On the sand dune eight hundred meters away, the Hunter slowly ejected the cartridge.
The 7.62mm sniper cartridge emitted wisps of smoke as it lay on the sand, with a faint "ding" as it rolled, quickly drowned out by the desert wind.
He pressed his earpiece, his voice as calm as if reporting a shooting range drill: "Target eliminated."
"Very good."
Song Heping's voice came through the channel, devoid of any emotional fluctuation, and then he issued the order: "Full squad assault."
Twenty elite members of the "Musician" Defense Company leaped out from under the camouflage netting, moving swiftly and silently.
Their desert camouflage uniforms blended almost perfectly with the sand, only the metal parts of their firearms occasionally flashed cold under the sunlight.
These were personally trained by Song Heping, each one a veteran of bloody battles, their tactical acumen far surpassing the rabble under African continent's warlord forces.
The well-equipped special task force sliced into the chaotic militant group like a sharp knife. The short bursts of the M4A1 coordinated perfectly with the long bursts of the PKM machine guns, bullets precisely harvesting the remaining enemies.
Over thirty surviving militants didn't even figure out who the attackers were before they dropped to the ground.
Some tried to raise their guns in retaliation, but as soon as their barrels lifted, a 5.56mm bullet blew off their skulls.
In just twenty minutes, the battlefield was utterly silent.
"This fool died not knowing who killed him."
Song Heping treaded over the scattered cartridges to Markuer's corpse, crouched down, retrieved a silver flask from the deceased's pocket, and unscrewed it to take a sniff.
"Scotch Whisky, at least 25 years old."
He then walked over to Hakeem, removed the gold Rolex from his wrist, examined it, and handed it to the nearby special task force commander Becker: "Keep it as a souvenir; it's worth more than these bastards' blood."
Becker accepted the flask and the gold Rolex, grinning: "Boss, this thing could fetch a good gun on the black market."
"Consider it your bonus."
Song Heping stood up, his gaze sweeping across the battlefield.
The Hunter walked over, slung his sniper rifle over his shoulder: "How's the situation over at Hakeem and Markuer's stronghold?"
"By rights, Jiang Feng and White Bear should have controlled it by now."
Song Heping glanced at his watch.
"I reckon it's time to give our new friends their onboarding training."
Even as Hakeem and Markuer were fighting for their lives in the valley, two other teams sent by Song Heping had already launched their operations simultaneously.
First route: White Bear led the team to raid Hakeem's gold mine.
Hakeem's gold mine, situated on the edge of Northern Darfur, had a treacherous terrain, but with a garrison of fewer than a hundred men.
Most of the elites had been taken by Hakeem to trade arms, and those left behind were nothing but the old, weak, sick, and a few shooters tasked with guarding.
White Bear's tactic was simple—swift assault, multiple points of encirclement.
Ten mercenaries used the cover of night to sneak into the mine area, using silenced pistols and knives to take care of the perimeter sentries.
By the time the guards at the mine realized something was wrong, White Bear had already taken the high ground and set up PKM machine guns.
"Drop your weapons, surrender and you won't be killed!"
White Bear shouted in Arabic.
A few die-hard elements attempted to resist but were immediately taken down by the sniper one by one.
The remaining guards looked at each other, and ultimately tossed aside their weapons.
The second route was led by Jiang Feng, raiding Markuer's camp.
Markuer's camp was even more fortified than Hakeem's, but Jiang Feng's methods were more ruthless.
He directly set up mortars on the perimeter of the camp, bombarding it with three rounds, throwing the camp into chaos, and then charged in with his men.
The garrisoned militants were caught off guard and couldn't mount an effective resistance.
Jiang Feng didn't even give them the chance to surrender—he had snipers specifically targeting those who tried to organize a counter-attack, taking them down one by one, crushing the opponent's morale.
That afternoon, as the sunset painted the Darfur sky red, Song Heping stood at the center of the "Justice and Peace" organization's camp.
In front of him were more than two hundred dejected militants, and around them, armed "Musician" company employees with machine guns set up.
"The choice is simple." Song Heping's voice echoed throughout the camp via loudspeaker, "Put down your weapons, five hundred US dollars a month as a basic salary, those who perform well can guard the mine, a thousand a month. Of course, those unwilling to stay can go home, with fifty dollars travel expense each."
He intentionally paused, observing the stirring in the crowd—this pay was three times more than what they earned as bandits.
"The benefits seem pretty good."
"Much better than the old boss..."
"Is this the China person who shot down the American drone?"
"Yes, it's him, Song, nicknamed 'Reckless.'"
"Or..."
Song Heping suddenly raised his hand, and at the four corners of the camp, sniper rifles simultaneously fired, five bullets precisely hitting the newly erected target 30 meters behind him, each shot striking the head area.
No further threats were needed.