Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 917 Two Bad News

"I received two pieces of bad news..."

Hassan took out his phone and handed it to Song Heping.

"This was just sent from Damascus..."

Song Heping frowned, took the phone, and looked at the screen.

On the screen, the pixelated, shaky video clip continued to play silently—on the sand, a white mercenary figure was roughly forced to kneel, a black hood covering his entire head, while armed men standing beside him raised their signature long knives…

What follows is extremely gory.

The mercenary's head was practically severed off piece by piece...

The background of the video is the outline of the QZ Temple, the spire of Asara town, which was destroyed in the bombing.

"It is said that the town of Asara has been captured, and the 1515 armed men are clearing out the captured Wakna mercenaries..."

Hassan's tone was heavy.

"Suka!!"

Utkin slammed his fist on the ammunition box, sending wood chips flying and scattering golden bullets across the ground.

"Fuck it!"

The veins on his neck bulged like earthworms, and his eyes were fixed on the bloody knife on the screen.

"Have you confirmed his identity?" Song Heping's voice was unusually calm, like a frozen river, his gaze fixed on Hassan's depths.

"The resolution is too low; I can't see the face clearly."

Hassan shook his head, a look of weariness from being crushed by reality.

"Judging by their attire, they seem to be Wackerna's mercenaries..."

Utkin stood in the shadows of the corner, his face ashen, his lips pressed into a stiff line.

“I won’t give up until I see the cook’s body.” Song Heping handed the phone back to Hassan and asked, “What’s the second piece of bad news?”

“Deir ezur…”

Hassan took a deep breath, as if swallowing shards of glass: "Orders from above, abandon the reinforcements. The 104th Brigade... General Issam refuses to withdraw; he insists on holding Deir ez-Zor to the death..."

His throat bobbed, and his voice suddenly rose, filled with barely suppressed grief and indignation.

"I've been ordered to stay here and guard this damned port, to watch the gates for the Russians!"

"Isam?"

Song Heping frowned.

He had heard of this name before. It was said that he led the 104th Brigade, which was also one of the government's most powerful and combat-ready units.

It was clear that Hassan held him in almost worshipful admiration.

It is simply incomprehensible to ask such a general to abandon his efforts to rescue his besieged comrades and cities.

It seems that the situation for the Syrian government is really not good. It is estimated that they want to shrink their front lines and retreat to the coastal areas to hold their ground.

only……

“Yes, General Issam.” Hassan gasped for breath, his chest heaving. “He can’t die in vain! Deir ez-Zor can’t be lost either! If that place falls into the hands of those bastards from 1515, the entire east…”

He didn't say what he was going to say, but everyone understood what it meant—Deir ez-Zor was a key town in the east, and once it was breached, the entire east and central regions would be defenseless, meaning the 1515 militia could advance unimpeded, and a treacherous passage straight to Damascus would be completely opened.

The situation took a sharp turn for the worse, like an avalanche.

Hassan was imprisoned in Latakia, the reinforcements sent to Deir ez-Zor were ordered to remain stationary, the town of Asara appeared to have fallen, and the cook's fate was unknown...

With only Jiang Feng and Utkin by his side, Song Heping was on a mission. The three of them were in a war zone of more than 400 kilometers, filled with landmines, ambush points, and various armed groups, and their target was the core of the 1515 armed forces' encirclement. This was no longer a mission, but an invitation to suicide.

The scene was deathly silent, with only the occasional hissing of encrypted radio waves coming from the radio, like the whispers of death.

Outside the window, under the azure sky of Latakia Port, seagulls cried out mournfully.

Song Heping's gaze swept over Jiang Feng, then over Utkin's gloomy blue eyes, and finally settled on Hassan's face, which was filled with resentment and pain.

He had no time to be angry, much less the right to despair.

But he had a feeling—the cook wasn't dead!

"Hassan." Song Heping's voice broke the silence, clear as an icicle striking the ground. "Give me men, give me vehicles. One squad, three BPM-97 infantry fighting vehicles."

"What's the meaning?!"

Hassan thought he had misheard, and suddenly looked up, his bloodshot eyes wide open.

He quickly realized what was going on.

"Song! Are you crazy? A whole squad? Three vehicles? Crossing most of Celia?! Do you know the difference between that and marching in an armored coffin? Free Army, Kold'd, 1515... and countless landmines and IEDs! I wouldn't even be able to handle a whole company!"

He pointed to the route on the map that wound its way from Latakia to Deir ez-Zor, almost entirely covered in red representing enemy-occupied territory, his fingers trembling.

"I know."

Song Heping calmly met his shocked and angry gaze and said, "But this is the only way to get to Asara Town within 36 hours. Wheeled armored vehicles are fast, and the BMP-97 has decent firepower. Disguising ourselves as a small mobile force retreating government troops will make us a smaller target and we might be able to slip through."

Hassan opened his mouth, wanting to refute, but seeing the unwavering determination in Song Heping's eyes, like tempered steel, he swallowed all the words he wanted to say.

He scratched his hair in frustration, spun around twice, then stopped abruptly and yelled at the door, "Eames! Get in here!"

The door was pushed open, and a lean, young officer with several new and old scars on his face strode in.

He looked no more than twenty-three or twenty-four years old, but his eyes possessed a sharpness and composure beyond his years, like those of a seasoned veteran.

"Sir!"

He gave Hassan a crisp salute.

"The Death Squad, and your men, are now under Mr. Song's command!"

Hassan's voice was resolute, carrying a ruthless determination. "Three BPM-97s, maximum ammunition load! Bring all your most prized possessions!"

Eames's gaze swept quickly over Song Heping and Jiang Feng and Utkin behind him, his face showing no surprise or doubt, only the absolute obedience of a soldier receiving an order: "Understood, sir! The Death Squad is ready to depart at any time!"

"Song".

Hassan turned to Song Heping, his voice lowering and becoming more serious than ever before. He pointed at Eames: "These lads... their average age is less than nineteen, but they are all the elites in my team. Remember to... try your best to bring them back."

The last few words were almost squeezed out through clenched teeth.

However, he himself knew very well what was going on.

This is just a requirement.

But it's not a certainty.

Song Heping's gaze fell on Eames's face, which still retained a hint of youthful features but was prematurely etched with determination by the smoke and scars of war.

He nodded slightly, making no promise: "I can only say I'll do my best."

Then he turned to Eames and said, "Lieutenant Eames, we'll be leaving in five minutes."

"Yes, sir!"

Eames saluted again, turned and rushed out the door, his footsteps fading quickly into the empty corridor.

ten minutes later.

Outside the police station.

The roar of the engine violently tore through the silence of dawn, drowning out the faint sound of waves coming from the distant harbor.

The massive bulletproof tires of three BPM-97 "Archer" wheeled armored personnel carriers rolled over the rough concrete ground, while a soldier from the Death Squad firmly held the 12.7mm heavy machine gun on the roof of each vehicle.

Eames stood beside the open roof hatch of the BPM-97, giving his final instructions to the eleven soldiers gathered around the vehicle at a rapid pace.

These soldiers—the Death Squad—are indeed frighteningly young.

Their still-childish faces were covered by camouflage scarves, and their bodies were covered with ammunition belts, grenades, and water bottles. The heavy equipment almost bent their thin shoulders, but their eyes, like Eames', burned with a light that was a mixture of tension, excitement, and the fearlessness of a newborn calf.

"Check weapons! Confirm ammunition levels! Test communication channels! Put on sandstorm masks! Last thirty seconds!"

Eames's voice remained clear and powerful amidst the roar of the engine.

Song Heping, Jiang Feng, and Utkin boarded their respective vehicles.

Song Heping got into the lead BMP-97 troop carrier, followed closely by Jiang Feng.

Utkin and Eames then got into the middle BPM-97.

The heavy hatch slammed shut, and Eames' voice came through the radio inside the vehicle.

"Death Squad calling Commander, all personnel in position, requesting to proceed!"

"Set off immediately."

Song Heping's voice came through the earpiece, calm as a rock: "Route: Highway 7. Target: Deir ez-Zor. Open fire at will in case of emergency. Depart."

"Death Squad, understood! Move out!" Eames repeated the order.

The lead BMP-97 suddenly surged forward, its heavy tracks crushing the last solid concrete patch in front of the base gate, kicking up a cloud of dust, and without hesitation rushed toward the Gobi Desert to the east, which was becoming increasingly desolate and vast under the morning light.

Outside the car window, the gray-blue sky was quickly swallowed up by the huge dust cloud that rose up behind the car.

The port of Latakia, the salty smell of the Mediterranean Sea, the towering radar antennas of the Russian military base...

Everything that symbolizes order and security is rapidly receding, blurring, and eventually disappearing.

Instead, there was an endless expanse of monotonous earthy yellow and ochre, with undulating sand dunes resembling solidified yellow waves, and scattered withered shrubs swaying desperately in the wind.

Inside the car, the atmosphere was tense and focused.

The roar of the engine and the noise of tracks and tires crushing sand and gravel were the only background noises. Through the narrow observation window of the BMP-97 troop carrier, Song Heping's sharp eyes scanned the horizon ahead and to the sides.

Jiang Feng sat to one side, repeatedly checking the 30mm artillery shell chains piled up beside him.

Time slipped away during the tedious and tense journey.

Soon it was noon, and the sun was high overhead, relentlessly baking the exposed desert.

The inside of the armored vehicle was like a sauna, filled with the suffocating smells of engine oil, sweat, metal, and dust.

Soldiers took turns peering through narrow firing ports, sweat trickling down their varnished faces and leaving dark stains on their dirty uniforms.

"Alpha Wolf, Death Squad reporting."

Suddenly, Eames' voice rang out on the communication channel, which had been silent for hours, carrying a hint of seriousness.

"Something's not right up ahead..."

Song Heping immediately picked up the binoculars and looked ahead through the observation window.

About three kilometers away, a patch of messy shadows appeared on the edge of what was once a desolate sand dune.

As the distance closed, the outline of the shadow gradually became clear—it was a town.

He immediately took out a map—GPS signals here were all disabled by the Americans.

That's exactly the effect they wanted: to cut off all of the Syrian army's military equipment, weaken their fighting capacity, and allow the opposition to take Damascus smoothly, thereby overthrowing the current regime.

"It looks like someone's there..."

Song Heping saw a large number of figures appear in the field of view of his binoculars.

He turned up the magnification so he could see it more clearly...

"All vehicles, prepare for battle!"

(End of this chapter)