Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 951 Profit is more important than anything else
In the southern part of the Republic of Seine, the Lori River shimmers as a blurry silver ribbon under the moonlight.

Not far from the riverbank, the abandoned cannery known as "Palm Heart" stands silently under the thin moonlight, like the skeleton of a giant beast stranded outside of time.

The large storage tanks that were once used to store raw materials stand listlessly in the factory area, like aging giants. Their huge iron shells have long been eroded by tropical water vapor and scorching sun, and the rust, like congealed old bloodstains, has seeped deep into the twisted metal texture.

It was 9:40 p.m.

A black Citroën SUV with no markings glided like a ghost to the edge of a patch of weeds about fifty meters from the rusty gate of the factory, and came to a stop silently.

The moment the engine shut off, the last faint mechanical sound was swallowed up by the boundless silence.

The driver opened the car door, drew his pistol, and stood at the front of the car.

A bodyguard got out of the passenger seat, walked in the opposite direction from the driver, stopped at the side of the road, and also assumed a guarded posture.

The two back doors opened silently.

Two more bodyguards came down, standing on the left and right sides, respectively.

Finally, Charles climbed out of the car.

His hair was meticulously combed back, revealing a smooth, full forehead that was now slightly damp with sweat.

His hawk-like gaze swept sharply across the surroundings, his pupils instinctively contracting in response to the excessive stillness.

His fingers unconsciously traced the cold grip of the PAMAS G1 pistol tucked into his waistband, and a strange unease rose in his heart.

Henry's confident assurances, along with the enticing draft of the future resource allocation for the Republic of Seine, now seemed as fragile as a piece of paper soaked in water in this absolute desolation permeated with the scent of rust and decay.

"Pretend to be a ghost..."

Charles squeezed out a low mutter through clenched teeth, the sound so soft it was almost drowned out by his own heartbeat, more like a self-affirmation.

He took a deep breath, and the air, a mixture of metallic saltiness and rotting plants, rushed into his lungs. Instead of refreshing him, it brought a cold, sluggish feeling.

After straightening the already neat collar of his short-sleeved shirt, Charles strode toward the enormous factory that resembled the entrance to hell.

Beneath my feet lay broken concrete blocks and rampant weeds, each step producing a chilling rustling sound amplified in the vacuum-like silence.

At the entrance, a twisted and deformed metal door opened with a dark gap just wide enough for one person to pass through, revealing a night as thick as ink.

After the bodyguard went in first and checked to ensure safety, then turned back and nodded to him, Charles took one last deep breath of the air, which smelled strongly of rust, suppressed the churning in his throat, and slipped inside.

The thick darkness embraced him instantly, carrying an even stronger smell of mildew and metallic corrosion, pressing heavily on his senses.

His vision was temporarily impaired, and he was hesitating whether to put on night vision goggles.

"Click!"

A short, crisp metallic clang suddenly rang out high above!
Charles's muscles tensed instantly, and his heart felt like it was being gripped by an icy hand!
glare!

A blindingly bright beam of light suddenly slashed down from a high iron frame, pinning him and his entourage to the center of the beam from head to toe!

The bright light blinded him, and Charles instinctively raised his hand to shield his eyes, while his other hand flashed towards his waist.

"do not move."

a voice sounded.

Like a stone thrown into a deep pool, the sound was not loud, but it clearly penetrated the tinnitus caused by the bright light and hit Charles's eardrums directly, carrying an unquestionable authority.

The hand that had already touched the gun handle froze.

In the darkness at the edge of the beam of light, a figure slowly emerged from the shadow of a rusty can-making machine and stepped into the edge of the aperture.

The dark gray combat uniform covered his tall, lean body.

His steps were steady, each one perfectly timed to a silent rhythm.

The light finally illuminated his face—his features were sharp and chiseled, and his skin was a bronze color honed by years of sun and sand.

His eyes, sunken deep beneath his brow bone, were slightly narrowed under the bright light, yet his gaze was as calm as a lake, without the slightest ripple, unfathomable.

It was the face that Xia Er had seen countless times in the top-secret files of DGSE, and that had been archived and sealed away with the cold conclusion of "confirmed death (high probability)"—Song Heping!

Charles felt a chill rush from his tailbone up his spine to the back of his head, and his scalp tingled.

The cold, hard death sentence in the file now seemed like a huge and absurd mockery.

He is still alive!

Not only was it alive, but it also appeared before him in an extremely oppressive manner.

Charles's Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty. He slowly lowered the hand that had been blocking the light, and his hand that had been holding the gun was also very slowly pulled away from the hem of his clothes, hanging down at his side.

He straightened his back, trying to make his voice sound steady, even with a hint of professional arrogance: "Mr. Song? It's... an unbelievable 'resurrection.' When Henry told me you were still alive, I almost thought he was reciting some lousy Eastern myth."

He smirked and glanced around.

"You chose to meet me in this... industrial-vintage place, are you planning to sell me your stockpiled, expired canned anchovies? That's not a good deal."

Song Heping ignored his sarcasm.

He took a few steps forward, placing himself completely at the edge of the pillar of light, about five meters away from Charles—a dangerous distance that was clear enough to observe the other’s subtle expressions and enough to make a fatal reaction in an instant.

"Canneries have their advantages."

Song Heping's voice remained calm: "It's big enough, spacious enough, and quiet enough here. The echo is clear."

He paused for a moment, a rather amused smile appearing on his face.

"More importantly, this is a perfect place to dispose of a body—"

He pointed to the factory building across the street.

"There's also a juicer inside. If you put a person in, even their bones will be reduced to fragments."

"This……"

Charles felt a nameless fear.

His bodyguards around him also seemed nervous.

Song Heping raised his hand and made an extremely simple gesture.

"Snapped!"

The blinding light overhead suddenly went out!
Charles was instantly plunged into pure darkness, and the white spots of visual residuals flickered and danced wildly on his retina.

The sudden shift in light and dark disoriented him, his heart pounded again, his adrenaline surged, and his hand, which had been hanging by his side, clenched tightly, almost reaching for his waist again.

But the next second, there was another soft "click".

This time, it wasn't a bright light that lit up, but rather the light above a huge metal workbench next to Song Heping.

Several low-wattage incandescent light bulbs emitted a dim, steady, and somewhat weak light, like the eyes of an old man, barely dispelling a small patch of thick darkness around the workbench.

The light illuminated the countertop.

Ciel's pupils suddenly contracted!
A huge map!

There hung a detailed map of the military deployment of the Republic of Seine, covering the entire heavy metal workbench.

The map's level of detail is breathtaking, far exceeding any version currently in DGSE's possession.

The scale is precise, and streets, rivers, and buildings are depicted in minute detail.

It was covered with dense markings.

A scarlet magnetic nail was driven into the core of the government army's garrison, next to which were written in tiny characters the garrison's unit number, estimated number of troops, and even the commander's name and duty schedule.

The outer and inner defense perimeters of the Presidential Palace were clearly outlined with fluorescent markers of different colors, and the location of each surveillance camera was precisely marked with a glaring red dot!
What sent chills down Charles's spine even further was that the location of the British military advisory group's headquarters, the location of the communications center's antenna tower, the vehicle dispatch yard, and even several secret communication lines that he had only been able to vaguely grasp despite exhausting all of DGSE's resources, were all precisely marked with thin and cold dotted lines!
This isn't a map at all. It's a death list tailor-made for subversion!
A scalpel hanging over the throat of the Touré regime!

Song Heping walked to the workbench, his figure standing out clearly in the dim light. He extended a finger, the tip landing steadily on the icon of the inconspicuous abandoned plantation on the outskirts of Butare.

"My knife."

His voice was deep and clear, each word like a cold steel ball striking a metal table: "Three thousand, already polished to a shine."

The fingertip glides along a route meticulously drawn with fine black lines, as elusive as a venomous snake—it cleverly utilizes the city's sewage network, the ruins of abandoned factory areas, and even a stretch of deserted riverbank.

This route eerily avoids all major checkpoints and patrol routes, heading straight for the presidential palace, which is highlighted in the very center of the map!
"Start from here."

Song Heping tapped his fingertips heavily on a spot marked "G4 checkpoint" on the perimeter of the Presidential Palace.

"Dour's Royal Guard is the most formidable elite force protecting Butare. But their reaction time..."

He raised his eyes, his gaze piercing Charles like a scalpel.

"It will take twenty minutes."

Under the dim light, Ciel's facial muscles twitched slightly.

twenty minutes!

Behind this alarmingly precise figure lies a terrifying level of control the enemy has over their shift change procedures, communication delays, and the efficiency of their command chain!

This is not just intelligence; it's infiltrating the enemy's very marrow!
"twenty minutes."

Song Heping repeated the time value, his fingertip still pointing at the scarlet checkpoint marker, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather, "Enough for my blade to be pressed against Duer's throat."

Inside the enormous factory, only the faint hum of electricity from old light bulbs echoed.

In the dim light, Charles's heart pounded wildly in his chest, not from fear, but from an almost dizzying shock and a hint of uncontrollable excitement!

This plan is bold, crazy, and a gamble!
Yet it is precise, meticulous, and ruthless!
Every point in time, every choice of breakthrough, is like a precise clock gear, relentlessly targeting the weakest and most disorganized part of the opponent's defense system!

This was not a haphazard attack by mercenaries; it was a surgical decapitation strike!
He unconsciously took a step forward, his leather shoes making a slight creaking sound on the dusty, debris-strewn ground.

He stared intently at the deadly black route and the red dot marked "G4 Outpost" on the map, trying to make out more details. The enormous economic benefits offered by the draft mineral allocation plan suddenly seemed so vulgar, short-sighted, and even... insignificant in the face of this naked, brutally subversive blueprint.

"Where are the British?"

Charles's voice was dry and strained. He abruptly raised his head and pointed to the area on the map marked with a signal tower icon, representing the British Army Advisory Group's communications center. "Weber and his men, these guys' eyes and ears aren't just for show! Once the warning is activated, even if it's only a few minutes in advance, you'll be put on the defensive..."

He stared at Song Heping, his tone carrying a hint of doubt and a subtle probing.

This is indeed the weakest link in the entire insane plan.

"Their ears..."

Song Heping interrupted him with a flat, monotone voice, as if stating a natural law that had already been proven.

"It will become a mere decoration the moment the operation begins."

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze falling on the shadowy corner behind the workbench. "Collins, show Mr. Charles our strength."

In the corner, the screen of a military-grade ruggedized laptop lit up, and the dim blue light instantly outlined the silhouette of a young man sitting on a simple folding chair.

Collins' face appeared unusually pale under the screen light, expressionless, with a focused, almost vacant gaze.

His slender fingers tapped the keyboard rapidly, his movements concise and efficient, instantly switching the screen display.

A complex, constantly fluctuating spectrogram occupies the left side of the screen, while the right side displays a waterfall-like refresh of the signal waveform.

Colorful lines representing different frequencies and intensities dance wildly on the grid.

"British military advisory group, all primary and backup communication frequencies have been captured."

Collins' voice rang out, cold and flat, devoid of any emotional fluctuation, like a machine-generated speech.

"Current encryption protocol, 'Sentinel-3B'. Cracking success rate: 99.7%."

He tapped another button. On the screen, the complex waveform representing the "Sentinel-3B" encryption layer was instantly deconstructed and stripped away, revealing a clear fragment of the underlying voice data stream, which flashed by in an instant.

Ciel's pupils contracted sharply again! 99.7%!

This is practically equivalent to a complete crack!
DGSE's proud technical department, when faced with the "Sentinel" series of encryption protocols, has at best managed to barely penetrate early versions of them!

How can this be? !
Collins' fingers didn't stop; he pressed another key combination.

The screen display changed again.

A partial map of Butare has surfaced, clearly marking the location of the British Army communications center.

Three constantly flashing green dots are distributed in a triangle within an 800-meter radius of the target's center.

This is clearly evidence of a successful intrusion and eavesdropping!

"Preset electromagnetic interference pulse generator".

Collins' voice remained flat, as if he were reading an instruction manual: "Deployed on three optimal nodes in the target area."

He raised his eyelids and said with a hint of smugness, "After the activation command is issued, all wireless communications and data links in the target area will be paralyzed within 0.5 seconds, lasting for at least ninety minutes."

Charles gasped, his voice clearly audible in the deathly silent factory!
0.5 seconds!
Paralyzed for ninety minutes!

This was a fatal blow that directly severed the British army's connection to the Sena regime's nerve center!
Looking at Song Heping's expressionless face under the light, and then at Collins's pale face in the shadows, illuminated by the blue screen, which looked like a UFO, Xia Er realized for the first time with absolute clarity that he was not facing an avenger who had escaped by chance, but a war machine assembled from a cold will and destructive technology.

It lurks in the shadows, waiting for the fatal blow.

The Englishman messed with this guy...

That was incredibly unwise.

Previously, GDSE was still resentful about the success of the Touré coup, believing that Noel's guards were too incompetent, which led to Song Heping's lucky success. Now it seems that nothing is accidental, and the result was not obtained by chance.

He and the agents in his department deserved their defeat.

However, this is clearly also his best opportunity.

At the very least, they can turn the tide and regain control of Senna.

"It's your turn to offer your bargaining chips."

Song Heping's gaze refocused on Xia Er: "The names of the puppets you control within the Duer government, the names, ranks, units, current exact locations, personal and family background weaknesses, secure communication methods and frequencies of all high-ranking military officials."

His voice was steady as he listed the demands, each one pointing to a core vulnerability.

"All the information must be in my hands by noon tomorrow at the latest. I must contact them and give them instructions when the operation takes place."

He paused for a second, then drew a circle on the map with his fingertip.

"In exchange, after the establishment of the new regime, in addition to the three mines I originally owned, French companies will have indisputable priority in negotiations and most-favored-nation terms for other mining rights and reconstruction projects in Seine."

His gaze was as sharp as a hawk's.

"Furthermore, at the UN level, before the dust settles, a necessary 'diplomatic silence' is needed—the voice of France, all voices, including those within the General Assembly and in media outlets such as AFP, must stir up trouble for us, and do everything in their power to legitimize our coup. As for how to do it, I don't think I need to teach you experts in spreading rumors step by step, do I?"

"priority……"

Charles's gaze was fixed on the marker in the mining area, as if he wanted to imprint it on his retina.

"...It must be included in the first batch of formal bilateral memoranda after the new government is established. It must be in black and white and have the binding force of international law."

His tone was firm and unambiguous, leaving no room for ambiguity.

This is a crucial cornerstone for France's resource landscape in the Seine and throughout Africa for decades to come.

"Sure." Song Heping's answer was without any hesitation, as crisp and decisive as the click of a bullet being chambered.

Charles silently exhaled a breath of stale air.

A heavy psychological burden was finally lifted from my heart.

He didn't speak again, but slowly, with an almost ritualistic solemnity, he took out a dark brown, finely textured crocodile cigar box from the inside pocket of his suit.

"Clap."

The sound of the lid popping open was as crisp as the release of a gun's safety in the silence.

He took out a dark brown Cohiba cigar and handed it to Song Heping: "Want one?"

Song Heping shook his head: "I don't smoke."

"Cigars shouldn't be inhaled." Charles didn't try to persuade him further, but instead calmly and decisively cut off the cap of the cigar with the cigar cutter he carried with him.

Then, he pulled a Dupont lighter from another pocket.

"Shoot-"

The roller rubbed against the flint, and a steady cluster of orange flames leaped up, illuminating Charles' focused profile.

He brought the cigar close to the flame, not in a hurry to light it, but letting the flickering flames evenly and patiently lick the dark brown body of the cigar, slowly rotating it.

The subtle crackling sounds of fine tobacco being roasted and the unique aroma of burning kerosene filled the air, strangely diluting the heavy smell of rust in the factory and bringing a touch of luxurious warmth.

He took a deep breath, letting the rich, mellow smoke swirl and linger in his mouth for a moment before slowly and deeply exhaling.

The grayish-white smoke rose, swirled, and spread under the dim yellow light, blurring the last trace of struggle and calculation in his eyes.

"Files and contact information."

Charles finally spoke again, with a resolute air that suggested the matter had been settled: "Within four hours, it will be sent to the secret mailbox you specify via Henry's secure line."

He paused, took a puff of his cigar, let the smoke swirl in his lungs, and then continued, each word clear and heavy: "As for the UN and public opinion... the French Republic knows how to provide you with protection when appropriate. You can rest assured about that."

An invisible contract was quietly formed under the spicy aroma of cigars and the dim light.

There was no handshake, no extra promises.

Only the exchange of glances confirmed the tacit understanding between them.

Song Heping's gaze fell once more upon the enormous map, a map imbued with ambition and carnage.

His gaze finally focused on the center of the map, on the small red dot that symbolized the core of the Presidential Palace of Touré.

He reached out and picked up the cigar cutter that Charles had casually placed on the edge of the table, then asked Charles for a cigar.

"Crack!"

A short, crisp sound, with a metallic shearing quality, suddenly rang out in the empty factory.

The cut, still slightly damp, dark brown cigar tip fell from the open scissors.

"despair."

It rolled precisely onto the map surface, completely covering the scarlet dot—the location of the Presidential Palace.

The cigar end lay there quietly, exuding a chilling symbolic meaning.

Charles understood immediately, took out the Dupont lighter again, opened the cap with a clang, lit it with a snap, and handed the lighter to Song Heping.

Song Heping lit a cigar, put it in his mouth, and took a puff.

The aroma of the cigar lingers in your mouth before you exhale.

It's true that you don't need to go through your lungs.

"It's a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Charles."

He said.

(End of this chapter)