Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 955 Face-to-Face Negotiation
Seine, Butare, inside the presidential palace.

The dust from the shattered concrete fell like gray snow, covering President Touré's once neat, graying temples.

Just now, Song Heping deployed mortars to bombard the roof of the Presidential Palace, killing more than ten guards who were stubbornly resisting by taking advantage of the terrain.

Now, President Touré's already dwindling number of guards has dwindled even further.

He sat stiffly behind the huge, power-symbol mahogany desk, his expensive suit covered in dust, like a statue abandoned in ruins.

The expensive Persian carpet in the office was shaken so badly that one corner rolled up, and the crystal chandelier swayed wildly, casting broken, flickering light and shadow.

The air was filled with the pungent smell of gunpowder and the acrid smell of dust burned by high temperatures.

Outside the presidential palace, the emotionless, metallic tones of the megaphones set up by the coup forces continued to pound against the walls outside the windows, repeating the ultimatum over and over again—

"...Relinquish your power and guarantee your safe departure...otherwise, you will bear the consequences..."

"I want to negotiate... I want to talk to that guy surnamed Song..."

Suddenly, Duer regained a sliver of reason. He abruptly turned and called to his secretary, "Austin! Austin!"

"I'm here, Mr. President..."

Secretary Austin strode in from outside, looking disheveled and covered in dust. The shelling had brought everyone hiding there to the brink of collapse.

His voice was trembling.

"What are your orders?"

"Go! Tell Song Heping that I demand negotiations!"

"Negotiations?" The deputy looked around. "Where to negotiate?"

"Here! Right here!"

Duer suddenly became irritable, veins popping out of his temples. He jabbed his chair hard with his hand, as if it were a throne of power that no one could take away.

"it is good……"

The secretary had no choice but to nod.

The president is very irritable right now, so it's best not to provoke him. No one can guarantee that Toure won't pull out a gun and kill someone if he loses his temper.

but……

Will Song Heping come in to negotiate?
He dares to venture into the tiger's den alone?
Aren't you afraid that the hot-tempered Duer will simply have his guards physically eliminate him inside the presidential palace?
With these questions in mind, Austin left the presidential office.

However, just ten minutes later, the heavy oak door of the presidential office slid open silently, and Song Heping appeared in the doorway, with the presidential secretary Austin standing beside him, looking incredulous.

He was alone and carried no conspicuous weapons.

The smell of gunpowder on him clashed violently with the lingering scents of cologne and cigars in the office.

The door slowly closed behind him, shutting out the subtle tension outside.

Duer straightened his hunched back, trying to regain a sliver of his former dignity in this desperate situation.

He watched as Song Heping approached step by step and stopped in front of the large desk. His hawk-like eyes were calm and unwavering, as if he were just attending an ordinary meeting.

"Song..."

Duer's voice was hoarse, carrying a hint of deliberate mockery and probing, "You really dare to walk in alone? Aren't you afraid that with one order from me, the guards lying in ambush will riddle you with bullets?"

A fierce glint flashed in his cloudy eyes, like a cornered beast struggling for survival. His fingers tapped unconsciously on the table. "You really think you're Rambo? You think you can walk out of here all by yourself?"

Song Heping did not answer immediately.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping across the corner of the office, the heavy curtains, and the side lounge door, as if assessing the truth or falsehood of Duer's words.

The silence lasted for a few seconds, making the air in the office so still it seemed almost dripping with moisture.

Duer's heart pounded in his chest; he could even hear the roar of his own blood rushing through his veins.

Finally, Song Heping's lips twitched upwards very slightly. It wasn't a smile, but more like a knowing sneer.

"Dure."

His voice was deep and steady, each word like an ice bead hitting the ground.

He didn't even bother to use the word "president".

In Song Heping's eyes, the man in front of him was a raging, incompetent puppet who had long been deposed and was no longer a "president".

"Since I dared to come in, I must have my reasons. You are welcome to give it a try."

His gaze suddenly sharpened, piercing Duer's eyes. "However, before you press that button to summon the guards, I suggest you take a look at this first."

Song Heping calmly pulled a cell phone from another pocket of his tactical vest.

He operates it with one hand, and the screen lights up with a cold light.

Instead of handing it over, he turned the screen toward Duer and swiped his thumb lightly.

On the screen, more than a dozen real-time monitoring images are clearly displayed, and the switching is smooth.

First image: A heavily guarded luxury manor villa on the western outskirts of Butare. The villa is surrounded by lush greenery, but several prominent red crosshairs are clearly visible on the main building's key exits and even the second-floor balcony—the aiming markers for sniper rifles. A timestamp in the corner of the image indicates the current time.

Second scene: A penthouse duplex in a modern apartment building in the capital's affluent district. In front of the huge floor-to-ceiling window, a man in his thirties, wearing pajamas and bearing a resemblance to Duer, paces anxiously back and forth. This is Duer's youngest son, and his favorite. He seems to be desperately trying to make a phone call, but can't get through, and is stamping his feet in frustration. Behind him, a glaring red light is reflected in the glass window.

The third image: A private beach in a Mediterranean coastal city. Several young men and women in swimsuits are playing, including his eldest grandson and eldest granddaughter, their figures zoomed in and magnified. In the shadow of palm trees at the edge of the frame, a well-disguised camera is pointed directly at them.

The fourth picture: There is even another one, which is of Duhr's younger sister, who is an executive at a Swiss bank and has long since escaped the vortex of domestic politics. She is walking out of a high-end restaurant in Zurich, and there seems to be a camera reflection flashing by in the window of an inconspicuous black car across the street.

……

The footage kept switching, covering almost all the core members and important collateral relatives of the Duer family, with locations both domestically and internationally.

Every scene conveys the same chilling message: their every move is under close, real-time surveillance, and their lives hang in the balance, held by Song Heping's mere whim.

"How did you do that..."

The color drained from Duer's face instantly, and even his lips turned a deathly gray.

He sprang up from his chair, braced his hands on the table, leaned forward, and stared intently at the small screen.

He recognized his son, grandson, nephew...

And my sister is far away in Switzerland!
The glaring red dots on the screen, like red-hot irons, burned his retina and seared his nerves.

"you you……"

Duer's voice suddenly became broken and fragmented, like that of a despairing person who had fallen into an abyss.

He extended a trembling finger, pointing at Song Heping, his knuckles turning white from the force.

"How dare you... threaten me with my family?!"

Song Heping slowly put his phone away, the screen went out, and the cold light disappeared from his face, but his eyes were even more piercing than the light from the screen.

"This is not a threat, Your Excellency, I am simply stating the facts."

Song Heping's tone was completely calm, as if he were discussing the weather.

"This is insurance. To ensure you listen to my terms calmly and make an informed choice. You just mentioned 'shot to death'? If you or your loyal guards do anything unfriendly to me..."

His gaze swept over Duer's horrified face.

"Then, your entire family will be buried with you. From your great-grandchildren as infants to your sister enjoying her twilight years in Switzerland. My men will make sure they... die without pain, but very thoroughly. Would you like to try, Dur?"

Duer's body swayed violently, as if struck by an invisible hammer. He staggered back a step and slumped heavily back into the large leather chair.

The spine that supported his last bit of strength seemed to have been pulled away in an instant.

He collapsed like a punctured balloon, overwhelmed by immense fear and despair, which instantly engulfed him like a cold tide.

He looked at Song Heping, the man who stood before his desk, a symbol of his power, and who controlled the life and death of all his bloodline. For the first time, he felt a profound and utter sense of powerlessness, with no room for resistance.

family……

That was one of the ultimate goals of his lifelong struggle to seize power, and it was something he truly cared about in this world.

Now, these people he cherishes have become fish on the chopping block for the other party.

Armored brigades and thrones of power become pale, powerless, and even laughable in the face of the ultimate fear of bloodline extinction.

Duer stared intently at the photo, his eyes seemingly bulging out of their sockets.

He suddenly reached out his trembling hand, grabbed the phone, and brought it close to his eyes.

Suddenly, he let out a wounded roar like a wild beast!
"Fake! It's all fake!"

Duer suddenly raised his head, his bloodshot eyes burning with a final madness and a desperate gamble.

The desire for power ultimately suppressed reason.

"Song Heping! You think you can fool me with a composite photo? Lumar will not fail! My six armored brigades are invincible! You filthy hyenas deserve to be crushed!"

He threw his phone back onto the table, as if grasping at a last straw.

"I will not fail! I still have a chance! You have no leverage to demand that I step down unconditionally!"

Song Heping stood opposite Duer, separated by a large desk.

The mixture of gunpowder and sweat emanating from him clashed sharply with the lingering cologne scent in the office.

He stared blankly as the last trace of color drained from Duer's face, and saw that those once arrogant eyes now held only the emptiness shattered by a heavy hammer and an incredulous terror.

"Dure."

Song Heping's voice was as calm as a frozen lake, devoid of any victor's arrogance, only conveying a cold, unquestionable sense of finality: "The conditions in the loudspeaker are my bottom line. Sign, relinquish power, and your personal safety and existing assets will be guaranteed. I will arrange a private jet to send you and your family to Switzerland, or anywhere you choose, to live quietly as wealthy gentlemen. The Isis family will not lay a finger on you, I guarantee it."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp as a knife. "This is your only chance to leave with dignity."

Duer's fingers twitched nervously, gripping the smooth edge of the mahogany tabletop tightly, and his body leaned forward instinctively.

He suddenly raised his head, and the emptiness in his eyes was instantly ignited by a near-mad gambler's flame.

"Decent?"

His voice was hoarse, carrying the roar of a cornered beast, "Song Heping! You underestimate me, Duer! You think you've won just by surrounding this house?"

He slammed his hand on the table, making the crystal ashtray on it jump. "Lumaar! My Commander-in-Chief of the Defense Forces! He has six fully equipped armored brigades! The most elite T-72 tanks! They are rushing back to reinforce! It won't be long before their tracks crush your rabble!"

His chest heaved violently, as if the enormous roar had exhausted his last strength, leaving only futile gasps.

"At that time, Song Heping, you will kneel before me and beg for mercy! And you—"

His bloodshot eyes were fixed on Song Heping, and he raised his finger to point at the guy he wished he could tear to pieces.

"And you filthy mercenaries, none of you will live!"

Song Heping listened quietly, his face expressionless, except for a very slight downward slant at the corner of his mouth, forming a cold and mocking arc.

There was no anger or impatience in his eyes, only a calmness bordering on pity.

"Lumaar's armored brigade?"

Song Heping's voice remained calm, even carrying a peculiar patience, as if he were explaining an obvious truth to a stubborn child.

He slowly pulled a folded photograph from the pocket of his tactical vest, the movement carrying a slow, ritualistic quality.

He held the photo by one corner with two fingers, reached his arm across the table, and gently pushed it in front of Duer's eyes.

The photograph has a cold, hard texture and neatly cut edges.

The scene is from an overhead perspective, showing the edge of a vast desert, with a dull, monotonous yellow color dominating most of the view.

What draws the eye is the central image, where a rudimentary road stretching along a dry riverbed is seen as a steel torrent being tightly choked.

A dozen or so T-72 main battle tanks painted in desert camouflage, along with an even greater number of infantry fighting vehicles and armored personnel carriers, were crammed together in the narrow valley, like toys carelessly tossed aside by a giant hand.

Several leading tanks were clearly destroyed, their turrets tilted, and the billowing black smoke from the burning hulls seemed to emanate a burnt smell even in still photos.

At the edge of the photo, on several low but strategically important hills, the completed anti-tank positions are clearly visible, with gun barrels standing menacingly beneath the camouflage nets, pointing at the massive convoy below that is unable to move.

The whole scene exudes a suffocating despair—immense power is trapped in a cage, with deadly fangs already bared above its head.

"This is a photo taken three hours ago by my drone team, a real-time image taken over the Omarkan Valley."

Song Heping's voice was completely flat, as if he were stating a fact that had nothing to do with him.

"Your six armored brigades, or rather, the six armored brigades commanded by Minister Lumar, are currently being blocked in the Omarkan Valley by the mobile anti-tank battalions of the 8th and 10th Brigades, which are controlled by the Isis family. They are unable to make any progress."

He paused, his gaze like a cold probe piercing Duer's rapidly contracting pupils. "Rely on them? Your Excellency, you might as well hope for a miracle."

Duer stared intently at the photo, his eyes seemingly bulging out of their sockets.

He suddenly reached out his trembling hand, grabbed the photo, and brought it close to his eyes, his nose almost touching the cold paper.

He greedily and frantically scanned every detail in the photographs: every burning black smoke point, the outline of every crippled tank, and the camouflage netting patterns of every anti-tank gun emplacement on the ridge.

His breathing became increasingly heavy, each inhalation sounding like a broken bellows being pulled, and a strange "hoarse" sound came from his throat.

The air in the office seemed to freeze, leaving only his rough breathing and the monotonous, repetitive shouts from the loudspeaker outside the window.

Suddenly, he let out a wounded roar like a wild beast! "Impossible! Absolutely impossible!!"

Duer suddenly raised his head, his bloodshot eyes burning with a final madness and a desperate gamble.

"Song Heping! You think you can fool me with a composite photo? Lumar will not fail! My armored brigade is invincible! You filthy hyenas deserve to be crushed!"

He grabbed the edge of the photo with both hands and tore it apart with all his might!
The tough photographic paper made a piercing "rip" sound as he violently tore it in half, then into quarters, then into eight pieces...

The fragments, like dying butterflies, fluttered from his trembling hands, scattering across the expensive mahogany tabletop and the dusty carpet.

The moment the fragments fell, Duer seemed to have exhausted all his bluffing power, his body sinking heavily back into the large leather chair, his face ashen like a tombstone.

But he still held his head high, using the last bit of arrogance to maintain his crumbling dignity.

Song Heping's gaze swept over the last bit of forced bravado on Duer's face, and over the scattered fragments of photos on the table.

He showed no anger, no argument, and not even a hint of surprise.

"Well then, good luck to you. I think our negotiations should come to an end..."

He didn't look at Duer again and turned away decisively.

The military boots crunched over the shards of the crystal chandelier scattered on the carpet, producing a sharp, grating "crack" that was unusually clear in the deathly silent office.

Upon reaching the door, Song Heping turned back and said, "Let the bullets do the talking."

The heavy oak door closed silently behind him, shutting out the suffocating despair and madness inside, leaving Duer all alone in the grave of power.

(End of this chapter)