Two of the bottles caught a glance—it was a "Water of Life" Vodka with an alcohol content as high as 96%.
This stuff is used for mixing drinks; drinking it straight can give you an out-of-body experience.
He smashed the bottles, letting the liquor soak into the thick carpet by the bedroom door, then closed the door, took out a hand grenade, pulled the pin, and set up a trap mine at the lock.
Then, with a quick stride, he rushed to Zayed, who was paralyzed with fear on the ground, yanked him up roughly, and dragged him to a corner away from the door and window.
"Stay here! Keep your head down!"
Song Heping shoved him behind a heavy solid wood dressing table, commanding with an undeniable tone.
This spot could temporarily shield him from direct fire from the doorway.
Zayed's face was pale, his body trembling, stammering, "Is... is it you?! Song... thank you... they..."
Song Heping didn't have time to listen to his nonsense.
The smoke was gradually dissipating, and the enemy could burst in at any moment.
Song Heping didn't have time for Zayed's nonsense.
The smoke outside was thinning, the footsteps and whispers of the killers became clear again, indicating they were obviously regrouping the attack, or waiting for the smoke to clear completely.
The trap mine on the bedroom door would only delay them for a moment and might not even injure experienced foes.
"Stay here and don't move!"
Song Heping harshly warned Zayed, who was crouched behind the dressing table, then turned around, scanning the entire bedroom quickly.
His gaze fixed on the heavy, floor-length luxurious curtains.
The fabric was some sturdy blend, wide enough.
This is it!
Song Heping sprinted to the window, grabbed the edge of the curtain, and exerted force—"Rip!"
The huge curtain was forcibly ripped from the track, bringing up a cloud of dust.
He quickly pulled out his multi-functional tactical knife and began cutting the massive fabric into narrow, usable strips.
"What... what are you doing?!"
Zayed, watching Song Heping's actions, asked in fright.
A feeling stronger than the fear of facing gunfire gripped him.
"Making a rope! Shut up if you don't want to be Swiss cheese!"
Song Heping didn't look up, his hands moving at an astonishing speed.
Zayed instinctively shut up.
He suddenly remembered that the Americans had a wanted notice for this guy.
Why were they after him?
He used to think the Americans were exaggerating.
Now it seems the legends about this guy are true.
The thought of his earlier arrogance towards such a killer made Zayed shiver involuntarily.
Song Heping continued his task.
The blade slashed through the fabric, producing a rapid cutting sound. He maximized his military knot-tying skills, securely tying the ends of each strip into sailor knots, linking them one by one.
Soon, two makeshift "ropes" about ten meters long were ready.
He tugged forcefully to test them; the sturdy material and solid knots should support a fair amount of weight.
The material from the five-star hotel was now the key to their escape.
"Get up!"
Song Heping slung one of the "cloth ropes" over his shoulder, then pulled the limp Zayed from the floor, "We're heading to the bathroom!"
"The bathroom?! It's a dead end there!" Zayed cried hopelessly.
"Shut up! Follow me!"
Song Heping didn't allow any objections, half-dragging, half-pulling Zayed into the luxury en suite master bathroom, then locked the bathroom door from the inside.
This was a relatively secure space, buying a few extra seconds of reaction time at least.
On the other side of the bathroom was a massive floor-to-ceiling glass window, overlooking the dazzling night view of Goa, but it also meant—thirty floors high.
Song Heping walked to the bathtub, where there was a sturdy, brass water pipe rack, appearing solid enough.
He swiftly fastened one end of the cloth ropes onto it, tying multiple knots and testing their strength again.
"No... no... you can't do this!"
Zayed, seeing Song Heping heading towards the large floor-to-ceiling glass, instantly realized his intention, his face went as white as paper, his legs trembling like a sifter, "This is the thirtieth floor! You'll kill us! We'll definitely die! I'd rather get shot!"
"Getting shot is a hundred percent death! Jumping gives us a chance!"
Song Heping's tone was icy, unwavering, as he aimed the MP7 at the four corners of the glass!
Bang!
Crash—!
The reinforced glass shattered at the sound, the night wind roaring into the bathroom, bringing a chill unique to high altitudes, mixed with the distant echo of urban noise.
The shattered glass fell like icy crystals.
Zayed peered down at the toy-like cars and tiny lights below, immediately overwhelmed by dizziness and nausea, warmth spreading in his pants as a pungent liquid trickled down his leg—he literally pissed himself from fear.
"No! I'm not going down! Absolutely not!"
He screamed like a butchered pig, clinging desperately to the marble sink, pulling back with all his might.
"You have no choice!"
Song Heping didn't have time to waste on this. He grabbed Zayed, ignoring his struggles and screams, and swiftly looped one of the cloth ropes around his waist and thighs a few times, tying a makeshift sit harness to ensure he wouldn't fall off midway.
"Hold onto the rope! Don't let go if you want to live!"
Song Heping yelled at Zayed, who was scared out of his wits and incoherently begging.
"Buddha bless! Allah, Jesus Christ! Shiva..."
Zayed, eyes shut tight, randomly prayed to every deity he could think of, clutching the fabric rope to his chest with all his strength, his knuckles white from the grip.