Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 870 Escaping Moscow

The Moscow night, like a blanket soaked in vodka, pressed heavily on Song Heping's shoulders.

At 3 a.m., he peered through the peephole for a full two minutes to make sure there were no people watching him, then gestured to the Ferrari behind him.

“The corridor is safe,” Song Heping said in a very low voice. “Remember, once you get to the rooftop, follow the route I’ve marked, and don’t turn on your flashlight.”

Ferrari nodded, his right hand still resting on the Glock 18 at his waist.

Song Heping gently turned the lock, the cold metallic touch reminding him of General Anatoly's cold and ruthless gaze.

Those who manage to rise to the position of Minister of Defense in the Moscow regime are all formidable figures.

"Walk."

He silently slipped through the crack in the door.

The two moved through the corridor like ghosts, each step precisely avoiding the floor seams that might make a sound.

Song Heping's eardrums swelled with his heartbeat, picking up any unusual sounds.

As they reached the fire escape, the searchlights of patrol boats on the Moscow River happened to sweep across nearby buildings, casting fence-like shadows on the walls.

"Damn it."

Ferrari muttered a curse as he climbed the first step.

"The Russians even deliberately make the stairs sound so loud."

Including its previous trip from Iligor to Russia, Ferrari has already spent a considerable amount of time in Moscow.

But he still felt very uncomfortable here.

I don't like the food here, I don't like the living environment, and I don't like that damn narrow bed.

Song Heping did not answer.

His attention was entirely focused on the rusty iron door on the top floor—according to his daytime reconnaissance, it should lead to the rooftop platform.

But just as his hand touched the doorknob, the roar of a car engine suddenly came from downstairs.

The two of them froze at the same time.

"They're not coming for us."

After a long silence in the darkness, until the engine noise faded, Ferrari licked his dry lips: "Right?"

Song Heping pressed his ear against the cold metal door.

The engine noise stopped abruptly at the street corner, followed by the dull thud of the car door closing.

What a coincidence.

He gently pushed open the iron gate, walked to the railing on the top floor, and stuck half his head out to observe the situation below by the moonlight.

In my field of vision, three dark figures were getting out of a black sedan at the alley entrance.

“It’s GRU.” Song Heping’s pupils contracted. “They probably changed shifts.”

"They've blocked the alleyway." Ferrari immediately drew his silenced pistol: "Force our way in?"

“No.” Song Heping took a climbing rope from his tactical waist pack. “We need to get around them, but we have to speed things up.”

The iron gate on the roof emitted a groan like that of a dying old man.

A cold wind rushed in from the rooftop, and Song Heping squinted, quickly locking onto the escape route he had already observed—a gap only three meters away from the adjacent building.

This distance is nothing to trained soldiers, but below lies a seven-story abyss, where any mistake could be fatal.

"I'll go first."

Song Heping secured the rope to the ventilation duct, tying it into a Prussian knot commonly used by special forces.

As he stepped over the railing, a loud crash came from downstairs as the apartment door was suddenly kicked open.

"They discovered we'd escaped!"

The Ferrari's sound was as taut as a bowstring.

Without hesitation, Song Heping leaped onto the opposite rooftop.

His combat boots slipped half a meter before he regained his balance, and he immediately turned and threw the rope end towards the Ferrari: "Quick!"

The Ferrari swung over with the agility of an ape, and just as the two men reeled in the rope, a roar in Russian came from behind them.

A beam of flashlight swept across the spot where they had just been standing.

"Walk!"

Song Heping led the way, running between the rooftops, each step precisely landing on the concrete load-bearing beams. Five minutes later, they slid down the fire escape into a dimly lit back alley.

They could both hear each other's heavy breathing.

This could be a deadly escape.

The consequences of failing to escape and falling into the hands of Russian intelligence agencies or special forces are unimaginable.

At the alley entrance, a tiny spark flickered in the darkness. Song Heping instantly drew his gun and aimed.

"Put down your gun, Song."

The familiar voice made Song Heping's finger freeze on the trigger.

The cook, Yevgeny, emerged from the shadows, his signature bald head gleaming bluish-white in the moonlight.

"I knew you'd run away tonight."

Ferrari also turned his gun on the cook: "Are you trying to stop us?"

"Intercept?"

The cook chuckled and tossed him a car key.

Song Heping reached out and caught it.

“I’m saving your lives, you idiots! Anatoly sent six GRU squads to monitor your apartment; they’ve discovered you’ve escaped, and without proper transportation, you won’t make it out of Moscow.”

Song Heping caught the keys, feeling their icy touch: "Why are you helping us?"

The cook took a deep drag of his cigarette, the blue nicotine smoke blurring his expression: "Because you are my brother, Song."

A warm feeling welled up in Song Heping's heart, and he nodded to the cook.

The cook pointed to a car parked on the side of the road outside the alley and continued, “Hurry up, or it’ll be too late. That gray Lada is clean, and there’s cash, weapons, license plates, and several new passports in the trunk. Head north along the M10 highway to Tver to get Belarusian plates, and then—”

“Wait,” Ferrari interrupted him. “Why should we believe you? There might be a tracking device in the car, or something worse.”

The cook's eyes suddenly sharpened like knives: "If I wanted you all dead, you would have been dead in Bucharest long ago."

Ferrari was speechless.

Because the cook was telling the truth.

The cook turned to Song Heping, "You know I'm not acting."

Song Heping stared at the cook's cloudy blue eyes for three seconds, then nodded: "Thank you."

“Don’t thank me yet.” The cook pulled an old Nokia phone from his inner pocket. “Check the information when you’re in a safe place. Now, run, friends. You need to be out of the Moscow region by dawn.”

Song Heping fell silent.

The silence speaks.

This is what romance between men is all about.

He strode forward, and as he passed the cook, the two exchanged a glance.

That one look speaks volumes.

A few minutes later, as the gray Lada drove onto the main road, Ferrari was still checking his weapons: "I still think I should dump this car. The Russians are experts at tampering with the brakes."

Song Heping glanced at the rearview mirror: "Fasten your seatbelts."

"What?"

Song Heping slammed on the gas pedal, and the Lada shot off like a startled wild horse.

Almost simultaneously, a black SUV sped out from the side road and crashed violently into their original spot.

However, when Song Heping stepped on the gas, the SUV crashed head-on into a roadside utility pole, causing the radiator to burst and spray out white water mist.

"Damn!" Ferrari turned to look at the armed men jumping out of the SUV. "They're those GRU bastards!"

Song Heping jerked the steering wheel with one hand and pressed the switch of the jammer he had prepared beforehand with the other.

The Lada sped into the oncoming lane and changed lanes repeatedly amidst a blaring horn.

The rear window suddenly shattered, and bullets tore the rear seat headrest to pieces.

"The cook didn't lie to us; they've sent quite a few people to watch us." Song Heping floored the accelerator. "Hold on tight!"

Lada made a sharp turn and sped onto the overpass. In the gap between the GRU vehicle being blocked by a truck, Song Heping suddenly turned off the headlights and rushed down the slope from the emergency lane.

When the tires slipped on the road surface after the rain, he released the brakes and used the momentum to make the vehicle turn 180 degrees and go into the freight lane under the bridge.

Five minutes later, Ferrari, having confirmed he had shaken off his pursuers, breathed a sigh of relief: "Those damned Russians are like vengeful ghosts!"

Song Heping glanced at the hidden compartment under the dashboard—there was a handwritten note left by the cook: There is a checkpoint at kilometer 133 of the M10 highway; take the old lumberyard detour.

It seems the chef has considered everything.

He knew his own character well.

He knew he would definitely not accept Minister Anatoly's invitation.

It seems he had prepared this route long ago, just waiting to use it when he escaped.

It seems that making this friend was worthwhile.

(End of this chapter)