The Middle East: From War Correspondent to Middle Eastern Influencer

Muhammad reached out and took the two hundred-dollar bills Wu Hen handed him, nodded, and turned to walk away.

Wu Hen watched Muhammad's retreating figure disappear into the crowd of refugees.

Two hundred dollars can buy a lot in Benghazi these days, such as several lives or some truly valuable intelligence.

He wasn't worried that Muhammad would run away with the money. Muhammad was already terrified, and in this chaotic situation, clinging to Wu Hen's coattails was his only hope of survival.

Wu Hen withdrew his gaze, pulled the heavy tactical backpack closer to his chest, and the AK-47 gave him a sense of security.

He didn't go to the medical tents, which were filled with wounded soldiers who had lost limbs, women and children crying in despair, and gauze soaked in blood. Instead, he found a relatively sheltered corner and sat down with his back against the tire of an abandoned truck.

The view here is quite open.

On the surface, the UN refugee camp appears to be filled with humanitarian peace.

White tents bearing the UN logo stretched as far as the eye could see, and Red Cross doctors were working tirelessly.

However, Wu Hen's five senses have been systematically enhanced, especially his hearing and perception, which are far beyond those of ordinary people.

He knew this place was anything but peaceful.

Arms deals, intelligence trading, and even the clandestine recruitment of mercenaries—these three most lucrative forms of war trade are proliferating wildly in every corner of this refugee camp in the most primitive and covert ways.

This is no refugee camp at all; it's clearly a black market and buffer zone disguised as a legal operation.

Wu Hen closed his eyes slightly and slowed his breathing.

"Have you heard? There was another fight this afternoon in the seventh block south of the city." A hoarse voice came from a tent a few meters away.

"Government forces or the opposition?" another person asked.

"Neither! It was the Ravens. They ambushed a convoy transporting NATO supplies. The Ravens are now one of the largest forces in Benghazi besides the regular army and the opposition. These local natives are ruthless; they not only control most of the black market channels but also conscript men everywhere."

crow?

Wu Hen sniffed; he had heard about this organization from Muhammad's words.

"Crows are nothing!" another voice said with obvious disdain. "Those bumpkins only bully refugees and lone stragglers. Didn't you see those white people who went into the refugee camp this evening?"

"You mean those foreigners?"

"Keep your voice down! Do you want to die?" The third person interrupted them nervously, lowering his voice, "That's a foreign mercenary group! They're equipped with American gear. I heard they're looking for something. If you mess with Crow, you'll at most get a beating or have everything stolen; but if these foreign mercenaries target you, you won't even know how you died!"

Wu Hen quickly sorted through the intelligence in his mind.

The waters of Benghazi are much deeper than he imagined.

While the government forces and the opposition are openly locked in a fierce battle, these underground forces are secretly exploiting and expanding their influence.

He recalled the group of armed men he had seen unloading dark green wooden crates of ammunition when he first arrived at the outskirts of the refugee camp. The Russian and Chinese markings on the crates were very likely related to this foreign mercenary group.

To survive in this hellish battlefield, the five captured AKs and dozens of bullets in hand are definitely not enough.

Against regular troops or well-equipped foreign mercenaries, his firepower was barely enough to fill a tooth gap.

He needs better weapons, tactical equipment, and more crucial intelligence.

[Check-in location has been updated: Underground black market in refugee camp.]

[Current hazard rating for this area: High!]

Do you wish to proceed with the check-in?

Wu Hen opened his eyes. Danger often comes with opportunity, and what he lacks most right now is a trump card.

There's no need to inquire about the location of the black market, or rather, there was never any intention to hide it.

He was operating openly behind the Red Cross medical tent, in an underground air-raid shelter. The black market was inside, and there were armed guards around the entrance.

Wu Hen is getting closer and closer to the black market.

"Kid..."

A deep, hoarse voice suddenly rang in Wu Hen's ear.

Wu Hen's pupils contracted; his senses hadn't detected the person's approach at all!

This is absolutely a top-notch tactician.

Wu Hen suppressed the urge to retaliate and slowly turned his head away.

A hard, standard Slavic face came into view.

This was a burly Eastern European man dressed in unmarked tactical camouflage, with an HK416 assault rifle fitted with a silencer and holographic sight hanging on his chest.

What is most striking is the scar that runs from the corner of his left eye all the way to his chin, resembling an ugly centipede that wriggles slightly with the movement of his facial muscles.

At this moment, the scarred mercenary grinned, revealing a set of gleaming white teeth, and looked at Wu Hen with a sly smile.

This is not a place for you.

Wu Hen glanced at the Glock 17 in his hand: the safety of the gun was off, and Wu Hen believed that as long as he made any unusual movement, a bullet would accurately rip open his skull.

"Hey, relax, buddy, I mean no harm," Wu Hen said in a low voice in fluent English, while slowly taking out his press pass from the side pocket of his bag under the man's gaze. "I'm a reporter, a special correspondent for Al Jazeera."

"A reporter?" The scarred mercenary named Victor laughed even harder. "These days, there are plenty of idiots who come to their deaths with cameras, but a reporter carrying a tactical backpack and reeking of blood is a first for me. Where's your microphone? Hidden in your bulletproof vest?"

"In this godforsaken place, cameras will only make me die faster. As for the smell of blood..." Wu Hen looked directly into Viktor's gray-blue eyes and shrugged. "A few tens of minutes ago, I encountered some scum who called themselves Crows in the ruins of the city and they tried to rob me. To survive, you know what I mean."

A flicker of surprise crossed Viktor's eyes, which then turned into a peculiar interest as he took a closer look at the young Asian face before him.

"You killed the Ravens' men?" Victor chuckled. "Those natives may be a rabble, but they're not someone just anyone can take care of. Looks like you've got some skills."

"War is the best teacher. It teaches very quickly, and those who can't learn have already shut up," Wu Hen replied calmly. "I heard there's an underground black market here, and I want to go in and take a look at an in-depth report about the Benghazi battlefield."

"Write a report?" Viktor said as if he'd heard an absurd joke. "Kid, what's in there isn't something you can write about clearly. It's a devil's marketplace, selling weapons, intelligence, and lives. Are you sure you want to go in looking for your news material?"

"I'm absolutely sure."

Viktor's smile faded.

"The black market has its rules. The doors aren't open to paupers and the dead." Victor stretched out his left hand, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. "Entrance fee: one hundred dollars, or the equivalent in hard currency. Don't try to fool me with those worthless Libyan dinars."

Wu Hen did not hesitate at all.

He took out a brand new Franklin note, held it between two fingers, and handed it to Victor.

Victor took the banknote, flicked it with his finger with practiced ease, and then stuffed it into his pants pocket with satisfaction.

"For the sake of this cute little face, Mr. Reporter, you've earned your ticket to hell," Victor said, taking a step back. "But I have to warn you: in there, keep your eyes shut, your mouth tight, and most importantly, keep your hands to yourself. If you dare cause trouble in there, my buddies and I will turn you into a sieve in a second, understand?"

"Very clear, sir."