Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 936 Director Vincent's Kill Order

1 people?

One-on-one against thousands of militants?

Director Vincent's hawk-like eyes were fixed on the huge satellite screen, as if trying to pierce through the cold pixels.

On the screen, a solitary, fiery white dot representing the human body is being tightly surrounded by hundreds, even thousands, of red dots representing hostility on the steep, desolate slope atop Mount Gelby.

The red dots, like a swarm of hungry ants, surged toward the white dot in the center, only to dim and disappear amidst the fine flashes around the white dot, representing precise shooting—a sign of life's end, a fall from the cliff into the abyss.

A sense of absurdity surged through Vincent like a cold electric current, causing his knuckles to turn slightly white as he gripped the coffee cup.

1 people?

Fighting against thousands?

Could this be due to interference with the satellite signal?
Or is Langley's server playing a hellish joke?
His throat felt dry, and he couldn't help but rub his eyes.

"The initial intelligence indicated that he had some people with him, including Wakner mercenaries, but... we don't know where they went."

Simon's voice rang out at just the right moment, carrying a perfectly timed hint of confusion, like a pre-rehearsed line.

He stood in front of Vincent, holding his breath.

The plan to persuade my boss has begun, and every step is fraught with peril.

Vincent didn't turn around, but his brows furrowed even more deeply, as if tied in a knot.

The light spots on the screen continued to flicker and move stubbornly, each movement following the most treacherous route on Mount Gelby, each counterattack so precise that one couldn't help but want to cheer loudly.

This is illogical, utterly illogical!

"I think he's trying to use himself as bait."

Simon continued cautiously, lowering his voice, with a sense of regret for the "end of a hero's life."

"To give his friends a chance to escape. Knowing Song Heping as I do... he would do that. He's a madman, but a madman with deep feelings."

Vincent stared intently at the screen.

Bait?

Feed yourself to thousands of mad dogs?

Suddenly, his tightly furrowed brows relaxed as if an iceberg were thawing, and the corners of his mouth even involuntarily twitched upwards, revealing a cold, relieved smugness.

Yup!

such……

He is dead!

The cold smile froze on his face, carrying a cruel pleasure: "In that case... he's doomed. Why should we do it? Let the people of 1515 tear him to pieces, it'll be cleaner and quicker, no trouble at all."

It's worry-free, effortless, and keeps your hands clean.

Perfect ending.

He even picked up the slightly chilled coffee, took a sip, and felt the bitterness spread on his tongue, as if savoring a harbinger of victory.

coming!

Simon felt a slight tremor in his heart.

Vincent's response was planned, but it was also on the verge of the most dangerous moment.

He immediately stepped forward, his voice tinged with a clear sense of worry: "Director, Song Heping truly has no hope of winning, but..."

He paused deliberately, his gaze like a probe, fixed on Vincent's slightly turned face.

"But he might not die. What if... he's exhausted and captured, and ends up alive in the hands of the 1515s..."

He had to bring that vague possibility to life.

He paused meaningfully, his sharp gaze piercing Vincent as if trying to pry open the safe in his mind.

“That guy… knows a lot of our secrets, even some of the ‘matters’ you personally handled. The consequences… will be severe.”

After he finished speaking, he held his breath.

The stakes are in; life or death hangs in the balance.

His eyes seemed welded to Vincent's face, awaiting the final verdict that would decide his life or death.

The office fell into a deathly silence.

Only the central air conditioning emitted a monotonous hissing sound.

Time seemed to be stretched out and frozen.

One second, two seconds...

ten seconds...

Thirty seconds...

Every second feels like a century.

Vincent sat like a statue in the large leather chair, his gaze refocusing on the glaring white dot on the screen.

surrender?

Did it fall into the hands of 1515?

The thought, like a venomous snake, burrowed into his mind, instantly extinguishing his earlier smugness.

Those deeply buried secrets...

Song Heping's cold, all-seeing face...

Cold sweat silently seeped from his forehead.

A full minute later.

Vincent finally moved!
His movements were as swift as a cheetah hunting its prey. He sprang from his chair, leaned forward, and grabbed the blood-red, secure telephone on the table—a symbol of supreme authority.

Click——!
When the microphone was picked up, the sound of the metal buckle popping open was as crisp as a bullet being chambered.

“CAOC, this is Vincent.”

Vincent's voice came through the microphone, cold, hard, and flat; every word was like an icicle chiseled from the depths of a polar glacier, coated with deadly poison.

"Activate special operations authorization to execute Operation 'Death's Verdict'. Target area: Coordinates XXX-XXX."

The numbers he gave were cold and precise.

"Mission Objective: Eliminate all high-value heat source signals within the area. Indiscriminately."

He emphasized the words "no difference" with extra force.

He paused slightly, his gaze, like a viper's forked tongue, still fixed on the glaringly bright dot on the screen representing Song Heping. He added, his tone resolute with a sense of utter annihilation: "Air Force fighter jets armed with thermobaric and cluster bombs. Requirements: Saturation coverage. Ensure no living thing remains on or below that mountain. Priority: Immediate!"

"Leave no living creatures behind"—this was a swift and complete annihilation order.

A clear response came from the other end of the phone: "Command confirmed, 'Death's Judgment'. Target coordinates XXX-XXX. Indiscriminate elimination, saturation coverage. The 'Reaper' formation will take off with weapons loaded in ten minutes and is expected to arrive at the target airspace within forty minutes. Fire control authority is being transferred."

"Vincent, permission level 5, authorization code: XXXX-XX-XXX."

Vincent finally gave his last name, authorization level, and code, his voice perfectly calm and even, before slamming down the red phone.

Click! The crisp sound, like the guillotine blade falling, echoed in the deathly silent office, lingering for a long time.

The verdict has been delivered.

He didn't look at Simon again.

Instead, he slowly leaned back into the large, high-backed chair, picked up the completely cold cup of coffee on the table again, brought it to his lips, and took a small sip.

The cold liquid slid down my throat, bringing a strange, tingling sensation.

He had a strange feeling, like insects hidden under his skin, which he could sense but couldn't touch or grasp.

Eastern Syria, on the eastern foothills of the Gelby Mountains, at the summit.

The gale, like countless invisible whips, whipped sand and gravel fiercely against Song Heping's bare neck and the back of his hands, bringing a stinging pain.

He knelt on one knee beside a huge, wind-eroded, pitted rock, his body motionless like a sculpture embedded in the mountain.

The AK-12 assault rifle was firmly propped up in the hollow of the rock, its cold barrel trembling slightly in the strong wind.

There is enough ammunition.

Utkin and his men left themselves enough ammunition before they withdrew.

The magazines were lined up at his feet, like soldiers awaiting inspection.

The heavy weight was his only support at that moment.

How could he single-handedly confront thousands of terrorists fueled by religious fanaticism?
The thought flashed through Song Heping's mind, and a self-deprecating smile appeared on his lips.

It sounds like a fantasy, a hundred times more absurd than Don Quixote rushing towards windmills.

But he knew better than anyone that what he needed was not victory, but time.

A high-stakes gamble, precise to the second.

He was calculating rapidly in his mind.

US military, CIA, Vincent...

Their reaction time window should be within two hours.

The US military base in Bakta, which hasn't been completely evacuated yet, must still have F-15 Strike Eagles, excellent ground attack aircraft, in its hangars.

Vincent, that old fox, would never let go of this "golden opportunity" that could both eliminate his biggest threat and severely damage 1515.

Using the privileges of the CAOC (Air Operations Center), dispatching fighter jets to drop precision-guided bombs, leveling him along with the hilltop beneath his feet—this was Vincent's most likely option, and also the fatal link in Song's peace plan.

He didn't even need to explain a word to Simondo.

Simon is a smart man.

A clever man caught between himself and Vincent, secretly strangled by both sides.

He certainly wanted to die, just like Ms. M and Vincent.

But he was more afraid of those "safes" hidden deep in the internet—backups of incriminating evidence that could ruin his reputation or even send him to prison by Vincent himself.

I warned him: if he betrays me again, those things will spread like a plague across the internet and reach Vincent's desk.

Therefore, when Simon chose to become this doomed "bait," he felt it was the best way to solve all his problems.

He will definitely use all his skills, exaggerate, and even suggest that Vincent use air power to carry out a thorough "purification".

Song Heping was absolutely certain of this.

This is an open conspiracy, aimed at everyone who wants him dead.

The clamor from below the mountain was like a flood bursting its banks, surging and crashing against the silent mountain walls, growing louder and closer.

The roar of the armored pickup truck engine was like the howl of a wounded beast; the distorted prayers and shouts amplified by megaphones of fanatics were mixed with the chaotic gunfire of indiscriminately spraying bullets into the sky...

All sorts of sounds churned together wildly, forming a terrifying, nerve-wracking storm of noise.

The storm is coming from the north, west, and east, like a tightening noose, carrying an aura of destruction, and is pressing madly towards the mountaintop.

Song Heping slightly adjusted his kneeling position to allow the sore, numb, and stiff muscles in his right leg to relax a little.

His gaze, like the most sophisticated battlefield radar, calmly and swiftly swept across the main axes of attack below.

To the north, a dozen or so armed pickup trucks led the way, their engines roaring and kicking up clouds of dust, forming a rolling, brownish-yellow "dragon" that was charging up the relatively gentle valley.

On the back of the pickup truck, the thick barrel of a heavy machine gun gleamed with an ominous light, its muzzle pointing directly at the mountaintop.

The distance is less than one kilometer.

He could even see the ferocious expressions on the faces of the militants standing in the truck bed—black turbans wrapped around their heads, waving AK rifles, their eyes burning with bloodthirsty madness.

To the west and east, there were attack groups mainly composed of infantry.

The number of people was even greater, like two turbid, viscous yellow streams, struggling to climb upwards, using the rocks and sparse bushes at the foot of the mountain as cover.

They are like a persistent, insidious disease, slowly but steadily eroding every inch of land.

The nearest vanguard is only seven or eight hundred meters away!

All, all, all——

Da da da da——

The gunfire from the foot of the mountain suddenly became more intense, no longer just sporadic stray bullets.

Bullets, whistling sharply, began to rain down on the mountaintop in an organized manner, as a probing form of suppressive fire.

Several bullets thudded and struck the edge of the boulder where he was hiding. The hard rock shattered instantly, sending up fine stone fragments that pelted his helmet and bulletproof vest like shotgun pellets, leaving tiny white marks.

The atmosphere of danger instantly intensified.

Further away, several heavy machine guns emitted a muffled roar.

Long tongues of fire lashed out wildly in the still-lingering morning mist, their intensity striking the eye. Crimson tracer bullets trailed trails of death, lashing the sky above him and the rocks to his sides like scorching whips, sending boulders tumbling down like hailstones.

"Allahu Akbar!!"

"Seize that heretic! Tear him to pieces!!"

"For the Caliph! For the holy war!!"

The frantic roars, mixed with the deafening gunfire and engine noise, grew closer and clearer, like the agonizing howls of demons crawling out of the abyss of hell, filling Song Heping's ears.

Song Heping still did not fire back.

He remained as silent as a rock, not firing a single shot.

He simply knelt there quietly, feeling the approaching storm of death.

His gaze passed over the boiling killing intent below and landed on the south side of Mount Gelby.

To the south, all was deathly silent.

That was the steepest and most precipitous slope of the entire Gelby Mountain. Jagged, jagged rocks and near-vertical cliffs were daunting, making it several times more difficult to climb than other directions.

A turbid river called "Hailgan" meanders like a giant, dark green python at the foot of the mountains, flowing towards Deir ez-Zor in the distance.

That desolate place, that rushing river, was the only path he had reserved for himself, leading to his last glimmer of hope.

(End of this chapter)