Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 973 The Enraged Old European Woman

London, on the banks of the Thames.

Vauxhall Cross, the core stronghold of the British Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) headquarters.

The thick bulletproof glass blocked out the water vapor from the river and the noise of the city, but it could not block out the cold and oppressive atmosphere that permeated the conference room.

The oval mahogany table gleamed, reflecting the cold, lifeless white light that streamed evenly from the ceiling.

The only sounds in the air were the low hum of the central air conditioning system and a heavy, almost stagnant feeling.

At the head of the table at the far end sat Ms. M.

She wore a perfectly tailored dark gray suit, her silver-gray hair neatly pulled back, revealing a smooth forehead etched with the marks of time.

Her face was expressionless, like a meticulously crafted but lifeless plaster mask.

Only those icy blue eyes, sharp as a scalpel, slowly scanned the silent subordinates on both sides of the long table—high-ranking MI6 officers in crisp military uniforms with stern faces, and several representatives from the Ministry of National Defense.

A top-secret briefing document was casually spread out on the table in front of her. Several high-resolution satellite photos were strikingly glaring: a desert battlefield scorched and ravaged by repeated artillery fire; the wreckage of a "Jackal" armored vehicle, completely destroyed and twisted into scrap metal—the iconic equipment of the British SAS special forces.

Finally, there is a close-up of a face that has been enlarged by technology, blurry but recognizable—Song Heping.

In the photo, he is standing on an armed pickup truck, holding binoculars, with a burning town and fleeing rebels in the background.

Sunlight fell on his sharply defined profile, outlining a cold and aloof look.

“Who can tell me?”

Ms. M's voice finally rang out, not loud, even calm, yet like a poisoned icy needle piercing everyone's eardrums, "Why did Her Majesty the Queen's most elite SAS special forces, a complete squad, appear on the battlefield of suppressing the rebellion within the Republic of Sena? And, in such an extremely disgraceful manner, were they completely wiped out? And rotted in the desert along with the corpses of a group of rebels whom we assessed as a rabble?"

Her fingertips tapped lightly on Song Heping's photograph, making a soft, rhythmic sound that resonated deeply with everyone present.

Dead silence.

Only the hum of the air conditioner seemed particularly jarring.

An army general with stars on his shoulder insignia forced himself to speak, his voice slightly hoarse: "Madam, this is a large-scale military operation. The special forces were originally airdropped there to provide data and intelligence support, but... Lumar was unexpectedly beheaded, causing chaos to engulf the entire battlefield..."

"confusion?"

Ms. M interrupted him, a cold, faint smile curving her lips. There was no hint of a smile in that smile, only endless mockery. "Are you trying to say that our world's top special forces, trained at a cost of astronomical taxpayers' money, were wiped out like a bunch of lost Boy Scouts by a ragtag army commanded by Song Heping, a mercenary leader whom our intelligence department assessed as a 'regional destabilizing factor'?"

Her voice suddenly rose, filled with suppressed anger, "Tell me, General! How am I supposed to explain this to 10 Downing Street tomorrow? How am I supposed to explain this to those Parliamentarians who are waiting to see me make a fool of myself? How am I supposed to explain this to the grieving families of the fallen soldiers?"

A barrage of questions, like invisible hammer blows, left the general pale and speechless.

"shame!"

Another intelligence chief gritted his teeth and squeezed out the word, “This is a heavy blow to Britain’s military strength and international reputation! We must respond with the strongest measures! We must make that Song Heping pay the price!”

"cost?"

Ms. M's icy blue eyes turned to him, her gaze sharp as a knife. "Publicly admit that our special forces illegally entered a sovereign nation and participated in its internal conflict? And then announce to the world that we were defeated by a mercenary leader? Do you think we haven't lost face enough? Do you think the media and the opposition party don't have enough ammunition?"

She leaned back slightly in her high-backed chair, her hands crossed on the table, her posture elegant yet radiating a chilling, all-encompassing authority: "This matter is not acknowledged. The SAS team's activities in Sena have absolutely no connection with Her Majesty's government or the military."

Her voice was resolute, sealing the fate of this crushing defeat and completely sealing off any possibility of official retaliation.

"All relevant files are sealed at the highest level. The compensation for fallen soldiers... is distributed secretly according to the highest standards, and their families sign the strictest confidentiality agreements."

The words "not recognized" weighed heavily on everyone's hearts like a cold boulder. A suppressed anger burned silently in the silence.

"lady."

An intelligence officer in charge of African affairs cautiously broke the suffocating silence, "Perhaps...we could seek cooperation? The Americans, the CIA, have consistently assessed the 'Musician' defense and the threat to Song Heping as very high. Joint operations, sharing the risks, might be more efficient..."

"cooperate?"

Ms. M's lips curled into that cold, almost sarcastic sneer again, her gaze piercing the intelligence officer. "You mean, cooperate with those Americans who are sitting in Langley's office right now, looking at this report of our 'tragic failure,' drinking coffee and laughing at us for being idiots?"

She leaned forward slightly, her voice lower but carrying a chilling undertone, "Just before this damn 'chaos' in Sena happened, we received a very 'friendly' alert from an old friend in the CIA. They 'accidentally' intercepted and 'shared' with us an... interesting communication. It was about some self-proclaimed clever mercenary leader who seemed to 'leak' details to some channel about an 'informal business memorandum of understanding' we reached with him a few years ago while handling some 'dirty work.' The content was vague, but the implications... were enough to make our CIA friends' imaginations run wild, and they very 'thoughtfully' asked if we needed 'clarification.'"

The air in the conference room instantly dropped to freezing point.

Everyone's expression changed. The so-called "informal business memorandum of understanding" refers to those shady deals and exploits.

Leaked?
And the Americans found out?

This is like rubbing salt into a wound, and it's a precise rub of salt from a competitor!

"so."

Ms. M's voice returned to its usual cold, emotionless tone, carrying an undeniable resolve: "Until those gentlemen at Langley stop using the term 'British Mess' to mock us in their internal briefings, any substantial cooperation is wishful thinking! We are now all alone, gentlemen. We have to clean up our own mess."

She picked up the heavy fountain pen with the silver badge that she always kept by her side—a symbol of her power.

Her gaze fell on the large African map in the center of the table, and she pinpointed the location of the Republic of Seine.

Then, under everyone's gaze, she raised her pen high, with a force that contained all her anger, humiliation, and murderous intent, and fiercely plunged the sharp silver pen tip into the coordinates of the "Musician" defense base in northern Seine on the map!
"Pfft!"

The tough map was easily pierced, producing a slight tearing sound.

The silver nib was deeply embedded in the map, reaching all the way down the pen shaft, like a wedge symbolizing death and revenge.

"find him."

Ms. M's voice was like a Siberian wind, icy and chilling, each word carrying the metallic stench of blood. "Make him disappear. By any means you can think of. Clean, thorough, without a trace. I don't want to hear that name again, I don't want to see that face again on any briefing that threatens Her Majesty's interests! At any cost."

"Yes, ma'am!"

A chilling reply echoed in the cold conference room, carrying a resolute air of desperation. An undeclared war, a relentless and deadly assassination and hunt, was quietly beginning in this heavily fortified intelligence stronghold on the banks of the Thames.

The target is a thousand kilometers away, to that African wasteland scorched by the blazing sun.

The Presidential Palace of the Republic of Seine, a deep palace.

In stark contrast to the boisterous state banquet a few days earlier, this was President Isis's most private reception room, its heavy mahogany doors isolating it from all outside noise.

There was no crystal chandelier, only a few wall lamps emitting a soft, dim light, barely illuminating a small round table in the center of the room covered with a snow-white tablecloth.

Several exquisite local dishes were laid out on the table, but they were clearly untouched.

The air was filled with the rich, mellow aroma of top-quality Cuban cigars, like flowing, textured silk.

President Isis leaned back in his high-backed chair. He had changed out of his ceremonial attire and was now wearing a loose silk robe. His face bore a lingering trace of fatigue, but his eyes remained sharp as an eagle's even through the smoke from his cigar.

He held a thick cigar between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the man across the round table through the wisps of smoke.

Song Heping.

He sat equally relaxed, wearing only a simple black shirt with the collar casually open. A lit cigar was also between his fingers, the orange-red flame flickering uncertainly in the dim light.

He had just finished a simple meal and was now slowly sipping a strong cup of black coffee.

The room was quiet, with only the faint hissing sound of burning cigar tobacco.

"Song..."

Isis finally spoke, her voice low and calm, carrying a sense of confidence that she had everything under control, "The rebellion has been quelled, and the country is back on track. This is inseparable from your and 'Musician's' defense... outstanding contributions."

He exhaled a thick cloud of white smoke. "Now, it's time to rebuild. Rebuild the army, rebuild order, rebuild this wounded nation. I need a truly strong, loyal army that can deter all those with ill intentions."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed intently on Song Heping: "I've considered this for a long time. The position of Training Director of the Republic of Sena is best suited for you. You will be fully responsible for training my government forces to the highest standards. From the soldiers' physical fitness, discipline, and individual skills to the officers' tactical awareness and command abilities, a complete overhaul is needed. I want a truly sharp sword belonging to Sena!"

Song Heping put down his coffee cup, the bottom of which made a crisp clinking sound against the delicate porcelain saucer.

He didn't respond immediately, but slowly took a puff of his cigar, letting the thick smoke swirl in his mouth for a moment before exhaling.

His face was somewhat blurred by the swirling smoke, but his eyes remained as sharp as ever.

"Mr President."

Song Heping spoke, his voice calm and unwavering, revealing neither joy nor anger, "Training an army and forging sharp swords are technical tasks, but even more so, they require immense physical strength. The necessary elements are very clear."

He paused for a moment, and then, under Isis's focused gaze, slowly and clearly raised three fingers.

“First,” he said, raising his index finger like a drawn dagger, “money. Not a small amount. It’s a huge sum of money enough to support the entire training system, purchase new equipment, pay soldiers generous salaries that would motivate them to fight to the death, and maintain the expenses of a large team of instructors. A continuous stream of money.”

“Second,” the middle finger followed, raised with an undeniable force.

"It's still about money. This money is commission for my 'Musician' Defense. The training director isn't a charity ambassador. My people need to eat, my guns need maintenance, my intelligence network needs to operate, and the risks... need to be compensated. The price is 50% higher than the standard of top international PMCs (private military companies). It's a one-time prepayment of 40% of the total annual amount."

"third."

The ring finger is raised last, the three fingers standing side by side, resembling a trident under the dim light, exuding a chilling aura.

"It's still about money. This money is a deposit, or rather... a security deposit. It's held in a bank in a third country (Switzerland or Dubai) that we designate, and it's jointly supervised by both of us. This money won't be used, but it has to be there. This is to ensure that during the training period, and for a period of time after the training is completed, the Sena government will not, for any reason or in any way, try to discard us after we've served our purpose, or... delay or withhold the previous two payments."

His gaze, like a cold probe, stared directly at Isis. "You should understand what I mean. Trust is a luxury, especially in Africa. I need tangible guarantees."

The three conditions, the three "money" demands, were like three heavy gold bricks, crashing onto the table covered with a snow-white tablecloth with a silent, resounding crash.

Isis's facial muscles twitched almost imperceptibly.

A brief silence fell over the room, broken only by the quiet burning of the cigar. The light from the wall lamp cast shadows in Isis's deep-set eyes.

He silently puffed on his cigar, the cool smoke seemingly numbing his senses for a brief moment.

Three fingers, three characters for "money," like three cold daggers, precisely pierced the vital point of his newly stabilized but still riddled-with-holes national treasury.

These conditions are so harsh they border on plunder.

However, he was even more aware of the man's worth and the potential consequences of refusing him.

The Lumar rebellion had just been quelled, the influence and remnants of the Touré government remained, and the destruction of the SAS was a silent warning that the British would not simply swallow the bitter pill and let it go.

After a long while, Isis finally stubbed out her nearly burnt-out cigar in the crystal ashtray.

He raised his eyes, and there was no more hesitation in those sharp eagle eyes, only a ruthless decisiveness and a trace of barely perceptible heartache.

"Song".

Isis's voice regained its composure, even carrying a hint of deliberately crafted arrogance, "A problem that can be solved with money isn't a problem. The mineral deposits of Sena are like a golden river flowing underground."

He reached out and took a heavy document, which had been prepared beforehand and had the coat of arms of the Republic of Seine printed on the cover, from his secretary beside him, and pushed it onto the table in front of Song Heping.

On the title page of the document, a bold English title stands out: "Memorandum on Mining Rights and Revenue Distribution of Diamonds in the Northern Mbala Region".

"The newly discovered reserves in the Mbala mining area far exceed expectations."

Isis's finger tapped heavily on the document. "Mining rights, exclusively granted to 'Musician' Defense Company. For twenty years. Profit sharing... 40/60. You get 60%, the government 40%. Is this enough to cover your three 'money' claims?"

He stared at Song Heping and added, "This is the greatest sincerity I can offer. It's enough to support you in building an elite army that can sweep across West Africa, and enough to make your company incredibly wealthy."

Song Heping's gaze swept over the document, but he didn't immediately turn to it. The wealth represented by that string of numbers was enough to make anyone's heart race.

His face remained expressionless; he simply picked up the slightly cooled coffee and took another sip.

The bitter liquid slid down my throat.

“Very generous, Mr. President.”

Song Heping put down his cup, his voice still calm, "It seems that you are very eager for a stable regime."

Isis leaned back in her chair, a wry smile playing on her lips. “To fight external threats, we must first secure internal stability. A strong and loyal army is the foundation of my reforms and the guarantee of Sena’s future. Without it, no matter how many mineral deposits we have, they are just bait to lure in wolves.”

He then changed the subject, his tone becoming tentative and worried, "However, Song, the British... they suffered such a huge loss at Seine, the SAS's losses... they will definitely not let this go. London's retaliation is probably already on the way. This is a huge threat to our future cooperation."

"revenge?"

Song Heping finally managed a slight smile.

That wasn't a smile; it was more like the cold, icy curve of a hungry wolf baring its fangs on a snowy plain.

He picked up the gleaming, specially made cigar cutter on the table, his fingers lightly brushing against its sharp, knife-like blade.

With a soft "ding," he casually closed the scissors, producing a crisp metallic clanging sound.

"Let them come."

Song Heping's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a chilling certainty and contempt: "Those gentlemen in London are used to playing power games and betrayals in the shadows. They'll soon learn a lesson..."

He raised his eyes, his gaze piercing through the billowing cigar smoke, as if he could already see the heavily fortified intelligence stronghold on the banks of the Thames, and Ms. M sitting at the pinnacle of power.

His eyes were like the sharp edge of a tempered blade, cold and piercing.

"In this world, some rules are not written by parliamentary acts and gentlemanly manners."

Song Heping spoke slowly and deliberately, each syllable like an ice bead hitting an iron plate.

"To play with them, you have to break their rules and play by our own."

He loosened his cigar cutter, letting it fall onto the heavy "Mbala Diamond Mine Memorandum" document with a dull thud.

The sound was just like the prelude to a guillotine falling.

(End of this chapter)