Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 859 Creating Mystery
Three in the morning in the northern mountains of Persia.

Song Heping stood in the military tent, a holographic projection in front of him displaying a three-dimensional map of the northern suburbs of Bucharest.

Nassin, along with several Revolutionary Guard intelligence officers and Henry, White Bear, Hunter, and others who had just arrived, surrounded them. The air was filled with the mixed smell of Persian tea and gun oil.

"Henry, is it confirmed that MI6 has successfully passed the message?"

Song Heping asked without looking up.

Henry adjusted his glasses. "Ten minutes ago, Ms. M's contact 'accidentally' leaked information to the CIA's informant in London."

A sneer appeared on the corner of his mouth.

"As per your request, the intelligence specifically emphasized that you will be taking Turkish Airlines flight TK1042, arriving in Bucharest tomorrow at noon."

Song Heping nodded, drawing a red line on the map with his finger: "Have the arrangements been made on the Russian side?"

Henry said, "The cook has already used his connections in the Russian government, and the GRU's 'Ghost' special forces team has appeared on the Moldova border as planned. They've falsified their radio communications, enough to keep the CIA's electronic reconnaissance units busy for a while."

A few soft laughs came from inside the tent.

Song Heping, however, kept a straight face, his eyes scanning back and forth on the map.

This operation cannot afford any mistakes—it's not just about rescuing Ferrari, but about the very survival of the entire "Musician" defense company.

"Song, do you think Wright will take the bait?"

Nassin couldn't help but ask.

Song Heping finally smiled slightly: "He will. Wright is most afraid of two things—losing control and accidents. If we create enough chaos for him, he'll lose his composure."

He turned to Henry: "Is the Ferrari still there?"

“He should still be there,” Henry said. “I’ve maintained contact with Weber, but based on the intelligence he provided, Wright is likely planning to move him within 48 hours.”

“Then proceed according to plan.” Song Heping straightened up, looked around, and said, “Remember, this time we need Wright to deliver the Ferrari himself. My plan is to operate on two fronts simultaneously, using the Ferrari as bait to completely mobilize Wright.”

The hunters exchanged glances.

This plan is too bold, even a bit crazy—but if it was designed by Song Heping, then it's worth a try.

"Final equipment checks before departure," Song Heping ordered. "Henry, you stay here to maintain contact with Weber. Nura, you and Antonov stay here and assist Henry."

"Why can't I go?!"

Nura retorted indignantly, "Just because I'm a woman?"

“That’s right.” Song Heping said bluntly, “With this outfit, the CIA won’t even need to look for you once you enter Romania; they can spot you immediately.”

Nura was speechless.

She wanted to refute it, but she couldn't find a way to do so.

Antonov shrugged; he had no objection to the arrangement.

I know my own limitations.

My fighting ability is so low that I would only be a burden to others.

The tent immediately became a hive of activity.

Song Heping walked to a corner and opened his encrypted laptop.

The screen displayed Ferrari's last encrypted message before his arrest.

He stared at that sentence for a long time, then gently closed his laptop.

This time, it was his turn to set the trap.

Previously, he was the passive party; now it's Wright's turn to experience the feeling of being passive.

An abandoned textile factory in the northern suburbs of Bucharest.

Wright stood in front of the one-way glass, observing the Ferrari in the interrogation room.

This guy, whose face was swollen like a pig's head, had been interrogated for eight hours, but still couldn't get any valuable information out of him.

Even more strangely, even under the influence of the emetic, Ferrari did not show resistance, but rather a bizarre bewilderment—as if he genuinely did not know the account information.

"Still no progress?" Wright asked the agent who had just walked out of the interrogation room.

The agent shook his head, wiping the blood from his hands: "Sir, something's wrong with this guy. The emetic has no effect, and regular interrogation is useless. Either he's received special training, or..."

"Or what?"

“Either he simply doesn’t know that information,” the agent hesitated, “but according to our intelligence, Ferrari is indeed the financial director of ‘Musician’s’ defense.”

Wright frowned.

Because this is illogical.

Things shouldn't be like this; they're completely different from what I predicted.

He couldn't resist pushing open the interrogation room door and going inside. Ferrari was strapped to a specially made chair, his face covered in blood, but his eyes were surprisingly calm.

When he saw Wright come in, he even twitched the corners of his mouth, revealing a bloodstained smile, his expression looking rather strange.

Lettella pulled up a chair and sat opposite him, carefully observing the prisoner.

Ferrari's pupils were slightly dilated, and his breathing was irregular—this wasn't a sign of resistance to interrogation, but rather...
"What medicine did you take?" Wright suddenly asked.

Ferrari blinked. "Medicine? Heh...what medicine? Something tasty?"

Wright's brow furrowed even more.

He stared intently into Ferrari's eyes, scrutinizing it closely.

Suddenly, the man jumped up and rushed out of the interrogation room: "Draw blood! Draw his blood! Test the blood sample! Focus on checking for neurodepressants!"

An hour later, the test results were delivered to me.

"Sir, I think you should take a look at this report."

The agent in charge of the inspection looked rather grim.

Wright opened the report and quickly skimmed through it.

The report confirmed his suspicions—Ferrari's blood contained a novel neurotoxin that could cause selective amnesia in a short period of time.

“Damn it!” Wright slammed the report on the table. “He was prepared!”

The agent in charge of the interrogation cautiously asked, "Sir, what do we do now? The effects of this drug usually last 24 to 72 hours. We can't wait that long; the Russians are already making their move. According to Ferrari's background information, he and the cook were good friends back then, and Song Heping could easily use the cook's connections to mobilize the GRU team within Russian intelligence or the military."

Wright walked to the window and looked out at the dark night.

He had originally planned to slowly pry Ferrari's mouth open here, but now the situation has changed.

If Ferrari has indeed temporarily lost its memory, staying here will only increase the risk.

"Prepare for the transfer," he ordered. "Proceed to Lithuania as planned."

As soon as he finished speaking, his encrypted phone vibrated.

Wright glanced at the caller ID, then strode out of the room. "Speak."

"Urgent intelligence from London." The voice on the other end of the phone was urgent. "MI6 inside information: Song Heping has departed for Romania. He is expected to arrive by noon tomorrow."

Wright's eyes lit up: "Are you sure?"

The big fish finally swam out of the deep water.

"Highly credible. The source is the deputy head of MI6's Eastern Europe division; he was unaware that we were listening in."

Wright hung up the phone, his mind racing.

His plan worked—if he could arrest Song Heping directly upon entering the country, he wouldn't need to lure him in with the Ferrari.

He turned and went back to the command center, telling the agents awaiting orders, "The plan has changed. Immediately send two additional action teams from Europe to the airport and key transportation hubs."

A cold smile crept across his lips: "We're going to give Mr. Song an unforgettable welcome."

"What about the prisoners?" an agent asked.

"The prisoners will be escorted to the airport and leave Romania tomorrow evening as planned. We'll split up," Wright said confidently. "This time, I'm determined to make sure Song Heping has nowhere to escape."

He didn't notice that when he mentioned Song Heping, Ferrari in the interrogation room smiled slightly.

Moldova-Romania border, 4 a.m.

Three unmarked military trucks were parked in an abandoned farm.

Twelve fully armed soldiers jumped off the vehicle and quickly dispersed to form a perimeter.

Their equipment was excellent and their movements were professional, but their uniforms had no nationality markings.

The officer leading the group walked to the farmhouse, knocked three times, paused, and then knocked twice more. The door opened a crack.

"The ghost calls to the nest."

The officer spoke in a low voice in Russian.

The door opened fully, revealing the cook's face: "Come in, the signal is blocked."

After entering the room, the officer removed his helmet, revealing a Slavic face: "As you requested, we've made enough noise at the border. CIA drones have been following us for two hours."

The cook smiled and nodded, then turned and went back inside, picked up the satellite phone on the table, and sent a message: "'Ghost' is in position."

He quickly received a reply—"Great. Any response from Wright?"

"Just intercepted communications indicate that the CIA has deployed additional surveillance teams to the border." The cook grinned, a look of utter contempt on his face. "They've definitely taken the bait, believing the GRU is planning a cross-border operation from Moldova into Romania."

(End of this chapter)