Twenty minutes later, beside the command vehicle, an area was temporarily outlined by glow sticks and car headlights into a pale white circle, forming a small interrogation site separated from the surrounding darkness.
The prisoners were dragged over roughly by the mercenaries.
Their arms were bound behind them, with dirty burlap sacks over their heads, their steps stumbling, almost being thrown into the center of the circle.
Kneeling on the rough gravel ground, the sharp stones painfully pressed against their knees.
A burly mercenary roughly tore off their hoods.
The sudden light made the two squint uncomfortably.
The door of the command vehicle swung open, and Song Heping's figure appeared in front of them, then he slowly walked up to the two prisoners and stopped.
He examined them calmly in the light.
His gaze first lingered for two seconds on the face of the older Arab, whose eyes filled with hatred clashed with his calm, wave-free stare, like a pebble thrown into a deep pool, without causing the slightest ripple.
Then his gaze turned to the young white prisoner.
On that face full of fear, Song Heping's gaze lingered a moment longer.
He could see in the depths of the other's eyes a near-collapse of despair, along with a trace of instinctual longing for survival.
He had seen such a look many times, from foolish young men from around the world who were beguiled and ultimately struggled in this quagmire of war.
He spoke calmly in English, his voice low yet clearly piercing through the night breeze: "Name? Nationality?"
This simple question, for a young prisoner on the brink of collapse, was nothing short of a lifeline.
He almost rushed to answer, his heavy British accent blurting out, with a sob: "Jack... Jack Wilson... I... I am British... from London... please... don't kill me... I... I don't want to die..."
His speech was so fast it was almost seamless, as if delaying a second would lose him this only chance.
Song Heping listened, secretly laughing inside.
He glanced at the front of the other's pants.
Wet...
Heh heh.
This one would be the easiest to break.
Another fool beguiled by the carefully packaged "jihad" propaganda online and false "heroism", fleeing from the relatively peaceful Western world to join this brutal war they didn't understand.
The idealistic passion met with the harsh reality, and it was instantly pulled...
He no longer looked at Jack's pitifully sad appearance, refocusing his gaze on the slightly older 1515 member.
This time, he switched to exceptionally clear Arabic with a slight accent, his questions direct and cold: "Tetric City, how many defenders are there? Where are the defense focal points? How's the command system?"
The older prisoner jerked up his head, eyes fixed on Song Heping as if wanting to tear him apart with his gaze.
Veins bulged on his neck, and he used all his strength to spit blood-stained saliva at Song Heping.
The spittle landed on the sandy ground in front of Song Heping's feet.
"Infidel! Enemy of Allah! You cursed scum!"
He howled, cursing like a mad dog:
"You'll burn in Fire Hell! Forever beyond redemption! I won't tell you anything! Tetric City will be your grave! Commander Az will crush you all!"
Faced with this insulting and provocative roar, Song Heping's face showed no ripple.
Neither anger nor disdain, not even the tiniest change in his gaze.
He had seen many like this 1515 member.
The hopeless kind.
For hopeless extremists, sending them where they belong is his duty.
His right hand naturally descended to his waist, resting on the quick-draw holster.
A faint "click" of the latch.
He drew out the Glock 19 pistol.
The motion was smooth and natural, without any unnecessary movement, as if merely pulling a cigarette out of his pocket.
Kneeling on the ground, Jack was so scared he plopped down on his backside, instinctively trying to retreat, but the mercenary behind him held him firmly.
Song Heping didn't even look at the older prisoner's final expression.
He raised his hand, his action swift as lightning, the gun barrel almost pressed against the other's forehead, then he unhesitatingly pulled the trigger.
"Bang!"
The crisp gunshot suddenly tore through the night's silence.
The bullet, carrying tremendous kinetic energy, penetrated the skull instantly, creating a larger wound at the back of the head.
Red and white substances, mixed with bone fragments and brain tissue, sprayed out radially onto the sand beside.
The veteran from 1515 suddenly stiffened, then fell limply forward, his face heavily hitting the sand, never to make another sound.
Jack was completely terrified by the extreme coldness of this execution.