Illigo Northern Plateau, Black Hawk Canyon.
The night was as dark as ink, and the biting cold wind howled as it swept through the jagged rock walls, stirring up fine sand that patted against the tent with a rustling sound.
In the valley, most of the soldiers had wrapped themselves in rough wool blankets, curled up behind rocks sheltered from the wind, asleep. Only patrol posts and hidden sentries patrolled in shifts as planned by Song Heping.
Song Heping sat in his makeshift tent, in front of the small stove lay a smoke-blackened copper pot, brewing rich Arabic tea. The spicy ginger aroma mixed with the cool scent of mint, permeating the cramped space.
He sipped the scalding tea slowly, but his gaze occasionally flicked to the military watch on his wrist. The luminous hands clearly showed the time approaching midnight.
Every second seemed to add weight to the drawn bowstring.
The tent flap was abruptly lifted, letting in a rush of cold air.
Samir walked in with the chill clinging to him, displaying an undisguisable confusion and a hint of anxiety: "Boss, it's almost eleven at night. What exactly are we waiting for? The night's cold here could freeze off a man's nose, and although the soldiers don't speak out, they are filled with doubt. I wonder if I should explain again..."
Suddenly, he seemed to realize he may have spoken too much and stopped talking.
Song Heping didn't lift his head, he slowly stirred the residue left by melted sugar at the bottom of the cup with a small silver spoon and poured him a cup of hot tea.
"Be patient, Samir."
His voice was calm with a peculiar laziness, completely incongruent with the tense atmosphere outside the tent.
"We're waiting for some 'friends' who can help us find some clues."
"Friends?"
Samir took the teacup to warm his hands, his brows furrowed tighter, "Besides us, there are only Mad Dog from 1515 and bone-chewing Wild Wolf here... Where do the friends come from?"
Before he finished his sentence, footsteps, hurried yet deliberately subdued, sounded outside the tent, the boots scraping against the gravel were exceptionally clear in the quiet night.
The curtain was lifted again, and a captain responsible for outer security appeared in the tent.
His face was mixed with tension and excitement, his voice lowered, hurriedly reporting: "Leader! Mr. Song! One of our three-man patrol units found a small caravan approximately 1.5 kilometers from the western exit of the canyon. Around twelve to fifteen people, very suspicious, acting sneakily, have been surrounded and detained!"
Song Heping and Samir almost simultaneously looked up and met eyes.
In Song Heping's eyes, there was a flash not of surprise, but an almost predatory sharpness, as if the long-awaited prey had finally triggered the trap.
Samir, however, was truly uncertain in astonishment.
"Caravan? At this late hour, in a place like this?"
Samir's voice was filled with disbelief, "Maybe it's smugglers; this place is near the Persian border, Persians often smuggle some scarce goods here... However... it could also be spies from 1515! They're like groundhogs, burrowing everywhere!"
"Let's go have a look."
Song Heping placed the teacup down, his actions crisp and decisive.
He stood up, grabbed the AK-74 rifle leaning nearby.
"Tell everyone to maintain the highest vigilance, no exposure of positions, no sound without orders. Bring our 'invited' guests to the isolation zone I previously designated."
"Understood!"
The platoon leader nodded heavily, quickly turned, and vanished into the darkness.
A few minutes later, Song Heping and Samir, escorted by Naxin and several members of the "Sand Fox" team, arrived at a relatively open rocky hollow on the outskirts of the camp — temporarily designated as the isolation zone.
A caravan of approximately thirteen people was surrounded in a circle by over thirty heavily armed, stern-looking militiamen. While the gun muzzles tilted slightly downwards, fingers rested on the trigger guards, ready to fire at any moment.
A few single-hump camels seemed to sense the tension, restlessly stomping their hooves, snorting white breath, chewing cud, exuding a heavy livestock odor.
These people wore typical Bedouin nomadic robes, their headscarves wrapped tightly, weather-beaten, their faces marked by years of sand erosion and darkness, along with a perfectly timed meekness and panic after being intercepted by armed guards.
In terms of attire, equipment, and demeanor, they perfectly fit the image of desert travelers.
Samir took a deep breath, stepped forward a few paces, and asked in the local accented Arabic: "In the name of Allah, who are you? The night is the time of Sand Foxes and Scorpions, why are you not by the campfire warming yourselves? What business do you have near this canyon?"
The eldest among them, appearing about sixty, shuffled forward a step, his right hand on his chest, bowing slightly. In a raspy, weary voice, with a heavy southern rural Arabic accent, he replied: "Esteemed, kind leader, may Allah bless you. We are a group of poor shepherds; the damned sandstorm made us lose five of our healthiest camels, which are all we own... We are anxiously searching for them, heard they might have run to the grassland here... We just want to pass through the canyon, no malice intended, please have mercy, let us go..."
His explanation sounded reasonable, his expression remarkably executed, his gaze filled with plea and fear.
But Song Heping's gaze, like a precise scanner, calmly swept over these dozen people.
Though their robes were dusty and even patched, the tailoring was too fitted, lacking the particular, somewhat clumsy coordination typical of shepherds engaged in heavy labor for long periods. Instead, there was a subtle hint of well-trained agility.
The hands holding the camel reins had visible, slightly darker calluses at the base of the thumb and alongside the index fingers — marks left by frequent gun training, especially from frequently pulling the trigger.
Their eyes, beneath a façade of fear and meekness, concealed an almost undetectable characteristic of meticulous evaluation and caution, quickly, unobtrusively scanning the number, equipment, and positions of the surrounding militiamen, unlike ordinary shepherds' pure and bewildered fear.
What's more concerning, Song Heping's instincts, honed at the edges of life and death countless times, frantically blared sharp alarms in his mind.
He had dealt with the CIA before, knew their style of high efficiency yet caution.
The initial probe wouldn't consist of valuable core elites, rather expendable, easily disclaimed peripheral pawns or contractors used to test the waters, perhaps even...
As bait.
"Search them."
Song Heping suddenly ordered Samir in English, his voice not loud, but in the silent, oppressive night, each syllable was as clear and cold as ice beads hitting the ground.
"Search carefully. From head to toe, clothing layers, shoe soles, hair, don't miss any place that could hide something. Unload all the goods, saddles, and water bags from the camels and thoroughly inspect them."
The faces of those "shepherds" subtly changed, almost imperceptibly. Although they tried to hide it and even deliberately expressed a kind of insulted anger, the momentary exchange of glances and tension in their muscles didn't escape Song Heping's eyes.
They can understand English!