Zayed is so fearless in extorting me because he thinks he has monopolized the channel, leaving me with no choice, right?
That smug, slippery face of his, that relentless greed, are all built on information asymmetry—he thinks he's the only lifeline, yet he doesn't know there's a raging fire already burning in his backyard.
If...
If he knew that his arch-enemy Narendra is planning to strike, with a knife already at his throat, and that the person providing this information, who can even help solve this problem and save him from disaster, is actually the client he's trying to extort?
The situation, amidst the salty sea breeze of this abandoned fishing port, suddenly took a dramatic turn.
Control, the bargaining chip, is no longer in Zayed's hands alone.
A bullet originally aimed at Zayed now seems to be suspended over Song Heping's negotiation table, becoming a tool that can be used to advantage.
Song Heping stared at the trembling informant on the ground, his gaze shifting, his mind quickly calculating various possibilities.
If he lets him go, the risk is that the information might leak, and Narendra might realize he has been exposed, thereby altering his plan or becoming more vigilant.
But the greater likelihood is that this cowardly guy, to avoid his employer's punishment—after all, failing to track the target and getting captured is a major blunder—will choose to hide everything that happened tonight and continue to feed Narendra information on Zayed's whereabouts, so that Narendra's killer can act as planned.
A few minutes later, the pros and cons were clear.
Risk is controllable, and the gains are significant.
Song Heping made his decision.
He put away the folding knife glinting with cold light, a gesture that made the informant on the ground visibly breathe a sigh of relief, although the fear did not dissipate.
Then, Song Heping took out the cheap phone he confiscated from the guy and tossed it onto the sand in front of him.
After that, he took out his tactical dagger, which with a flash of cold light, precisely cut the shoelace binding the other's fingers, demonstrating both control and a "temporarily lifting the threat" signal.
The informant looked at Song Heping with suspicion and uncertainty, rubbing the deep marks on his fingers, completely unable to grasp what this icy and ruthless Asian intended to do.
Let him go?
A plot?
"Listen."
Song Heping's voice was still cold, devoid of much emotion, but no longer carried the previous murderous intent, "I'm just a business client of Zayed, unrelated to the mess between you guys. I don't want trouble, nor do I want to get involved in your local vendettas."
He gestured to the phone on the ground and the darkness leading to the highway: "You can go now. Forget you saw me tonight, forget everything that happened here, carry on with what you're supposed to do as if nothing happened. If Narendra asks who Zayed met tonight..."
Song Heping deliberately intensified his tone, "Just say everything was normal, that Zayed met an ordinary Asian businessman discussing something like legal investments, nothing significant. Understand? If you say one wrong word and let me know Narendra gets an undue alert..."
Song Heping didn't finish his sentence, but the unspoken threat weighed more than any explicit warning.
He needed this informant to go back, continue his work, ensure that Narendra's assassination plan proceeds as scheduled, only then would his own "rescue" have value.
The informant stared at Song Heping in disbelief, utterly stunned.
Just like that?
Let him go?
He thought for sure he was a goner, at least subjected to torture until he spilled everything he knew, then drowned in this black sea.
"Rea... really let me go? You... you won't shoot me in the back?"
He quivered as he asked, body trembling with fear and uncertainty, not daring to move immediately.
"Get lost."
Song Heping impatiently waved his hand, a contemptuous tone of reluctance to talk any further, "Before I change my mind. Remember what I said, watch your mouth."
The informant, as if granted amnesty, driven by a survival instinct, surpassed everything else.
He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain and disgrace of his body, grabbed the phone off the ground as if afraid Song Heping might retract his words, stumbled desperately towards the direction of the highway, tripping over his feet in panic, looking back in fear, until his figure was completely swallowed by the distant darkness.
Until the guy's figure and footsteps completely disappeared, Song Heping slightly relaxed his tightly-strung nerves.
He returned to the car, without leaving immediately, he took out a stick of gum, tossed it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, the minty taste hitting his brain, clearing his thoughts a bit.
Under the moonlight, the abandoned fishing port was silent, only the tireless waves slapping against the dilapidated dock emitted rhythmic sounds, covering all that had happened earlier.
The corner of Song Heping's mouth slowly curved into a cold yet confident smile.
"Mr. Zayed, it looks like we need to renegotiate."
He murmured to himself.
He drove back to the safe house in the urban area of Panaji, Goa's capital—a nondescript room in a mid-range hotel, booked under a false identity, yet sleep was elusive. The plan was set, but execution required tools.
On someone else's turf, facing potential armed conflict, being unarmed would be suicide.
He needed weapons, and he needed them immediately.
He took out another encrypted satellite phone and dialed a number in Africa.
The call was answered by Henry.
It rang five times before being picked up, the background filled with lazy jazz music.
"Boss, what do you need?"
Henry was always so professional.
"Henry, cutting to the chase, I'm in Goa, need some gear, now."