Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 923 Leave no one behind

"God is the greatest!!!"

A desperate scream came from an unexpected direction.

Not far away, a member of the 1515 movement, who had been lying in a pool of blood and on the verge of death, suddenly mustered up a last glimmer of strength and struggled to raise his upper body. With his trembling hand, stained with his own blood, he lifted a heavy Makarov pistol and pointed the muzzle shakily at the infantry fighting vehicle.

His eyes were filled with deep-seated hatred and resentment, as if he wanted to use this last glimmer of light to ignite the flames of revenge.

However, this futile struggle lasted for less than a second.

"Big my ass!"

dong dong dong-

A sharp, chillingly precise gunshot rang out from the machine gun muzzle on the roof of the BMP-97.

The 12.7 caliber bullet instantly tore this fool, who was oblivious to his own death, in two.

The car stopped.

As the car door opened, Song Heping came into Abu Dhabi's view.

Abuzari struggled to stand up.

It turned out to be futile.

bang bang——

bang bang——

Gunfire continued.

As Song Heping walked along, he casually raised his gun and fired a couple more bullets at those who were still breathing.

Soon, the area at the epicenter of the explosion and the surrounding area became quiet.

A shadow fell over Abu Dhabi's face—Song Heping was already in front of him, blocking the light.

Abuzari gritted his teeth, gathered his last bit of strength, and drew his pistol.

"He's a man."

Song Heping praised him and then raised his hand to feed him two bullets.

bang bang——

Abuzari's raised arm suddenly froze in mid-air, and his eyes, which had been burning with resentment, instantly lost all their luster, becoming empty and dull.

His expression froze in a moment of utter astonishment and disbelief.

His stiff body, as if all the bones had been removed, crashed heavily back into the muddy ground mixed with blood and sand, raising a small cloud of dark red dust.

This "Storm" deputy commander, known for his brutality, eventually died like a wild dog in the yellow sands outside Isliya.

Song Heping walked to Ibrahim's body, glanced at it coldly from above, and after confirming the man's death, pulled out the walkie-talkie from his combat vest.

"The commander of 1515 has been beheaded. Eames, it's your turn to fight back."

After saying that, he turned around, got back into the car, closed the door, and said to Utkin, "Let's go hunting!"

Inside a three-story concrete building in the western part of Isriyah, riddled with holes and on the verge of collapse after a fierce firefight.

Having just received Song Heping's report, Eames was leaning against the cold, bullet-riddled, and dusty wall, his chest heaving as he greedily inhaled the murky air mixed with the strong smell of gunpowder and blood.

Sweat soaked his hair, trickling down his forehead and carving deep furrows on his dusty face.

His ears were still ringing, a souvenir left by enemy mortar shells exploding nearby.

The barrel of the AK rifle in his hand was scorching hot, and the magazine was already empty.

Just a minute ago, he had almost smelled death.

The vanguard of the "Storm" squad, like hyenas that have smelled blood, has already rushed to the stairwell of this building.

The sounds of grenades exploding, automatic rifles firing, and the enemy's frenzied shouts were all very close.

He could hear the heavy footsteps of the enemy coming from downstairs.

He knew perfectly well that once the enemy completed the encirclement of the building and several nearby strongholds, their options would be few and far between, and each one would lead to hell—either being trapped to death or being torn apart in desperate close-quarters combat.

He had even pulled out his last Glock pistol and a suicide grenade from his waist, preparing to face his final fate. It was much better than falling into the hands of those 1515 extremists who liked to behead people.

However, at this critical moment when life and death hung in the balance, a miracle occurred.

The seemingly endless, rapid-fire gunfire outside suddenly became sparse and scattered! It was replaced by a chaotic, disorganized barrage of shots, and…

An even more unbelievable sound—the roar of engines and the screeching of tires as they swerved and lurched on the gravel road! It was a retreat! The enemy was retreating?!
The stark contrast made Eames' heart nearly leap out of his throat.

He suppressed the roar that was about to burst out of his mouth, using all his strength to maintain the last bit of rationality and vigilance.

He carefully moved his body, avoiding the possible sniper line of the window, and pressed himself against the wall full of debris, finding a hole in the wall that had been blasted open by an RPG, just big enough for one person to observe.

He held his breath and slowly brought one eye closer to the irregular hole. The sight before him sent a shiver down his spine; he could hardly believe his eyes!
Just minutes before, the "Storm" militants had been charging in with great momentum, like a tidal wave. Now, they were like a swarm of ants whose nest had been doused with boiling water, retreating in a chaotic manner towards the desert outside the city!

They abandoned their armor and weapons, some even throwing away their heavy loads, and rushed to jump into the nearest pickup truck or run on foot.

Several armed pickup trucks, originally intended as fire support points, were now frantically reversing and turning, their drivers' faces filled with terror and panic, completely disregarding the fact that they had hit their own people.

The entire offensive collapsed completely within just one or two minutes!

The overwhelming joy of surviving the ordeal surged through every cell of Eames's body like an electric current!
His nerves, stretched to their limit, suddenly relaxed, and the willpower that had sustained him through the battle seemed to be instantly drained away.

His legs buckled, and he could no longer support his heavy body. With a "thud," he collapsed heavily onto the cold cement floor like a broken puppet.

Sweat instantly soaked through his clothes on his back, bringing a chilling sensation. He gasped for breath, his chest heaving violently, trying to calm his heart, which felt like it was about to explode.

But just seconds later, a completely different flame reignited in his eyes!

The long-suppressed, raging fire of revenge was suddenly ignited, pulling him back from the abyss of despair. The enormous psychological gap instantly transformed into an unparalleled desire to kill and an impulse to vent!
The advantage is mine!

These four words exploded in his mind like a thunderbolt! After paying a heavy price, the situation had finally been completely reversed!

kill!

kill!

kill!

"Ho...ho..."

Eames let out a low, unintelligible growl, like the howl of a wounded beast.

He leaped up, grabbed the AK rifle leaning against the wall, deftly replaced it with the last full magazine, and with a "click," pulled the bolt to chamber the round.

His bloodshot eyes swept over his equally wounded and exhausted surviving subordinates, whose eyes also burned with hope and fury. Suddenly, he raised his arm and, with all his might, let out a deafening roar like that of a wounded lion, the sound echoing through the empty, dilapidated building:

"Everyone—!!!"

He roared, then spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the ground: "Counterattack! Now! Kill them all! Leave no one alive! Do you hear me? Not a single one left alive! Anyone you can see, anyone who can move, if they're those bastards, kill them all! With bullets! With bayonets! With your teeth! Tear them apart! Avenge our fallen brothers! For Izliya! Kill—!!!"

This roar, filled with endless rage and a killing command, was like igniting the final fuse!
The reserve soldiers of the "Death Squad" surged out of the building ruins, basements, and half-collapsed bunkers like Spartan warriors hearing the bugle call to charge. They rushed toward the two BMP97 infantry fighting vehicles that had been hidden behind the broken walls.

The roar of engines once again echoed through the streets of Isriyah.

At this point, the remaining militants of the "Storm" squad, having lost their commander, completely lost all organization and fighting spirit.

Their minds were completely consumed by extreme fear, leaving only the most primal survival instinct.

Tactics, doctrines, honor—all were cast aside. Like a swarm of headless flies, they discarded everything they could—weapons, ammunition, even canteens and rations—just to run faster.

They cried and cursed as they ran frantically toward the nearest direction in their memory, the direction they thought might be safe—the depths of the desert, the dry riverbed, the sparse bushes—wishing they hadn't been given two more legs.

However, in this vast and boundless desert, where there seems to be a place to hide but in reality there is nowhere to escape, the infantry, having lost their vehicles and organization, were doomed to fail when facing high-speed armored hunters.

The "Death Squad" troop carriers launched their first attack just hundreds of meters from the fleeing soldiers as soon as they left the city.

Two large-caliber roof-mounted machine guns roared deafeningly.

The dense barrage of heavy machine gun bullets, like the Grim Reaper's scythe with eyes, sliced ​​through the dry air and fell into the fleeing crowd with a piercing whistle.

Each explosion sent up towering columns of sand and blood mist, and each long burst of fire swept down a group of people.

This was not a precision shot, but a barrage of overwhelming fire, designed to create extreme panic and chaos, completely scattering the fleeing soldiers and eliminating any possibility of them rallying to resist.

Countless flowers of death bloomed instantly on the desert, screams rose and fell, and the bodies that were hit rolled and convulsed on the sand, leaving long trails of blood.

The tank group began to accelerate, like a pack of wolves hunting, using its speed advantage to weave in and divide the enemy.

They no longer pursued long-range killing efficiency, but ruthlessly approached those relatively concentrated rout squads.

The three infantry fighting vehicles quickly converged, then dispersed again to pursue in different directions.

Everyone used the firing ports and the open hatch to carry out precise point kills with automatic rifles and light machine guns.

Those 1515 members who were slow to run or who had been shot but were not quite dead were even knocked down by the catching infantry fighting vehicles and then mercilessly run over...

The desert has become a huge, open-air slaughterhouse.

The yellow sand was stained an eerie reddish-brown, and the air was filled with an overwhelming stench of blood, gunpowder, diesel fuel, and a nauseatingly sweet, fishy smell from ruptured entrails.

The short bursts of assault rifles, the follow-up shots of pistols, the occasional explosions of grenades, and the desperate whimpers of the dying became the final notes in this desolate wasteland of death.

No prisoners, no negotiations, only utter and merciless annihilation, just as Eames's ferocious command said—"Leave no one alive!"

The scorching sun relentlessly baked this land that had just undergone the baptism of blood and fire.

About half an hour later, everything quieted down.

The hot desert wind swept across the outskirts of Isriyah, carrying with it a heavy stench of blood.

The city's residents, whose departure had been temporarily prevented by the battle, slowly emerged from the buildings. They paid no heed to the corpses of the terrorists left on the battlefield, but instead, carrying their belongings, they reverted to their previous numb, zombie-like state, their eyes filled with terror and panic, and began their escape once more…

(End of this chapter)