The situation was quickly clarified.
Due to the US Army's temporary military operations in the direction of Ramadi, surrounding and eliminating an armed organization entrenched in that region, this area was to be temporarily closed, prohibiting entry and exit.
The cook had no choice but to order everyone to stand by where they were.
But unexpectedly, this wait turned into four hours.
By nearly one o'clock in the afternoon, the queue of vehicles on the highway got longer and longer, but there was no sign of the checkpoint letting anyone through.
It was then that the cook began to feel a sense of urgency.
"What's going on?! Haven't they finished fighting yet?!"
Looking around, the cook suddenly felt the pressure.
Because all around them were cars and people, jamming the entire highway so tight that nothing could pass through.
Most of them were poor civilians, and there were some military personnel among them.
As for which military group they belonged to, it was impossible to tell.
The situation in Illiguo was exceedingly complicated at the moment.
There were many factional militias.
Most factional militias, so long as they were pro-American, would be integrated into the police forces or ICDC, with the elite of the former government army being incorporated into forces like the ISF.
Many locals, unemployed and without jobs, would also join the ranks of mercenaries. To be exact, they hardly even qualified as mercenaries but were merely private bodyguards. Buying a shoddy AK47 from the black market and some bullets, they would start their business.
These low-level bodyguards mostly served slightly wealthier local employers, many of whom couldn't get a gun license from the Temporary Management Committee, resulting in many operating without a license.
In Illiguo, the control over weapons was quite strict at the moment. One needed a gun license issued by the Temporary Management Committee to carry a weapon, or else if the Coalition forces or groups like the ICDC or ISF caught you without a license, they'd at the very least beat you up and take you away for detention.
If they were in a bad mood, they might simply shoot you dead without any need for an explanation.
Song Heping noticed that several people within the flow of cars had weapons, although generally speaking, anyone bold enough to follow the convoy to the checkpoint and not flee was unlikely to be a member of a resistance organization.
But who knows?
Every minute spent here was a minute of increased danger.
Especially here, where the daytime temperature was extremely high, nearly 50 degrees Celsius, people were most prone to irritability under such conditions.
The cook, accompanied by Grey Wolf, went to the checkpoint to see what the situation was.
If the conflict in the direction of Ramadi wasn't intense, the cook planned to continue with the convoy; after all, waiting any longer would probably cause delays.
It was uncertain how long the Coalition forces would be operating here; surely there had to be an end, right?
It wasn't like they could fight for days and have the convoy wait for days.
Otherwise, the meeting between VIP Angel and the informants tonight would fall through.
And with that, they could forget about the reward.
Before even reaching the checkpoint, they saw several British reporters urgently surrounding the American soldiers at the checkpoint, clamoring for them to open the gates and let them in, claiming they had an emergency reporting mission.
The exchange between the two sides was extremely hostile, thick with the smell of gunpowder.
Perhaps it was the high temperature or maybe the British inherently had little affection for Americans. Although on the surface they were allies, in the eyes of these British aristocrats, America was just a nouveau riche.
"We are journalists, journalists, do you understand?! You have no right to stop us!"
"If you have the guts to stop us here, why don't you go into Ramadi? Have the guts to go in! What's the point of stopping us here?"
"Yeah, you bunch of pigs, if you've got the guts go into the city of Ramadi and see if those Alibabas won't knock your teeth out and blow your heads off! You only know how to show off in front of journalists and civilians! What kind of heroes are you!"
The British reporters were quite agitated.
Perhaps in their view, they felt that their right to report and their British passports were supreme.
In the end, one of the British reporters even cursed, calling someone a "cunt".
Americans particularly detested this word.
Immediately, the atmosphere tensed up.
One American soldier turned his gun towards the group of British reporters, his face flushed with anger as he shouted, "What did you say?! What did you say?! Say it again!?"
Before the British reporters could retort, suddenly they heard yelling from the Humvee in front of the checkpoint, where the machine-gunner responsible for surveilling the direction of Ramadi began to shout loudly.
"Stop! The vehicles in front, stop! Stop! Stop right now!"
As they followed his gaze, they saw several old sedans coming from the direction of Ramadi, now less than a hundred meters from the checkpoint.
Even though there were barriers in front of the checkpoint, if those cars intended to crash through, or if they were laden with something like TNT or even a simple IED made from a 152mm artillery shell, the explosion could potentially send half of the checkpoint sky-high.
A translator with the army, using a bullhorn in the Illiguo language, also started shouting for the cars to stop.
Perhaps the people inside the cars didn't hear clearly.
Perhaps they were fleeing the warzone, and their emotions were in utter chaos.
The cars didn't slow down and headed straight for the checkpoint.
At a distance of fifty meters, the heavy machine-gunner on the Humvee finally gave in. Looking at the four approaching sedans, he couldn't afford to hesitate anymore, haunted by dreams of his comrade who had been killed by a suicide attack just a few days ago.
And so, the trigger was finally pulled.