Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 876 Fatal Arrogance
The frontline command post of the U.S. Green Berets task force on the border of the Republic of Urseda.

"FUCK!"

Major Jason Claude slammed his fist on the table, making the satellite phone jump half an inch, and the black liquid in the coffee cup sloshed violently, leaving a dark brown stain around the rim.

His knuckles turned white from the force, and the veins on the back of his hands bulged out like earthworms.

Outside the tent, the scorching African sun baked the sand into a distorted shape, and the heat waves seemed like an invisible giant hand choking every inch of air.

Jason unbuttoned the top button of his tiger-striped camouflage uniform, revealing his sunburnt neck—the skin there was peeling and oozing tiny beads of blood.

He was completely oblivious, his eyes glued to the Asian face on the tactical tablet.

Song Heping.

That name was like a thorn, piercing his nerves.

"It's that damned Chinese guy again."

Jason's voice was forced out through clenched teeth, filled with suppressed anger.

The intelligence briefing displayed on the tablet clearly marked a red warning: Song Heping and his "Musicians" defense force have been confirmed to have entered the Republic of Seine and are about to assist the government forces in launching a counter-offensive.

Counterattack?

Suppressing the rebellion?

Jason let out a cold snort.

How dare a private military company interfere with the White House's "regime change" plan? His fingertips unconsciously rubbed the quickdraw pull on the holster, and the autopsy report from the South American rainforest flashed through his mind—the Green Berets squad that was wiped out in the South American jungle a few years ago, and he had looked at the bullet hole distribution map on the corpses no less than twenty times.

Subsequent analysis failed to identify any perpetrators, and no South American rebel group could wipe out the Green Berets with just one or two individuals.

This was an unsolved case until Song Heping was listed as a target for assassination, and his DNA sample was entered into the anti-terrorism database, which led to the discovery of the match.

It was Song Heping who did it!
"Sir?"

The tent flap was lifted, and Sergeant Major McCarthy bent over and walked in. The back of his camouflage uniform was completely soaked with sweat, and the dark green fabric clung to his spine.

He held the latest drone reconnaissance report in his hand, but his gaze first fell on Jason's bulging temples.

“The Nasserite government forces are massing in the front lines; it looks like they’re preparing for a full-scale counter-offensive.” McCarthy handed over a tablet; the thermal image on the screen showed the outlines of tank columns. “The size is 30% larger than expected.”

Jason suddenly laughed.

The laughter was like a blade scraping against glass, making McCarthy's neck hairs stand on end.

“Look at this.”

The major slid the intelligence tablet across the table with his gun-barrel-like fingers. "The Pentagon's civilian officials have been woken up by another nightmare."

McCarthy caught the tablet, his pupils suddenly contracting.

The Asian man in the archive photo has hawk-like eyes, and the combat records below are chilling: Middle East, South America, Eastern Europe. The final image is of the recent encounter that caused Delta Force's defeat.

"Musician" Defense

McCarthy's thumb unconsciously swiped across the screen as he uttered the terrifying name: "The one who made Delta A suffer—"

"A pack of hyenas who sell their lives for money."

Jason abruptly pulled open the freezer, and ice crystals fell from the mineral water bottle.

He tilted his head back and gulped down most of the bottle, the water dripping down his chin onto his combat uniform like the mucus secreted by some cold-blooded animal.

"Intelligence indicates they infiltrated five days ago and are now acting as babysitters for Nasser's useless bastards."

Suddenly, the roar of a pickup truck engine came from outside the tent, accompanied by the rough laughter of MLC militants.

Through the gaps in the canvas, several black soldiers could be seen making obscene gestures toward the command post, the barrels of their AK-47 rifles slung over their shoulders gleaming with a bluish light under the blazing sun.

McCarthy gently placed the tablet next to the battle map; the red and blue arrows seemed particularly glaring at that moment.

"Sir, Song Heping's reputation in the defense industry..."

"reputation?"

Jason suddenly turned around, the custom-made HK416D whirring crisply in his hand. The 27 engravings on the gun resembled fangs under the light—each representing a high-value target being eliminated.

"In Afghanistan, my people can make IEDs using mineral water bottles and duct tape. And here?"

He suddenly pulled back the bolt.

"Even stray dogs know who's backing MLC."

McCarthy's gaze swept over the words "served for several years in the PLA's top special forces," and his Adam's apple bobbed. "But his performance in Afghanistan—"

"McCarthy!"

Jason's roar made the sentry outside the tent instinctively tighten his grip on his gun.

The major's face suddenly loomed closer, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints: "This isn't the Kandahar mountains; there are no damned caves or tunnels. Tomorrow, Kandahar's armored column will roll over you like a steamroller."

He pointed to the capital city marked in red on the map, saying, "When the government forces are defeated, I want to see Song Heping turn into a dried-up specimen in the desert."

The sergeant silently tightened his jaw.

He noticed that as his superior spoke, his right hand remained on the M9 pistol at his waist—the grip of which was wrapped with parachute cords and had been salvaged from the belongings of fallen comrades in South America.

"According to the contingency plan, we should be ready to support the MLC-led insurgent coalition at any time, and if the government forces gain the upper hand in the counter-terrorism operation, we will intervene..."

McCarthy ultimately chose to break the ice with a report.

“Don’t worry, we’ll do it.” Jason waved his hand as if shooing away flies. “Now, have Kandal bring some ice with him when he delivers the beer, this damn weather…”

He ripped open the second bottle of water; the sound of the plastic ring flying off was like a gun being ejected. "I want to see what tricks that Chinese guy can pull without satellite support and air cover."

At the same time, on the west side of the Gugla Valley.

Song Heping's knees sank deep into the sandstone crevice, the lenses of his Zeiss tactical telescope reflecting the crimson hue of the setting sun.

Beneath his feet, the canyon resembled a wound cleaved open by a giant axe, with the rock walls at its narrowest point almost touching his face.

"A very good natural signal barrier."

He glanced down at the special operations platoon of mercenaries testing their radios in the valley, then looked at the signal bars on his own radio. Sweat trickled down his brow bone and into his eyes, the stinging sensation making him blink.

"Once Jiang Feng has positioned himself, this will be the Green Beret's only route. Once they enter, it will be a perfect opportunity for us to make our move."

Three meters away, the hunter was scanning the cliff face with a laser rangefinder.

The red dot emitted by the instrument paused at a rock crevice: "There are fresh rocks at the fourth climbing point on the east side, probably caused by last week's heavy rain. This place can be used as a climbing point. Be careful of this location to avoid them climbing up. If one of them gets up, we'll kill them..."

His voice was as calm as if he were discussing a breakfast menu.

“Listen,” Song Heping said in a very low voice, each word sounding as if it were squeezed out from the depths of his chest.

"Their communications personnel should be carrying AN/PRC-154 radios; their emergency mode can penetrate three meters of rock."

His dust-covered index finger jabbed heavily into the hunter's chest.

"I need your guarantee that the first shot will shatter the radio frequency module of that device."

The hunter's pupils dilated slightly.

He slowly raised his right hand, mimicking the action of pulling a trigger with his thumb: "A 12.7mm tungsten-core armor-piercing round; it can even blast a satellite phone into parts."

"The Queen will finish off the enemy."

Song Heping released his grip and turned to the Queen, who was adjusting the radio.

Without looking up, she raised three fingers—her signature "confirmation" gesture.

The setting sun cast long shadows of the three men onto the rock face, resembling three drawn swords. Song Heping gave the topographic map one last check, his sweat-dampened fingertips leaving dark marks on the paper.

Its shape vaguely resembles an eagle with outstretched wings.

"Remember," Song Heping shouted to everyone, "we only have twenty minutes from the first shot."

(End of this chapter)