Half an hour after Song Heping's evacuation, several bright car headlights tore through the night, illuminating the refinery's gate brightly.
Six CIA agents from the last rapid response team deployed in Yemen jumped out of the bulletproof vehicle, spreading out in tactical formation and establishing a perimeter in the shortest possible time.
The world through the night vision goggles glowed with an eerie green light. Agent Hansen, the team leader, crouched down, his fingertips brushing across the fresh blood on the ground.
"Oh my God..."
The exclamation from his teammate came through his earpiece.
Hansen looked up, the sight in the distance made the battle-hardened man who had survived the Illiguo war feel a pang in his stomach—Jasper's corpse was posed in a kneeling position nailed to a wooden crate, with "CIA" carved onto his chest with a dagger; scattered around were the bodies of several Watcher team members.
On the surrounding ground, shell casings glinted like scattered copper coins under the moonlight, flickering with an uncanny glow.
The intense firefight that occurred here was evident.
"Found Simon! In the factory open space!"
The medic's voice snapped Hansen out of his shock.
He quickly crossed the littered battlefield and saw Simon leaning against a rusty abandoned oil pipe in the factory yard. His bulletproof vest was riddled with multiple bullet holes, dark clots of blood glazed his face, and a hastily bandaged wound on his left shoulder still oozed slightly blackened bloodstains.
"The mission... failed..."
Simon weakly gripped Hansen's arm, his nails nearly digging into the flesh, "Song... and Persians' Special Forces... teamed up..."
Hansen noticed the symptoms of pupil dilation in his superior and immediately signaled the medic to inject adrenaline.
As the needle pierced the vein, Simon suddenly widened his eyes, his face twisted horribly: "Moradi... Jasper before he died... said Moradi..."
72 hours later, Langley Headquarters.
Counter-terrorism director Wright pinned the photos one by one onto the case board.
This former Marine Corps Major, with a chiseled jawline, was marking a circle on a specific photo with a red pen—that of a gunshot wound on Jasper's temple, a typical execution-style kill.
"Ballistics analysis shows the bullet that killed Jasper came from his own service pistol." Wright tapped the projection screen, "But interestingly, only Song Heping's fingerprints are on the gun."
Quiet murmurs filled the conference room.
Director Vincent sat in the shadows, his face obscured by cigar smoke: "Simon's injury report?"
"Three rounds hit the bulletproof vest, causing severe bruising and two cracked ribs."
Wright switched the slides, displaying Simon's X-ray images.
"The shoulder wound is a through-and-through, no bone damage. Forensics confirmed all wounds were caused by an AK-series rifle, consistent with the shell casings found at the scene."
"Too clean."
Vincent suddenly spoke after a moment of silence.
The room fell silent, everyone's eyes were on the director.
"If Song Heping wanted to silence everyone, there wouldn't be any survivors. If he wanted to leave someone alive, there wouldn't be just one."
Vincent's cigar tip glowed and dimmed in the darkness.
"Simon's escape story is more thrilling than 'Tom's Adventure'."
Sweat trickled down the back of Wright's neck. He understood what the director implied—the bloodstains at the scene indicated Simon moved at least twenty meters after being shot, which didn't fit the "playing dead" escape narrative.
Yet all evidence oddly supported Simon's account.
The abuse marks on Jasper, the execution style, and the mysterious squad footprints in the wooded area around the factory confirmed Simon's report of the failed mission—they were ambushed from behind.
"About Moradi..."
Wright cautiously changed the subject.
"Our agent in Berlin confirmed that the Revolutionary Guard is indeed monitoring his mistress in Munich."
Vincent stood up, casting a shadow over half the conference room.
His expression was terrifyingly severe, darker than the storm clouds outside.
"Initiate the 'Nightingale Evacuation Plan,' get Moradi out within 48 hours. We cannot let him fall into Avanti's hands. He knows too much, especially about our most insider contacts in the Revolutionary Guard, who have all had contact with him."
He paused at the door: "Wright, personally visit the hospital and ask Simon again—why he was the only survivor."
A few hours later.
Walter Reed Medical Center, Special Care Ward.
Simon counted the dripping medicine in the IV line, and on the thirty-seventh drop, the ward door opened.
Wright stood against the light, holding a recorder and a file.
Exactly as he had imagined.
Being the sole survivor meant having to endure an internal investigation.
This was the usual CIA procedure following a failed mission, a necessary protocol.
"Good news, the director has approved your Distinguished Service Cross.
" Wright dragged over a chair and sat down, tossing the file onto the bed, "Bad news, the internal review committee wants you to explain the seventh page of this operational log."
Simon's fingertips felt a chill.