Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 864 Multi-pronged Attack (2)

"boom--!"

The first rocket accurately hit the last SUV. The 7-kilogram PG-7V armor-piercing warhead instantly penetrated the bulletproof body, and the high-temperature metal jet vaporized the three agents inside.

"Enemy attack! Disembark! Establish a defensive perimeter!"

McCarthy kicked open the car door and rolled out, simultaneously drawing his pistol and firing blindly towards the woods.

But the GRU squad's ambush was far more professional than they had imagined.

"Da da da da—!"

The roar of the PKP "Pecheneg" general-purpose machine gun came from the three o'clock direction, and the 7.62×54mm steel-core bullets, like the scythe of death, riddled the door of the second vehicle with holes.

An agent who had just jumped out of the car had his upper body blown apart, with blood and fragments of internal organs splattering onto the bulletproof glass.

McCarthy huddled behind the front of the vehicle, his earpiece filled with the screams of his teammates, his heart pounding.

He risked peeking out to observe and soon discovered that at least a dozen unidentified gunmen were fanning out around him—all in the standard tactical formation of Russian special forces.

"Headquarters! Team C has been ambushed! Requesting assistance—"

"boom!"

A .338 Lapua Magnum bullet pierced the eyepiece of McCarthy's night vision goggles and exited from the back of his head, bringing with it a clump of brain matter mixed with bone fragments.

300 meters away, a GRU sniper slowly moved his gun barrel, searching for his next target.

The remaining four CIA agents formed a ring of defense back to back, but the GRU's suppressive fire made it difficult for them to even raise their heads.

"Change magazine! Cover me!"

An agent had barely finished shouting when a 5.45×39mm SP-5 subsonic bullet fired from the side blew his head off—the Russians had even prepared a silenced weapon.

Three RGD-5 grenades suddenly flew out of the woods, landing in a perfect triangular pattern.

boom!
boom!
boom!
After the shrapnel storm, only mutilated corpses and burning vehicle wreckage remained on the highway.

When Song Heping arrived at the scene, the battle was nearing its end.

After he ran to the cook, squatted down, and watched the fight for a while, he went berserk.

"Cook, you call this a precision rescue?"

Song Heping grabbed the cook's tactical vest and pointed at the still-burning wreckage. "RPG volleys, machine gun fire, sniper follow-up—are they trying to send the Ferrari and the CIA to their deaths?"

Seeing the GRU squad's crude fighting style would make any normal person furious.

Everyone knows the style of the Russian special forces.

I've heard so much about you, but it's better to meet you in person.

With RPGs and grenades flying everywhere, this doesn't look like a rescue operation at all.

It's a complete annihilation operation!

"Don't worry, I know what I'm doing!"

The cook comforted Song Heping.

"Ferrari is my brother too, would I let him die?"

He spoke lightly, but Song Heping was terrified.

The battle ended in less than five minutes.

The bodies of twelve CIA agents lay scattered across the road in various contorted positions, the air thick with the smell of burnt meat.

The cook emerged from the woods, leading several members of the GRU squad to surround them.

Arriving at the overturned SUV, he glanced at the driver's seat, then turned back to Song Heping and laughed loudly, "He's not dead!"

He was referring to Ferrari, of course.

Song Heping rushed over, and when he got to the car, the cook was dragging the Ferrari out of the driver's seat, which was billowing black smoke.

“Look, it’s alive!” Song Heping crouched down, cut the restraints with his tactical knife, and reached out to feel Ferrari’s pulse.

Fortunately.

It's really alive.

After checking his body, they found that apart from the marks from the torture, there were no other fatal injuries.

He reached out and patted Ferrari's face: "Ferrari, wake up!"

Ferrari weakly opened his eyes, glanced at Song Heping, then looked sideways at the cook, a familiar mocking smile playing on his lips: "I knew you'd come."

"Stop talking, save your breath and heal your wounds."

Song Heping turned to the cook and said, "We need to get out of here quickly. Once Wright realizes he's been tricked, he'll probably mobilize all his personnel to hunt us down. We must leave Romania immediately."

The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, but Song Heping knew that the Romanian police would not arrive for at least another fifteen minutes—the GRU's cyber warfare team had already crippled the nearby alarm system.

"Don't worry, we've already prepared the evacuation route. We'll go directly from the border into the Transnistria region of Moldova, and then fly back to Moscow from there. Everything is arranged."

The cook seemed very confident. After speaking, he turned around and waved to all the GRU members: "Withdraw!"

As the convoy disappeared into the eastern dawn, the burning wreckage of the vehicles exploded a second time, the towering pillars of fire becoming the final testament to this perfect ambush.

On the runway of Croatia's private airport, Wright kicked the MKK Group president, who was handcuffed to a chair. The Middle Eastern arms dealer's bodyguards lay sprawled on the ground, each with a look of confusion and anger on their faces.

"What the hell are you waiting for?!" Wright grabbed the president by the collar, his voice hoarse. "Tell me! Who sent you?!"

I've said it thirty times already!

The president answered in heavily accented English.

"We're just here to talk business! What GRU? What Song Heping? Have you Americans gone mad?"

One of his men came over, handed him a document, and whispered, "We've checked their identities and found nothing wrong."

Wright released his grip and staggered back two steps.

His temples throbbed, and a chilling premonition crept up his spine. Suddenly, an urgent report came through the earpiece:
"Sir! The convoy has been attacked! Everyone is dead! The Ferrari has been hijacked!"

The whole world seemed to spin before Wright's eyes.

He mechanically raised his wrist to check his watch—only 23 minutes had passed since the convoy set off.

Such a precise ambush, such a professional elimination—this was definitely not a spur-of-the-moment operation.

"Go to the scene immediately!"

He yelled into the communicator, his voice sounding like it came from a great distance.

When Wright's convoy arrived at the ambush site, the setting sun had turned the road blood red.

The twelve corpses remained in various contorted positions, like dolls tossed about by some immense force. The wreckage of the third SUV was still burning, black smoke billowing into the sky.

The special agent in charge of inspecting the scene approached: "Very professional technique, and the firepower is formidable. We've found fragments of the tail fins of a PG-7V armor-piercing round, and..."

He handed over an evidence bag containing several deformed bullets.

"7N13 armor-piercing rounds are standard issue for Russian special forces."

Wright crouched down and ran his fingers along a fresh skid mark on the road.

His gaze fell on several brass cartridge cases—5.45×39mm, subsonic bullets, for use with the VSS special sniper rifle.

“Three layers of nesting.” He suddenly understood Song Heping’s entire plan. “We’ve been played.”

"Sir, what do we do now?" the deputy asked cautiously.

Wright's mind went blank, with a faint buzzing sound.

After a moment of bewilderment, he whirled around: "Catherine! That female reporter in the hands of the gang! Contact the Romanian Secret Service immediately, we need two counter-terrorism teams!"

(End of this chapter)