The world seemed to be drifting away.
Song Heping felt this way now.
Because all sounds had become blurred, and the vision in front of him was also becoming fuzzy.
The shattered lens of his tactical goggles pierced into his brow bone, and through the blood-stained vision, he saw four pairs of black combat boots closing in.
The sharp pain from biting his tongue brought a moment of clarity, and he clenched the detonator hidden in his sleeve.
It's time...
He sighed lightly.
Soon, he dismissed the idea.
No.
Not yet.
He saw those military boots.
Four people.
Take out two first.
An assault team member stepped forward and swung the gunstock, smashing it into Song Heping.
Perhaps feeling that this man had killed too many of his comrades, he didn't just want to see Song Heping die quickly from a single shot.
Not letting him endure the most terrifying torture in life would be an injustice to the over twenty brothers who died tonight.
He overestimated himself.
Underestimated Song Heping.
With the excruciating pain of the gunstock hitting his rib, Song Heping heard the unbearable groaning of his cervical vertebra.
When the Mossad agent bent down to grab his hair, Song Heping suddenly sprang up.
The two-finger jab directly pierced into the opponent's eye socket, and while the unlucky guy was still screaming, he quickly seized the MP5 submachine gun and started shooting.
Two enemies fell into the sewage.
However, the fourth guy's bullet penetrated his already dire bullet-proof plate, shooting into his right lung.
The salty sea wind suddenly poured into his chest cavity.
Song Heping knelt in the pool of blood, watching his bloody froth shining a ghastly blue under the moonlight.
The container maze split into countless shadow images on his retina; he fumbled in an attempt to pick up the fallen submachine gun but found his index finger unable to pull the trigger.
"Game over, China People."
English with a Hebrew accent came from above, a black muzzle pressed against the back of his neck: "Lift your head, boy, let me see what kind of monster you are for killing twenty-three of our brothers tonight."
Song Heping grinned, his teeth stained with blood.
Twenty-three...
Fuck!
Does this count as a record?
He looked at the gradually brightening horizon.
The sky is starting to light up?
How many hours have I been entangled with these guys?
He suddenly recalled the morning at the village entrance when he was five years old— the horizon also shone with the same fish-belly white, and he happily jumped into the small river, splashing crystal-clear water...
"Going home…"
Song Heping suddenly lost his sense of fear, instead feeling an unparalleled relaxation.
He looked up at the furious, distorted face of the Mossad assault team member in front of him, revealing a sneer.
Mossad?
"Cough, cough… Eat shit… you…"
He said this extremely insulting sentence in Chinese while coughing.
Suddenly realizing that the Daishe Birds before him might not understand his words.
So he switched to English: "Fuck your mother!"
Extreme insults should anger the enemy and make him shoot.
At least that's what Song Heping thought.
Sure enough, just as the trigger's metal friction sound rang out, Song Heping heard a familiar tearing sound—
Bang—
It was the sound of a 7.62×51mm NATO warhead penetrating the bullet-proof plate, slower by half a beat compared to regular sniper shots.
When the guy holding the gun to his forehead fell to the ground with a thud.