Lascano sat in the passenger seat of the van, listening to the radio about the helicopter crash news, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.
No matter how skilled in martial arts, one fears the kitchen knife.
No matter how clever someone surnamed Song is, isn't it just a matter of one Stinger missile?
Thinking about Song Heping's death, Lascano started whistling cheerfully.
Ever since his defeat by Song Heping, his confidence took a heavy hit.
Lascano, once a very arrogant Special Forces officer, had never tasted failure before.
Song Heping's emergence weighed down on him like a boulder, casting a lingering shadow.
This guy is finally dead!
While Lascano was still caught up in the excitement of killing Song Heping, the van passed through a remote road and approached a simple bridge with only about two meters of width.
The driver had to gently step on the brake and start to downshift, slowing down the van.
Nearby on the hillside, a head peeked out from behind a tree, followed by the barrel of a gun.
While the van was still wobbling onto the bridge, the marksman had already aimed quickly and pulled the trigger.
—Pfft—
The sound was strange, very muffled, completely different from the decibel of a traditional gunpowder-fired bullet.
A special pointed bullet flew out at subsonic speed, directly entering from above the tire and fiercely lodging inside the mudguard.
Inside the van, Lascano and his men didn't realize their vehicle had been "hit," the noises from the uneven road covering everything up.
The marksman behind the tree quickly retracted his head, then took out a military-grade PDA from the tactical bag on the ground and stared at the screen for a while.
A bright spot appeared on the screen, moving slowly...
After crossing the bridge, the van's driver started to accelerate, soon disappearing at the end of the road.
The marksman picked up a phone and dialed a number.
Soon, his accomplice's voice came through.
"Is it done?"
"Done! Come pick me up!"
After speaking, he swiftly dismantled the gun and shoved it into the case, grabbing his tactical backpack and running down the hillside to the roadside.
About five minutes later, a Toyota SUV appeared, speeding along the road and stopping near where the marksman stood.
The marksman, with a South American face, silently stepped forward, opened the door, and jumped in.
Beneath the trees, sunlight dappled the marksman's figure, a patch of light falling on a Falcon tattoo on his forearm.
Sitting in the passenger seat, he checked the PDA again and said, "Turn left at the intersection ahead, onto Route 211."
"Okay."
The driver stepped on the gas and quickly caught up.
At two o'clock in the afternoon, Barrett, in a building in the northern city of San Jose, paced around the room with a phone in his hand.
Looking at the number he had dialed more than ten times without response, he hesitated whether to continue.
The situation was becoming a bit delicate.
Song Heping seemed to have disappeared.
He had wanted to confirm whether the other party had gone to meet God, but unexpectedly the phone rang once and then was abruptly cut off; subsequent calls went to a switched-off phone.
The news about the helicopter crash on TV had quieted down, with no further messages forthcoming.
There was also no news from his boss Kelly yet.
An hour ago, he and Kelly had spoken on the phone, Barrett expressing his suspicions.
He believed that Song Heping had not died in the crash.
The reason being, if Song Heping had perished in the crash, how could his phone still be online? It would have been burnt to ashes along with the helicopter.
The phone being switched off after initially ringing might suggest the scenario of a crash death.
Kelly had asked him to wait for news, mentioning that the efficiency of the Mexican police was quite low; the fire at the scene had been extinguished, human remains were found, but whether they were Song Heping's or how many were there was still unclear.
After three tense hours, Barrett's phone finally rang again.
The ringtone startled him, and seeing the number, Barrett's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.
"Song Heping..."
This number was very familiar.
He had called no fewer than ten times since noon.
"Not dead..."
Did Barrett still harbor a sliver of hope that someone else was using his phone?
He quickly dismissed the thought and hurriedly answered the call.