Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 887 BBC Reporter

At 3 a.m., Song Heping rushed back from the border between Serbia and Sudan, and the five-person team quickly assembled.

In addition to Song Heping, Jiang Feng, Ferrari, and Collins, there was also opposition officer Abdul—an army captain who speaks fluent French and English.

"Remember, from now on, we are the BBC West Africa War Reporting Team."

"Song Heping was distributing forged documents."

"I'm producer Michael Song, Jiang Feng is photographer Jack Jiang, Ferrari is journalist Antonio Rossi, Abdul is our local guide, and Collins is the technician."

Jiang Feng examined the documents and whistled, "These don't look like fakes."

"The BBC is British, so these props are all real."

Song Heping inspected the Glock 19 pistol and tucked it into the compartment of his specially designed camera bag. "Each person carries only a pistol and two magazines; travel light."

"This little bit of ammunition, is that enough?" Abdul was clearly surprised.

Are there any security guards or guards at the radio station?

"Have."

"That's fine."

Song Heping rolled his eyes at Abdul.

Abdul paused for a moment, then immediately understood.

"Let's go. We must get to Butare before dark tomorrow."

In the darkness before dawn, two dilapidated Toyota SUVs quietly left the camp and headed north.

As the first rays of sunlight appeared on the eastern horizon, they had already reached the first checkpoint.

"Identification documents."

A sleepy-eyed government soldier knocked on the car window, his rifle casually slung over his shoulder.

Song Heping handed over five passports and press passes, a professional smile on his face: "BBC News, go to Butare to interview your president."

The soldier flipped through his identification, his brows gradually furrowing.

He suddenly looked up, staring at Abdul's face: "I feel like I've seen you somewhere before."

Abdul remained unfazed: "It's probably in the news footage; I often act as a guide for international media."

The soldier shook his head and turned to walk towards the outpost.

Through the dust-covered windshield, Song Heping saw him making a phone call.

"Keep an eye on things, and act immediately if anything happens."

Song Heping spoke in a low voice, tapping his fingers lightly on the steering wheel—this was their agreed-upon signal, indicating that the situation had changed.

Jiang Feng's hand quietly slid towards the hidden compartment under the seat, while Ferrari pretended to adjust the camera, actually observing the troop deployment around the outpost through the telephoto lens. Collins's fingers had already subtly touched the smoke grenade latch on the inside of the car door.

After ten agonizing minutes, the soldier returned with an officer wearing second lieutenant epaulets.

The second lieutenant asked in broken English, "Why is the BBC sending Asians to Africa to report?"

His gaze swept back and forth between Song Heping and Jiang Feng, as if checking the watermark on a counterfeit bill.

Because he had also heard that a group of mercenaries were involved in the coup attempt within the opposition, and that the leader was an Asian.

Song Heping was prepared; he pulled a gold-plated business card from his breast pocket: "Global news reporting requires a global team. I am a Chinese producer transferred from the London headquarters, and Mr. Jiang is a photojournalist from the Africa bureau."

He deliberately feigned a helpless expression. "You can check our staff files on the BBC website, but the internet connection here might be..."

In fact, Song Heping was bullying people.

In a godforsaken place like Seine, where would you find internet and computers at a roadside checkpoint like this?
However, since the documents are genuine, I'm not afraid of them checking them.

Besides, he had already put on makeup, applied a beard, and smeared his skin brown, so the other party wouldn't recognize him.

The officer carefully examined the embossed BBC logo on the business card, comparing it repeatedly to the photograph. Suddenly, his face darkened, and he waved his hand, ordering, "Everyone out of the vehicles. We're going to thoroughly search them."

A cold sweat broke out on Song Heping's back.

Oh shit!

He cursed inwardly.

It seems we still have to force our way through.

The hidden compartment in the vehicle contained five Glock pistols and ten spare magazines, not to mention Collins' sophisticated electronic jamming equipment.

He exchanged a glance with Jiang Feng through the rearview mirror—the latter nodded almost imperceptibly, his right hand already in a strike signal.

At this critical moment, Abdul suddenly said something in the local dialect, his tone as relaxed as if he were discussing the weather.

The officer's expression froze instantly, then turned into incredulous shock.

"Do you know Colonel Jabriel?" The officer's voice suddenly dropped eight octaves, and his address changed from "you" to the more respectful "you" (formal).

Abdul calmly adjusted his suit cuffs: "He's my cousin. We were smoking cigars together on the officers' club terrace last week."

The officer's Adam's apple bobbed a few times. After pondering for more than ten seconds, he finally waved his hand reluctantly: "Let them through."

He lowered his voice and warned as he shoved the documents back into Song Heping's hand.

"But you'd better keep your cameras under control in Butare."

Five hundred meters after the vehicle had left the checkpoint, Song Heping finally allowed himself to take a deep breath: "Who is Colonel Jibril?"

Abdul pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead: "The deputy director of the government military intelligence bureau, who is also our highest-ranking informant in the military." He added with a wry smile, "Of course, we don't actually know each other at all."

Ferrari suddenly burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the car: "My God, if you went to Hollywood, you'd be a great actor!"

Song Heping didn't smile; he stared intently at the winding dirt road ahead: "This is just the first of twelve checkpoints."

The atmosphere in the carriage became heavy again.

Everyone knew they were on a near-suicidal gamble—five mercenaries disguised as journalists were to cross 300 kilometers of front lines, infiltrate the heavily guarded capital, and seize control of the national radio station, a crucial objective.

At this moment, Butare might be opening his blood-red maw, waiting to devour these uninvited guests.

The two off-road vehicles continued northward, their tires crunching over the cracked dirt road, kicking up clouds of reddish-brown dust.

The atmosphere inside the car remained tense; no one spoke, only the roar of the engine and occasional radio static could be heard.

Song Heping kept staring at the rearview mirror. After more than ten minutes, when he confirmed that there were no pursuers, he relaxed his grip on the steering wheel slightly.

He glanced at Abdul: "Colonel Jabril is your informant, but I felt something was off about that lieutenant's expression just now. Although he seemed very respectful, there was still a hint of suspicion in his eyes. He might report the situation here. You don't know Jabril, and what if the match doesn't exist when they check..."

Abdul also tensed up upon hearing this. He nodded and said, "So we have to speed things up and sneak in before the news reaches Butare."

Jiang Feng sneered from the back seat: "Easier said than done. There are eleven checkpoints ahead, each potentially more troublesome than this one."

Song Heping said, "Don't think too much. There's no turning back. Keep moving forward. It's either live or die!"

(End of this chapter)