At three in the morning, Song Heping rushed back from the Sesu Border, and the five-person team quickly assembled.
Besides Song Heping, Jiang Feng, and Ferrari, Collins was also there along with the opposition officer Abdul — an Army Lieutenant who spoke fluent French and English.
"Remember, from now on, we are the BBC West Africa field report team."
Song Heping distributed the fake documents.
"I am producer Michael Song, Jiang Feng is photographer Jack Jiang, Ferrari is reporter Antonio Rossi, Abdul is our local guide, and Collins is the technician."
Jiang Feng flipped through the documents and whistled, "These don't look fake."
"BBC belongs to the British, so these props are real."
Song Heping checked the Glock 19 pistol, tucked it into the custom-made camera bag compartment. "Everyone just carry a pistol and two magazines, travel light."
"Just this much ammo, will it work?" Abdul was obviously surprised.
"Is there any security or guards at the radio station?"
"There are."
"Then it's fine."
Song Heping glanced at Abdul.
Abdul hesitated for a moment, and then he understood.
"Let's go, we must enter Butare before dark tomorrow."
In the darkness before dawn, two worn-out Toyota off-road vehicles quietly left the camp, heading north.
By the time the first rays of sunlight appeared on the eastern horizon, they had already reached the first checkpoint.
"Documents."
A drowsy government army soldier knocked on the car window, a rifle casually slung over his shoulder.
Song Heping handed over five passports and press IDs, a professional smile on his face, "BBC news, going to Butare to interview your president."
The soldier opened the documents, his brow gradually furrowing.
He suddenly looked up, staring at Abdul's face, "I think I've seen you somewhere."
Abdul remained unflustered, "Maybe on the news footage, I often work as a guide for international media."
The soldier shook his head and turned to walk towards the guard post.
Through the dust-covered windshield, Song Heping saw him making a phone call.
"Stay alert, act if something happens."
Song Heping whispered, fingers gently tapping the steering wheel — this was their agreed-upon code, indicating that the situation had changed.
Jiang Feng's hand slid quietly to the hidden compartment under the seat, while Ferrari pretended to adjust the camera, actually observing the troop deployment around the guard post through the telephoto lens. Collins' fingers had already stealthily placed on the smoke bomb pin inside the car door.
After ten minutes of torment, the soldier returned with an officer wearing a lieutenant's insignia.
The lieutenant asked in broken English, "Why would BBC send Asians to report in Africa?"
His gaze swept back and forth between Song Heping and Jiang Feng, as if inspecting the watermark on counterfeit money.
He too had heard that a group of mercenaries was involved in the coup within the opposition, led by an Asian.
Song Heping was well-prepared, drawing a gold-plated business card from his chest pocket, "Global news reporting needs a global team. I am a Chinese producer sent from the London headquarters, Mr. Jiang is the African branch's photojournalist."
He deliberately showed a helpless expression.
"You can check our staff files on the BBC website, although the network here might..."
In fact, Song Heping was exploiting them.
In this ghostly place called Sena, such roadside checkpoints lacked internet and computers.
But the documents were real, so there was no fear of them checking.
Besides, he was in disguise, with a glued-on beard and skin tinted coffee-colored, they couldn't recognize him.
The officer carefully examined the embossed BBC emblem on the business card, repeatedly comparing it to the photos above, then suddenly, with a dark expression, he waved his hand ordering, "Everyone get off the car, we are going to thoroughly search the vehicle."
Cold sweat instantly broke out on Song Heping's back.
Damn it!
He cursed silently.
Looks like we have to force our way through.
The car compartment contained five Glock pistols and ten spare magazines, not to mention Collins' sophisticated electronic jamming equipment.
Through the rearview mirror, he exchanged a glance with Jiang Feng — the latter imperceptibly nodded, right hand already in an assault gesture.
At this critical moment, Abdul suddenly said something in the local dialect, tone relaxed as if discussing the weather.
The officer's expression instantly froze, then turned into disbelief.
"You know Colonel Jabrielle?" The officer's voice suddenly dropped by eight degrees, and the address switched from "you" to the respectful "you."
Abdul calmly adjusted his suit cuff, "He is my cousin. Last week we smoked cigars together on the military officer's club terrace."
The officer's Adam's apple bobbed a few times, deliberating for over ten seconds, he finally grudgingly waved his hand, "Pass."
As he handed the documents back to Song Heping, he lowered his voice to warn.
"But you better keep your cameras in check at Butare."
After the vehicle drove five hundred meters past the checkpoint, Song Heping finally allowed himself to take a deep breath, "Who is Colonel Jabrielle?"
Abdul wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, "Deputy Director of Intelligence in the government army, also our highest-ranked insider in the military." He added with a bitter smile, "Of course, we don't actually know him."
Ferrari suddenly erupted with laughter, the sound reverberating in the cabin, "God, if you go to Hollywood, you are bound to be a great actor!"
Song Heping did not laugh, he stared intently at the snake-like winding dirt road ahead, "This is just the first of twelve checkpoints."
The cabin atmosphere became heavy again.
Everyone knew they were engaged in a near-suicidal gamble — five mercenaries disguised as reporters, trying to cross a 300-kilometer battle line, infiltrate the heavily guarded capital, and seize the national radio station as an important target.
And at this moment, Butare might just be opening its bloody maw, waiting to devour these unexpected guests.
The two off-road vehicles continued north, tires crushing the cracked dirt road, stirring up clouds of reddish-brown dust.
The tension inside the car remained taut, no one spoke, only the roar of the engine and occasional radio static.
Song Heping kept his eyes on the rearview mirror, confirming no pursuers after more than ten minutes, he finally slightly relaxed his grip on the steering wheel.
He glanced at Abdul, "Although Colonel Jabrielle is your insider, I think the lieutenant's expression just now was off; it seemed respectful but carried a hint of suspicion, he might report the situation here, you actually don't know Jabrielle, if they check and our story doesn't match..."
Upon hearing this, Abdul also grew nervous, nodding, "So we have to speed up, mix in before the news reaches Butare."
Jiang Feng sneered in the back seat, "Easy to say, there are still eleven checkpoints ahead, any one could be more troublesome than this."
Song Heping said, "Don't think too much, there's no turning back, keep moving forward, either life or death!"