Chapter 15: The Mad Dog of the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment

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The Cook pointed at the AKM and said, “Get him an AKM produced by Kugir Arms Corporation!”

The history of Kugir dates back to the late 18th century; it’s a venerable Romanian arms manufacturer with absolutely reliable quality.

The Cook was an expert, and his choice of this particular rifle had its reasons.

“Alright…” Harvey’s face darkened as he turned and took an AKM from the crate, placing it on the counter. With a tone laced with bitter frustration, as if a scheme had failed, he said, “Four hundred dollars each, no credit, cash only!”

To their surprise, the Cook started cursing again: “When we came here last month, these guns were selling for three hundred and fifty dollars! Why the price hike now, Harvey? You’re such a swindler!”

Harvey shrugged, wearing a look of helplessness as if to say, “Last month was last month; this month is this month. Don’t you see how many people like you have come to Iligo to make a quick buck? If you don’t want to buy, I won’t force you. But in half a month, the price will go up again.”

“Let me see the gun first.”

Although Song Heping was reluctant to spend so much, the priority wasn’t money but the weapon itself.

A good gun—an extra fifty dollars was worth it!

A bad gun—even fifty dollars cheaper wouldn’t be worth buying.

Just like the AK-47 they saw earlier for a hundred dollars—probably handmade in some shoddy workshop, who knew when it might explode or accidentally discharge? Not even as a free gift.

Anyone who’s served knows how vital a gun is; on the battlefield, a gun is life.

Holding the AKM, Song Heping first unfolded the stock and pressed it against his shoulder to test the feel.

Not bad; it was similar to the Type 81-1 he had used, only a bit more compact.

Then he inspected the gun closely and began to disassemble it with a steady “whirring” sound.

Soon, the rifle was completely taken apart.

Harvey’s face turned green as he said, “Kid! You haven’t paid yet!”

Song Heping didn’t even look at him, inspecting the parts as he replied, “No inspection, no payment.”

The Cook couldn’t help but grin from the side.

Song Heping was taciturn, but absolutely sharp—just to his taste.

After thoroughly checking every component—the firing mechanism, firing pin, barrel rifling, sights, and attachments—Song Heping decided to buy the rifle.

Kugir’s AKM was, quality-wise, on par with the original Soviet-made AKMs.

After buying the gun, he needed ammunition.

Bullets also mattered—there were those from major factories and others from small workshops.

Song Heping chose 7.62 caliber rounds from a major Eastern European manufacturer, purchasing two full lots, spending several hundred dollars.

The Cook couldn’t help but keep complaining,

since when he bought last month, the price was a third cheaper.

After all that, Song Heping purchased a full set of individual combat gear, but his pockets quickly emptied—more than twenty-eight hundred dollars gone.

He was broke again.

He wondered if the Cook’s team provided meals; if not, he might have to starve these few days.

Leaving the gun shop, the group got into the car and headed to Task Center No. 2.

Task Center No. 2 was located within a military district and belonged to Blackwater International.

Unlike the official employees of Blackwater International, small teams like the Cook’s typically took assignments here.

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This place functioned as a mission dispatch center, where the company would post smaller tasks they couldn’t handle daily.

A giant like Blackwater International usually handled lucrative contracts—training Iligo’s civil defense forces (ICDC), assisting Langley (CIA) in tracking down former high-ranking officials of the clumsy old government, and sometimes even taking on dirty interrogation work assigned by Langley.

These missions paid handsomely; after all, a large portion of the 87-billion-yuan reconstruction fund was allocated to Iligo’s Interim Management Committee (IMC) for rebuilding security forces. Such relatively safe and well-paid work was not something Blackwater would let slip away.

More dangerous assignments were mostly subcontracted to private teams like the Cook’s.

By nine in the morning, the mission center was already crowded.

Following the Cook into the hall, Song Heping sensed a unique atmosphere in the air.

So familiar…

This scent…

It was the primal aura of survival of the fittest in the jungle, as if walking among a pack of wolves.

Wolves—where the strong rule.

Song Heping felt the oppressive tension.

Everyone here was not young; few were as young as him. Most were over thirty, unkempt, bearded, with eyes sharp as hawks.

They whispered unique topics—payment, death compensation, the nature of today’s mission, and the amount of reward.

Song Heping had heard much about the mercenary world.

High pay, high risk.

The bigger the storm, the pricier the fish.

In the Green Zone, mercenaries arrived regularly, transported by helicopters; some alive, some returning as salted fish.

Song Heping had even inquired about mercenary pay.

It was said to be very high—some earned up to two thousand dollars a day, though some low-end ones earned only hundreds or even a hundred, like himself.

Every industry is a pyramid—top dogs feast while the rest offer bones.

This world is ruthless and pragmatic.

The Cook met an acquaintance.

“Cook, I heard you lost three of your ‘Musicians’ a few days ago. I thought you’d gone back to Russia to recover.”

The newcomer was a big-bearded man.

Like Thomas, his attire was similar, and his accent thickly English, but his tone was hardly friendly.

Song Heping glanced at the Cook.

The Cook’s personality was strange.

When quiet, he seemed a philosopher; when cursing, a bandit thug.

Such stark contrast in one person—either a genius or insane.

The Cook was blunt: “Lace, scum like you still alive? How could I bear to leave this place?”

Song Heping asked the Gray Wolf beside him in a low voice, “Who’s this guy? Do you have a grudge?”

Gray Wolf chuckled softly, “The English have grudges with us Russians. This guy is a captain from the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment, retired three years ago.”

The Duke of Wellington’s Regiment?

Song Heping vaguely recalled the name but couldn’t place where he had heard it.

“Why?” Lace’s gaze passed over the Cook and landed not far from them on Song Heping. “Is that your rookie? A Chinese? You even recruit Chinese? They haven’t fought a war in decades; you sure he won’t wet his pants under fire? I didn’t know you had a kindergarten teacher fetish.”

If Lace only exchanged barbs with the Cook, Song Heping might have ignored it, but now he was dragged into it—and from an Englishman?

He suddenly remembered something about the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment.

“I might or might not wet my pants, but your Duke of Wellington’s Regiment did once when it met our 20th Volunteer Army by the Linjin River in Caoxian. Didn’t your grandfathers tell you? Or does your regimental history museum hide those embarrassing battles?”

Song Heping stared straight at Lace, not flinching, as if facing a bayonet charge.

Lace was stunned.

He felt insulted.

The Duke of Wellington’s Regiment was the elite of the British Army—not as famous as the SAS or SBS special forces, but in history and honor, above them both.

As the name suggests, the regiment was named after the British war hero, the Duke of Wellington—the man who defeated Napoleon at Waterloo. The unit had a long history, participating in many famous battles such as the Dunkirk evacuation and the Normandy landing.

It was, without question, the cream of the British Army.

“Kid, watch your mouth!”

Lace suddenly found no retort to Song Heping’s words.

After all, the truth fears no rebuttal.

Song Heping looked coldly at Lace, his eyes conveying absolute sincerity that he didn’t regard this tall, bearded man at all.

“I always watch my words carefully.”

Song Heping answered calmly.

Just as Lace thought he had intimidated the Chinese man, Song Heping added at the perfect moment:

“But I’m only careful with humans.”

At once, some mercenaries around suddenly caught the meaning and burst into laughter.

Lace’s face turned a deep shade of red.

He wanted to strike, but seeing the white bear Andre standing beside Song Heping and the Cook glaring fiercely, he lost the courage.

These Russian bastards were not to be trifled with—one could try to win verbal battles, but a real fight would bring no advantage.

“We’ll see about that!”

In the end, he spat out a bitter threat and turned aside.

“Damn, didn’t expect you to be tough!”

Andre laughed uncontrollably, suddenly feeling no pain in his jaw.

“A loli’s here!”

Someone shouted in the hall, and everyone swarmed over.

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