, who could slit an enemy's throat without hesitation without batting an eye, was now stumped by a question from a six-year-old girl.

"It doesn't hurt anymore."

Song Heping replied softly, "For someone like Uncle, it's just a minor scratch."

"I'll cast a spell on you, and the pain will go away." Nina closed her eyes, muttered incantations, drew a circle in the air with her hand, and gently touched Song Heping's shoulder.

Everyone laughed.

A warm feeling welled up in Song Heping's heart, and he said softly, "Thank you, Nina. Uncle doesn't feel any pain anymore. Your magic worked."

After dinner, Rita brewed a pot of mint tea.

The tea leaves unfurled in the glass, their emerald green leaves bobbing up and down.

Khalid took out a box of dates, and Song Heping noticed that the production date on the box was three months ago—stock from before the turmoil.

“It was imported from Oman,” Khalid said, handing over the box. “Now that the border is closed, you can’t buy this kind of thing anymore.”

Song Heping picked up a date.

The honey-colored fruit flesh is coated with a layer of sugar frosting, and when you bite into it, it's so sweet it's almost cloying, but it unexpectedly cuts through the bitterness of the mint tea.

He suddenly recalled a detail from the mission briefing—Oman was one of the few Arab countries that maintained friendly relations with Iran.

If there is truly no other way out, and Nassin has no way to arrange an evacuation, then if he really has to rely on himself, heading to Oman by land is also an option.

"What are your plans next?" Khalid asked casually, sipping his tea.

“We’ll leave once the port reopens.” Song Heping put down his teacup. “Maybe two days, maybe longer. We’ve already contacted our friends in the Middle East; they’ll send someone to pick us up.”

Khalid's gaze swept over the three men: "The independent journalists' equipment is quite unique."

He glanced meaningfully at their bulging fanny packs—containing loaded pistols.

Just as Song Heping was about to respond, a burst of rapid gunfire suddenly rang out from outside, followed by the roar of a car engine.

Everyone tensed up instantly.

Nura's hand had already reached her lower back, while Antonov quietly moved to the window.

“Just a patrol,” Khalid waved his hand, signaling everyone to relax. “It’s like this every night lately.”

Rita picked up the sleeping Nina: "I'll go and put her to sleep."

Her eyes told Song Heping that she didn't want her daughter to see any more violence.

When only the men remained in the living room, Khalid suddenly lowered his voice: "Who exactly are you people? CIA? MI6?"

Song Heping did not answer immediately.

He noticed an Arabic translation of Sun Tzu's Art of War on Khalid's bookshelf, next to several monographs on electronic warfare—not the kind of reading typical of an English literature professor.

"Does it matter?" Song Heping retorted. "We're not here to harm Yemen."

Khalid stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed: "You know what? I've seen real journalists. They don't have calluses on their hands from guns, and they wear cameras around their necks instead of tactical headsets."

He pointed at Antonov, "And your 'photographer' is holding his teacup like he's ready to smash it over someone's head at any moment."

Song Heping also laughed.

This former army medic is more perceptive than he appears.

“A friend will be picking us up in two days,” he decided to be partially honest, “and until then, we need to keep a low profile.”

Khalid nodded and didn't ask any further questions.

But Song Heping noticed that when he got up, he subtly put a map from the desk into a drawer.

A corner of the map was visible, marking the locations of various checkpoints in Aden—it was so precise it didn't look like a civilian map.

(End of this chapter)