Chapter 23: Alive Once More

Rat-tat-tat—
Rat-tat-tat—
Rat-tat-tat—

At the same moment, the three of them opened fire simultaneously. To everyone’s surprise, it was two militants who fell.

In a critical split second, Song Heping had quickly shifted into a supine firing position, falling backward as he pulled the trigger. The two militants had fired as well, but their bullets missed, whistling just inches above Song’s body. This tactical maneuver, which he had practiced tens of thousands of times, was etched into his marrow as muscle memory. Even though he had been out of the service for years, the foundation remained. In this life-or-death moment, it had miraculously saved his life.

However, after taking out the two, Song was pinned down by a hail of gunfire, forcing him to scramble back behind the vehicle.

"Chef! We're surrounded! Five enemies at nine o'clock, I took out two!" Song Heping shouted to alert Chef.

The situation was dire. Enemies were closing in from three directions, with only the six o'clock position clear. The militants held the high ground, picking them off like hunters. Song and his companions were trapped on the road, unable to advance or retreat.

Just as he was contemplating his next move, Song Heping heard that dreaded whistling sound again...

*Whoosh—*

Dammit... another RPG.

Song Heping loathed these things. He had handled 40mm rocket launchers himself; they were essentially the same as an RPG. He used to enjoy firing them—unlike standard shells that vanished instantly, an RPG’s trajectory was clearly visible, a mesmerizing, seductive arc as it soared toward its target. But he had never imagined a day would come when someone would be firing one at him.

The endless supply of RPGs in the hands of militants worldwide was a mystery. It felt as if they were inexhaustible. You could never know how many were out there. Were they really that cheap?

*BOOM—*

Before Song could reposition, the RPG struck the front of the vehicle he was hiding behind. Fortunately, it didn't hit his exact spot, but it was still devastating. A deafening ringing filled Song’s ears; even with noise-canceling headphones, he couldn't block out the shockwave of such a close-range blast. His body felt as if his soul had been jolted out of his skin. Time seemed to stretch—only a few seconds had passed since the explosion, yet it felt like hours. He scrambled up, dazed, completely disoriented and unable to tell north from south.

Death seemed to be hovering above him again, staring down coldly.

*Thump-thump-thump—*

Muffled, rhythmic gunfire filtered through his headset. Such a deep, thunderous sound—it didn't sound like the PKM machine guns the militants used. Song Heping lifted his head and craned his neck toward the source of the noise. A Humvee, mounting an M2HB heavy machine gun on its roof, had emerged from nowhere and pulled up a few dozen meters away. He could even see the gunner’s face: a U.S. soldier wearing sunglasses. The guy was gripping the handles of the heavy machine gun, spraying bullets from the ammo box like he was watering a lawn.

Stone chips flew across the overpass as the .50-caliber rounds from the M2HB cut several exposed militants in half. One of them fell, his severed torso slamming heavily onto the roof of a nearby sedan.

Backup had arrived. He had been saved again.

In the past two days, he had faced death more times than in the previous twenty years. Song Heping felt as if his life had become surreal. Within ten minutes, the attackers had scattered like birds and beasts. Everything went quiet again. Roadside ambushes in Baghdad were always like this—easy come, easy go.

Song Heping slumped to the ground, his clothes soaked through with sweat. Looking at the bodies strewn around the road and vehicles, he felt the heavy weight of survival. Chef walked over and hauled him up, his eyes crinkling into smile lines.

"Not bad, not bad! Zang, you’re a natural-born warrior!"

A warrior? Song Heping wasn't interested in praise. Was praise what he needed? No, he needed money. This job was too damn dangerous to be a long-term career. He had to earn a bundle and get back home, or he wasn't sure how long his life would last.

"Chef, let me ask you something," Song said.

"Go ahead!" Chef replied readily.

"Was my performance today up to standard?"

Chef was still straightforward: "Of course, it was excellent!" To emphasize his praise, he gave a thumbs-up. "You’re the best rookie I’ve ever seen."

Song Heping gave a wry smile. "Then can you fulfill your promise to me?"

Chef looked startled. "What promise?"

"I want a salary of three hundred dollars a day."

Chef suddenly remembered. *Oh, damn!* The kid wanted to become a full-time member. He *had* promised Song that if he proved his worth, he could be promoted immediately. A man’s word was his bond; he couldn't go back on it.

"Fine! Three hundred it is!" Chef agreed without hesitation.

Why wouldn't he? What was most important in the 21st century? Talent. There were plenty of freelance mercenaries in Baghdad, but they were a mixed bag, and their combat skills were inconsistent. Large PMC firms only hired mercenaries from their home countries after meticulous background checks. A small team like Chef’s didn't have many options; they relied mostly on referrals—word of mouth.

The three team members they had lost previously were South Africans, "the black guys." They had claimed to have served three years with Executive Outcomes (EO), deployed in Africa, and seen real combat. When Chef first arrived in Baghdad, he only had White Bear, Gray Wolf, and Queen with him. Since most contracts required at least five people, he had been desperate and accepted the three without a thorough background check. After all, the South African EO company was a legendary name in the private security field, their mercenaries drawn from elite units worldwide. Before the company dissolved, they had even achieved the feat of 60 men holding off thousands of RUF rebels with only 20 casualties.

They never expected that in less than a month, those three guys would be involved in a mission where, due to negligence, their vehicle was flipped by an IED, killing two on the spot. The third one, injured, struggled out of the vehicle to escape, but in his panic, he ran straight into the line of fire and was shredded by the supporting ICDC soldiers. Running into your own team’s line of fire during a firefight was a sign of abysmal tactical training.

Losing three men in one mission and failing to complete the contract meant they had to sub-contract the rest of the work. This had tanked the reputation of the "Musicians" mercenary group, making them almost synonymous with "useless" in the Baghdad mercenary circles. Plus, Chef and his crew were Russians. There weren't many Russians gold-digging here, and as citizens of a fallen red empire, they were often ostracized by the Anglo-Saxon-dominated circles. Before Song Heping joined, Chef hadn't landed a contract in a week. If things kept going like this, the team would have to disband and fly back home.

After handing over the situation to the supporting U.S. troops and verifying their identities, the five of them didn't dare linger. They shoved Angel back into the vehicle and hurried toward the Green Zone. Once they were back, the mission was complete, and ten thousand dollars would be theirs.

In the car, White Bear couldn't help but ask, "Boss, what did that kid say to you?"

"He said he wants to be a full-time member," Chef replied.

"And you agreed?" White Bear asked, curious.

"Why not?" Chef looked at the Opel ahead, looking thoughtful. "The kid just lacks experience. With some training, he'll be a top-tier operator."

"Why was he in such a hurry to turn full-time?"

"He said he's broke," Chef said. "Owes a mountain of debt back home. He only has a hundred and twenty dollars left to his name."

White Bear grinned. "Seems like he's desperate for cash."

"Desperation is good," Chef said. "Only the desperate are willing to risk their lives." He pointed at himself, then at White Bear, and said with a touch of melancholy, "Aren't you and I on this path because we were broke and wanted to strike it rich?"