Northern Persia mountains, three in the morning.
Song Heping stood in a military tent, facing a holographic projection displaying a three-dimensional map of the North Suburb of Bucharest.
Naxin, along with several intelligence officers from the Revolutionary Guard and recent arrivals such as Henry, White Bear, Hunter, gathered around. The air was filled with the mixed scent of Persian red tea and gun oil.
"Henry, confirm MI6 has sent the message over?"
Song Heping asked without lifting his head.
Henry adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose: "Ten minutes ago, Lady M's contact accidentally leaked the intel to a CIA informant in London."
A cold smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
"As per your request, the intel emphasized that you'll be taking the Turkish Airlines TK1042 flight, arriving in Bucharest tomorrow noon."
Song Heping nodded, tracing a red line on the map with his finger: "Has Russia arranged everything?"
Henry said: "The Cook has already utilized his connections within the Russian Government, and the GRU Special Forces' 'Ghost' team has appeared at the Moldova border as planned. They've faked their radio communication records, enough to keep the CIA's electronic reconnaissance team busy for a while."
Light laughter echoed in the tent.
Yet Song Heping maintained a stern face, his gaze sweeping back and forth across the map.
This operation cannot afford any mistakes—not only is it a matter of rescuing Ferrari, but it also concerns the survival of the entire "Musician" Defense Company.
"Song, do you think Wright will take the bait?"
Naxin couldn't help but ask.
Song Heping finally revealed a slight smile: "He will. People like Wright fear two things the most—losing control and unexpected surprises. We'll create enough chaos for him, and he'll end up confusing himself."
He turned to Henry: "Is Ferrari still at the original location?"
"Should still be." Henry said, "I've maintained contact with Weber, but according to his intel, Wright likely plans to move him in 48 hours."
"Then execute the plan." Song Heping straightened up and looked around, saying: "Remember, we want Wright to bring Ferrari out himself. This plan is a double-line operation, using the guard as bait, to thoroughly mobilize Wright."
Hunter and others exchanged a glance.
The plan was too bold, even somewhat insane—but if designed by Song Heping, it's worth a shot.
"Last equipment check before departure." Song Heping ordered, "Henry, you stay here to continue maintaining contact with Weber. Nura, you and Antonov also stay and assist Henry."
"Why can't I go?!"
Nura was not pleased: "Just because I'm a woman?"
"Exactly." Song Heping said bluntly: "With your attire, entering Romania will have CIA immediately watching you without even trying."
Nura was instantly speechless.
Though she wanted to argue, there was no ground for retort.
Antonov shrugged, he had no objections to this arrangement.
Knowing one's own capabilities.
With his combat strength, he'd only drag the others down.
The tent suddenly became busy.
Song Heping walked to a corner, opened an encrypted laptop.
The screen displayed the last encrypted message before Ferrari got captured.
He stared at the chrysanthemum for a long time, then gently closed the computer.
This time, it's his turn to set the trap.
Previously, he was the passive side, now Wright gets to taste passive.
North Suburb of Bucharest, abandoned textile factory.
Wright stood in front of one-way glass, observing Ferrari in the interrogation room.
This guy, whose face was swollen like a pig's head, had endured eight hours of interrogation yet failed to reveal any valuable information.
More strangely, even under the effect of truth serum, Ferrari didn't resist but showed a bizarre bewilderment—like he really doesn't know those account details.
"Still no progress?" Wright asked the agent stepping out of the interrogation room.
The agent shook his head, wiping blood off his hands: "Sir, something's wrong with this guy. The truth serum doesn't work on him, regular interrogation is useless. Either he's received special training, or..."
"Or what?"
"Or he truly doesn't know the information." The agent hesitated, "But according to our intel, Ferrari is indeed the finance director of 'Musician' Defense."
Wright frowned.
As this defied logic.
Things shouldn't be like this, it completely diverged from his anticipated trajectory.
He couldn't help but push open the interrogation room door and enter.
Ferrari was bound to a special chair, his face stained with blood, yet his eyes were surprisingly calm.
Upon seeing Wright enter, he even managed a bloody smile, appearing somewhat odd.