Chapter 10: Proving One's Strength

Old Yao sat down, and Song Heping pulled up a chair next to him.

Donald took a Marlboro out of the cigarette case on the table, lit it, and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"Cousin, what brings you here?"

Old Yao didn't want to waste time and went straight to the point. "My business ran into some trouble this morning. I got caught up in an attack; all six of my 100KW generators were totaled, and I’ve lost everything I had..."

"Are you looking to borrow money?"

"No, I’m just looking for some business, perhaps in logistics or transport..."

Old Yao laid out his idea, but the moment he finished, the people around the table burst into laughter.

Their laughter was filled with disdain. Perhaps, in their eyes, everything Old Yao said was naive and ridiculous. But Old Yao’s strength lay in his thick skin—he was the type who knew how to bend and stretch. As Donald and the others laughed, Old Yao simply smiled along with them.

Song Heping felt annoyed, but he had to endure it. When you need something from others, you have to adopt the right attitude.

Finally, the laughter died down, and Donald said, "Cousin, you don't really think you have the capability to handle the transport contracts around here, do you? Do you know how many PMC and PSC companies are in Iraq right now? We have the big ones like Blackwater and AAFES from the States, and the British have Spartan Private Security. The smaller ones are too numerous to count. There are at least eight to ten thousand mercenaries here looking to strike it rich—all retired special forces, paratroopers, or Marines. At the very least, they’re veterans with real combat experience. And what are you guys? What do you have to offer?"

The barrage of words left Old Yao speechless.

It was common knowledge that Iraq was currently under U.S. military control. The Coalition Provisional Authority (CPA) was headquartered in the Green Zone, and with the support of the U.S. military, they had begun the process of rebuilding the government. The U.S. Congress had passed an $87 billion postwar reconstruction plan, with 30 percent of those funds earmarked for security projects.

Money makes things happen. With such a massive budget, the CPA and the U.S. military in Iraq had entered a mode of reckless spending, buying everything in sight. They shipped all sorts of new vehicles, air conditioners, and computers from Kuwait. Even in the project to rebuild the internet, they brought in everything, including adult websites, to satisfy the needs of every man stationed there.

As a result, even though bullets were flying everywhere in Iraq, it was a glistening gold mine in the eyes of mercenary organizations and PMC/PSC firms. Naturally, everyone wanted a slice of the pie. However, to participate and share the spoils, one needed either strength or connections.

The atmosphere grew awkward. Many people stared at these two ignorant Chinese men as if they were monkeys.

Yes, indeed. What did they have?

Not to mention organizations like Blackwater, founded by retired high-ranking U.S. military officers, or AAFES (Army & Air Force Exchange Service), a security firm with a century of history—even the Spartan company from the British Empire was formed by retired British top brass who had intricate ties to the coalition’s leadership.

Song Heping understood deep down that before they arrived, many people boasted that Westerners didn't care about connections, only strength. But after being here for a while, he realized that people everywhere valued connections and circles.

Take Old Yao’s cousin, Donald, for instance; he had his own little circle, and the Forbidden Zone Bar served as a hub for that network. Lower-level officers and mercenary leaders frequently gathered here. They could source supplies Iraq desperately needed from their home countries or elsewhere, form alliances through friends in the Navy or buddies in the Air Force, unload goods in Kuwait, and use National Guard transport vehicles to haul them into Iraq to sell at exorbitant prices. The profits were nothing short of astronomical.

"Yevgeny, didn't you lose three men in your team a few days ago? I heard you're hiring?"

Thomas, who had been silent until now, suddenly spoke up, his gaze shifting toward the bald man nearby.

The bald man finally reacted. He turned his gaze toward Thomas, seemingly curious about what he would say next.

Thomas pointed at Song Heping. "This young man is a good hand. I think you should consider recruiting him."

Song Heping realized this bald man was the leader of a small group. Thomas was returning a favor because they had been through life-and-death situations together earlier, and Song had helped him out.

The bald man didn't seem to like Thomas's recommendation, but he couldn't refuse outright. After all, Thomas was a team leader in the GRS, and he had business collaborations with the GRS; they often had good jobs to delegate, and he couldn't afford to offend a benefactor.

The GRS was an agency under the CIA, short for Global Response Staff. It was also a mercenary-type subsidiary, mostly composed of former U.S. special forces members. They were responsible for providing security for CIA intelligence officers worldwide, and their missions were mostly classified. In reality, they acted as "contractors" who could reduce costs and be used as scapegoats whenever necessary.

"Thomas, my team is indeed short of men, but we don't need cannon fodder." The bald man finally lowered the hand he had been using to cover his mouth and scanned Song Heping.

His first impression of this Chinese man was poor. His own team members were all top-tier—tall, strong, brave, ruthless, and rich in combat experience. Song Heping, by contrast, looked completely ordinary.

Thomas said, "The VIP I was escorting this morning was attacked, and he helped me a great deal. If he hadn't assisted me in holding off those insurgents, I probably wouldn't be sitting here drinking with you tonight."

"Really?"

Thomas's words seemed to pique Yevgeny's interest. He had heard about the GRS squad being ambushed outside the city that morning. An entire platoon of Army soldiers escorting them had been nearly wiped out, and the GRS had suffered two dead and one wounded. Only Thomas had returned unscathed, which spoke volumes about the intensity of the battle. Anyone who could survive that fight was truly qualified to join.

He couldn't help but look at Song Heping again, then suddenly pointed a finger at Old Yao. "Does that include him too?"

Thomas shook his head. "No, I don't know the other guy."

Old Yao quickly clarified, "Not me, definitely not me."

Yevgeny thought for a moment, then turned to Song Heping. "My team is indeed short of men. We lost three brothers three days ago. If you want to join, I’m open to it, but you have to prove your strength."

Song Heping countered, "How is the pay calculated?"

Yevgeny was stunned. The people around them were also stunned. No one had expected Song Heping to ask that. Many thought the guy must be crazy—asking about pay right off the bat without even mentioning his skills.

Yevgeny quickly regained his composure and held up a palm. "Our team's rule is that a rookie's pay is only one hundred dollars a day. If you can survive a month and prove your ability in combat, you can become a full member. Full members get three hundred dollars a day, with extra commissions and bonuses for special missions."

Song Heping did the math in his head. One hundred dollars a day was a high salary for an ordinary job, but this was life-or-death work; it wasn't particularly high. But three hundred dollars a day meant nine thousand dollars a month—that was not a small sum. If he worked for a few months, he could pay off his debts without a problem.

"Fine, I accept."

"Wait," Yevgeny said. "You accept, but I haven't accepted yet. If you want to join, you must prove yourself."

Song Heping asked, "How do I prove it?"

Yevgeny pointed to his right, toward the fighting ring.

"Beat Andrei."

The crowd erupted in an uproar at these words. Thomas's expression turned grim, and he said coldly, "Yevgeny, if you want to reject my proposal, there's no need to come up with such a lame excuse."

Song Heping looked over. The man named Andrei was the giant who had just pummeled the Mexican man who claimed to be a bare-knuckle fighter. Judging by his name, he seemed to be a Russian, just like Yevgeny.

It was no wonder everyone was in an uproar. Just looking at Andrei's build, his arms were almost as thick as Song Heping's thighs. As for height, Song Heping was only 1.76 meters tall, but the other guy looked to be well over 1.9 meters—a full head taller.

In combat, absolute superiority in strength is a critical advantage.

Donald said, "Song, don't be a fool. Andrei can bench press 300 kilograms, and his dumbbell press is 90 kilograms per arm—that's heavier than you are. You want to fight him? That's suicide!"

No one present thought Song Heping stood a chance.

Andrei stood by the ring, arm around a blonde woman with short hair, eyeing Song Heping with the look an adult might give a child in kindergarten.

"Kid! I don't want to fight you. I get paid to kill; you aren't worth the effort."

Song Heping sized Andrei up, then turned to Donald and asked, "If I fight him, what are the odds?"

"Huh?" This time, it was Donald's turn to be stunned. "What did you say?"

Song Heping said, "I saw you guys placing bets when I walked in. What are the odds?" He pointed at himself.

Donald confirmed he hadn't misheard and turned to ask the boss at the bar.

"Rice, this kid wants to fight Andrei. What are the odds?"

Behind the bar, Rice, the manager of the Forbidden Zone Bar for AAFES, sized up Song Heping and shouted, "1 to 10!"