Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 863 Multi-pronged Attack
Inside the waiting hall of Bucharest International Airport, the orderly flow of passengers was suddenly interrupted by several dull thuds as they fell to the ground.

Four men dressed in casual clothes collapsed to the ground almost simultaneously. Their bodies convulsed violently, their faces rapidly turning from red to white, and finally to a horrifying bluish-purple. The surrounding passengers were initially stunned, then erupted in terrified screams.

Someone has fainted!

"Call a doctor immediately!"

The crowd quickly dispersed, forming an irregular circle. A few bolder travelers approached to take a look, but no one dared to touch the fallen strangers—their symptoms were too bizarre, resembling some kind of acute poisoning or a sudden heart attack.

The airport medical team responded swiftly.

Three minutes later, four medical staff wearing reflective vests rushed into the lobby pushing a stretcher. The one in the lead was a male doctor in his forties, whose name tag read "Dr. Popescu".

"Get out of the way! Get out of the way!"

Dr. Popescu shouted as he crouched down to examine the nearest person lying on the ground. He skillfully flipped open the patient's eyelids—the pupils were dilated, and the pulse was so weak it was almost imperceptible.

"Adrenaline! Quick!" he shouted to the nurse, while starting CPR.

However, just as the nurse was preparing to give the injection, Dr. Popescu's hand suddenly stopped on the patient's waist—where there was a strange bulge.

He lifted the patient's shirt, and his expression changed instantly.

Concealed communicator, miniature pistol, spare magazine.

“This…” Dr. Popescu’s voice caught in his throat, “These people are not ordinary travelers.”

"We should call the police immediately!"

A young nurse's voice trembled, "These people are armed!"

But they're dying!

Another older paramedic countered, "Save lives first, then think about everything else!"

"Are you crazy? What if they're terrorists?"

"Will the terrorists collapse on their own first?"

The medical staff were locked in a heated argument, and the surrounding travelers began to whisper among themselves. Some took out their phones to take pictures, while others quietly retreated, preparing to escape this place of trouble.

Dr. Popescu took a deep breath and made his decision.

“Listen up!” His voice cut through the argument. “Maria, continue CPR; Ion, get the defibrillator; Elena, contact the airport SWAT team immediately and tell them there are armed men here, but emphasize that they are unconscious and pose no immediate threat.”

Elena nodded, grabbed the walkie-talkie, and quickly reported the situation. An announcement then came over the loudspeaker:
"Please remain calm and leave the B departure hall in an orderly manner..."

Dr. Popescu continued pressing on the patients' chests, but his thoughts had already drifted away—these people's symptoms were too strange; there were no external injuries, no signs of seizures, and it seemed more like…some kind of neurotoxin.

Just then, hurried footsteps came from afar—the airport special police had arrived, their rifles were already loaded, and the badges on their bulletproof vests gleamed under the lights.

Dr. Popescu slowly stood up and raised his hands.

“We’re just healthcare workers,” he said, “but I think…you might need to call in someone higher up to handle this.”

A dozen minutes later, the arrival hall of Bucharest International Airport was brightly lit and noisy. The waiting hall was chaotic with police, medical staff, and onlookers. The cordon was set up and people were surging around, all wondering what had happened.

Inside the passageway, Song Heping adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and casually held his passport between his fingers.

His attire today perfectly embodied the image of a business traveler: a dark gray bespoke suit, Italian handmade leather shoes, and a discreet Patek Philippe watch on his left wrist—all carefully chosen props by Henry to define his identity.

"Maintain your natural breathing rate."

"Keep your heart rate below 75, and the biometric system at the security checkpoint will monitor your physiological indicators."

He kept repeating these little tricks to avoid being identified in his mind.

Security at Bucharest Airport has clearly been significantly strengthened in recent days.

He also knew that there were several agents watching the exit from the waiting hall.

The moment he appeared, he would be captured by their hidden cameras and the footage would be transmitted to the command system in the safe house, connecting to the Langley headquarters database for various identification and screening processes. But he had also made ample preparations.

Nasreddin provided himself with all the false identities and disguises.

Even their ten fingers have invisible, disguised fingerprint films attached, making it impossible to detect their real fingerprints.

If my plan goes smoothly, and if the Russian agents the chef arranged don't fail.

Those poor guys should all be lying on the ground now, mistaken for having a sudden heart attack and being carried away to the hospital.

Song Heping maintained a perfect pace, neither too fast to attract attention nor too slow to seem suspicious.

As he passed the last corner of the passageway, he could already see the exit ahead and vaguely make out the general layout of the waiting hall.

His gaze quickly swept across the entire hall.

Things seem to be in chaos inside.

A large group of people gathered together, seemingly watching some unexpected event.

now it's right.

He walked toward the exit with a smile.

"Body temperature 36.5°C, pupillary reflex normal."

The customs officer, staring at the biometric screen without looking up, asked routinely, "Business purpose?"

"Attend the Southeast European Energy Summit."

Song Heping handed over a forged Siemens employee ID card, and the electronic chip emitted a crisp "beep" sound on the scanner.

His German accent has a perfect Bavarian intonation—a benefit of his years of learning German with Ferrari.

Everything is going smooth.

Song Heping walked towards the baggage claim area, took off his glasses, and retrieved his phone.

A new message popped up on my phone—the bear is in position, waiting for the salmon to fall into the net.

Song Heping put on a new pair of sunglasses and mingled with the passengers who had just landed, slowly leaving the airport.

His gaze swept around, and a slight smile appeared on his lips.

The plan went very successfully.

Next, the real show is about to begin.

1:10 p.m., outside Bucharest.

The pine forests on both sides of the road rustled in the night wind, and the sun was obscured by thick clouds, making it appear slightly gloomy.

Group C's convoy—three black Mercedes-Benz GLE armored SUVs—sped at 120 km/h on the alternate route to the airport.

Inside the lead car, CIA agent captain McCarthy stared intently at the night vision display screen, his fingers unconsciously tapping the armrest of the seat.

In the back seat, Ferrari's hands were bound with high-strength polymer straps; his face was pale, but his eyes remained sharp.

“Stay alert,” McCarthy said into the communicator. “We’ll arrive at the airport in twenty minutes. Once we arrive, we’ll board the plane and leave immediately.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than two enormous objects suddenly appeared on the road 500 meters ahead—two heavy trucks parked across the middle of the road, completely blocking the way.

"Slam on the brakes! Slam on the brakes!" McCarthy yelled.

The tires screeched as they rubbed against the asphalt road, and the convoy came to a stop just fifty meters from the roadblock.

The next second, a series of crisp metallic clanging sounds came from the pine forest—the sound of the safety pin of an RPG-7 rocket being pulled out.

(End of this chapter)