The night over the Nile River cast mottled shadows across the Atlon Oasis, with the sand dunes under the bright moonlight resembling sleeping giants.
Song Heping sat cross-legged on the sheepskin rug inside the tent, in front of him a yellowed map of Northern Darfur, with several pins in different colors marking key locations.
The emergency lamp beside him emitted a pale light, casting flickering shadows on his profile.
"Shepherd..."
Song Heping lightly tapped the routes from Zad to Northern Darfur on the map with the tip of his knife, his brow furrowed.
The knife was a Mad Dog Tactical Knife, crafted meticulously, which he had confiscated from a dead Mossad Agent.
"Where will you come from..."
He kept speculating in his mind.
Although Henry had obtained intelligence that the "Shepherd" was going to Northern Darfur to mobilize two Armed Organizations to team up against him,
that intelligence was not concrete, merely a rough piece of information.
Oftentimes, the most primitive intelligence is like this, usually vague and unclear, requiring peeling back layers and detailed analysis with the professional skills of intelligence analysts to obtain the most accurate answers.
It's a pity that his manpower was limited.
If he had resources like the CIA, then placing an ambush team on each route entering Northern Darfur from Chad would make things much easier.
"Henry, can you get more in-depth intelligence?"
He turned his head to look at Henry, who was also frowning, beside him.
Henry shook his head: "No way, this intelligence was obtained purely by chance. A snitch in Chad had coincidentally seen Pence, and knowing about our issues with the CIA, he did some investigation, discovering that Pence was interacting with a guy codename 'Shepherd'. But he didn't dare delve deeper, fearing for his life, and could only sell me this raw intelligence, which I deemed to have some value, so I bought it with money."
"Hmm." Song Heping nodded slightly, "This intelligence is indeed quite useful, but unfortunately a bit rough. The most critical thing now is the route, the route the 'Shepherd' takes into Darfur."
"Do you want to eliminate him?" Henry asked.
Song Heping smiled, "Eliminating him, yes, but I don't plan to just easily take him out. If I could capture him, the usefulness and value of this guy would be immense."
Henry spread his hands, "Sorry... Unless, I go back to that snitch and give him more money to make some moves, maybe get the route?"
"It's too late for that."
Song Heping shook his head.
"I guarantee that within three days, the 'Shepherd' will enter Northern Darfur to connect with Hakeem and Markuer, persuading them to team up against us. There are too many Armed Organizations in Sudan, all fighting one another yet each seeking to climb into the lap of Western powers to strengthen themselves. If Pence is the one connecting them, they truly might unite against us. Our manpower is still too little right now, and without any advantage, their alliance against us is very detrimental."
With that, the two fell into silence.
Survival.
Those are the two most precious words.
And also the two words that bear the most pressure.
Outside the tent, sand particles were whipped up by the night wind, making a soft sound as they hit the canvas.
Song Heping's ears twitched slightly, picking up the distant roar of an engine.
He discreetly put away the knife, his right hand naturally resting on the HK416 assault rifle beside him.
"Is it Rashim coming?"
"Should be him."
"Him coming personally so late, will there be issues? Could it be that there's been a change in plans on the government's side?"
Henry was evidently worried.
"No choice even if there has been a change. We have no options now."
"Old squad leader, Director Rashim has arrived."
Jiang Feng lifted the tent flap and came inside.
"And brought a white man."
"White man?"
Song Heping's eyes narrowed.
White man?
They were not common among the higher ranks of the Sudan Military Intelligence Bureau.
He slowly stood up, brushing non-existent dust off his khaki pants: "Let them in."
When Rashim stepped into the tent, Song Heping noticed the white man behind him—a tall figure, gold-rimmed glasses, a desert-colored suit tailored impeccably, looking out of place in the desolate desert.
"Mr. Song, apologies for the late-night disturbance."
Rashim said in fluent English, with a deliberately respectful tone. He turned to the white man behind him.
"This is my assistant, Weber."
"Hello, Mr. Song." Weber appeared cultured and refined, "I've heard much about you; it's an honor to meet you."
"Hello to you too."
Song Heping's lips curled slightly.