Chapter 1832 - 1386: Deal Struck

Duke seemed prepared for Song Heping's question.

"Song, we are both realists. This deal won't have a written contract, won't have legal documents. All there is, is a balance of mutual assured destruction. If I betray you, you can release the recording of our meeting—yes, I know you are recording, I am recording too. If you betray me, I can have Seal Six find and eliminate you within a week. We both need to trust each other because the cost of betrayal is too high for both of us."

Song Heping had to admit, Duke wasn't made a general for nothing.

When he entered, Song Heping had already guessed that this conversation was extraordinary.

So he quietly pressed the record button on a phone in his pocket.

Duke apparently was recording as well.

This arrangement has its cruel logic.

Mutually assured destruction, a concept from the Cold War period.

Now applied to a dirty personal transaction.

"What if Misu is already dead?" He posed another practical question: "What if the evidence has been destroyed?"

"Then the deal is off!" Duke said without hesitation: "Without evidence, I can't ensure my own safety, nor can I advance the weapons transfer. I'll find other ways to save myself, and you... at least get the guaranteed ten million from this contract, as compensation for time and risk."

Song Heping sat back down, fingertips touching each other, forming a triangle.

This was his habitual posture when contemplating major decisions.

Fifteen billion dollars.

No, it's not just money; it's influence, it's power, it's a ten-year security guarantee.

But the risks are equally enormous—going against the White House's secret plan, and possibly the Hillary Government that might win the election and take over the White House.

This is akin to dancing on the edge of a knife, with an abyss beneath.

But Song Heping knew himself.

When he chose this path years ago, he had already embraced a life of high-risk, high-reward.

He had been through worse.

Previously being hunted simultaneously by the CIA, Mossad, and British MI6, yet surviving every time, he found opportunities amidst risks.

"Deal!" he finally said: "Coordinates. Misu's last known location coordinates."

Duke visibly sighed in relief, shoulders slightly slumping.

He walked back to the desk, wrote down a series of numbers on a note, and handed it to Song Heping.

"This is the latest intelligence. Syria border, abandoned 'Crescent' oilfield," Duke said: "Eighty-seven kilometers from Badi Town, one hundred twenty kilometers from the nearest government army outpost, located at the junction of three armed organizations' spheres of influence. If Misu is still alive, if he wants to avoid the CIA and everyone's tracking, it's a reasonable choice."

Song Heping studied the coordinates, calling up the map of that region in his mind.

He remembered the "Crescent" oilfield—developed by a French company in the 1970s, abandoned in the 1990s, facilities mostly intact but situated remotely, a traditional hiding place for smugglers, mercenaries, and fugitives.

"I might need support," Song Heping said: "One person isn't enough to enter that area."

Duke shook his head: "I can't give you formal support. Any involvement of US Army or intelligence personnel will be tracked. But I can give you this—"

He handed over a slip of paper:

"Inside are the details of three local contacts who owe me favors, as well as information on the latest distribution of forces in that region and checkpoints. Besides that, you'll have to manage on your own."

Song Heping took the slip of paper.

The slip felt as light as a feather yet might weigh as heavy as life.

"Three days," Duke reiterated: "You have three days. After three days, regardless of the outcome, this meeting never happened, this deal was never discussed. If successful, I'll contact you through predefined channels. If failure... good luck."

A typical American setup, Song Heping thought.

Sufficient support to start but not enough to ensure safety.

Success is shared glory, failure is personal responsibility.

Yet he still nodded.

The allure of fifteen billion dollars was too great, and he had enough confidence in his skills.

"I need some prep time," Song Heping said, "Equipment, vehicle, false identity. Departing by tomorrow evening at the earliest."

"Outside the city at 12 Muhammad Avenue, it's a warehouse," Duke said: "The warehouse has everything you need including civilian vehicles, weapons, equipment, satellite phone. I'll arrange for someone to meet you there and hand over the equipment to your team."

Song Heping noted down these details.

Duke's thorough preparation indicated the plan had been brewing for some time.

It seemed this guy didn't make the decision impulsively but rather after careful thought, calculating the risks step by step.

Just like himself.

"One last question," Song Heping rose to leave: "Why choose this method? Why not go directly with the evidence to the Washington Post? You are an active general, your accusations carry weight."

Duke's expression turned complex, mingled with sarcasm and helplessness:

"You think I haven't considered it? Song, those on the 'death list' before didn't consider it? They know every major media's national security journalist, know their informants, know their editors. The moment I walk into the Post building, they'll know. My encrypted email will be intercepted before reaching the inbox. My calls will be transcribed. That's modern America's reality—the powers that be have almost unlimited surveillance ability. Don't think being a general grants me special exemptions. Don't be naive."

He walked to the window, gazing at the base bathed in morning light:

"But through you... a foreign contractor, an outsider with no ties to the intelligence community, someone who was once on the US's KB Member bounty list, someone who knows how to operate in the underground world... it's the only way to circumvent the surveillance net."

Song Heping understood and nodded.

He had seen too many such cases.

Whistleblowers getting swallowed by the system, being discredited, isolated, and ultimately eliminated. Duke's choice was cutthroat but possibly the only effective one.

"Three days," Song Heping repeated: "Three days for contact."

Duke turned to walk out the door.

His hand had just touched the doorknob when he suddenly turned back: "Song."

"Hmm? Anything else?" Song Heping asked.

Duke stood at the door, light streaming in from the crack, illuminating half of his face while leaving the other half in darkness, exceptionally eerie.

"Misu may have gone mad," Duke said: "After all this, bearing those pieces of evidence, being hunted by his former employers... he may no longer be rational. Be careful."

Song Heping nodded but didn't answer.

Duke opened the door and walked out.

As soon as Duke left, Song Heping's mind began to operate at high speed, planning the route, listing the equipment inventory, and assessing risks.

Fifteen billion dollars.

This figure echoed in his mind, like a tempting and dangerous ballad.

But he knew the truth Duke didn't mention: these fifteen billion dollars are not only a reward but also a hush money.

Once Song Heping accepted this batch of arms, once he became part of this dirty deal, he could no longer stay uninvolved.

He would be tied on the same boat with Duke, sharing secrets and bearing risks together.

And the truth about the "Seeder" plan, those civilians who died in chemical weapon tests, those sacrificed soldiers...

These all became bargaining chips in the deal, commodities that could be used on the negotiating table.

Song Heping turned a corner and faced two officers head-on.

They nodded in greeting to him, he replied politely, without stopping his steps.

To outsiders, he was just an ordinary contractor, completing a routine meeting with the base commander.

But in his heart, a deal that changed everything had just been made.

He opened his laptop, connected to the encrypted network, and began researching the "Crescent" oil field and surrounding areas.

Satellite images showed that the oil field facilities covered about two square kilometers, including drilling platforms, oil storage tanks, staff dormitories, and maintenance workshops.

Most of the buildings had been abandoned for twenty years, but recent images showed traces of activity.

Vehicle tire prints, signs of sweeping at the doors of certain buildings.

Misu chose this place for a reason.

Remote yet not unreachable, with enough buildings to provide hiding places, and located at the junction of multiple forces, where no party would easily enter for searches.

But this also meant danger.

At least three armed organizations were active in the area: the Syria Freedom Army, extremist groups related to the 1515 Armed, and the Kurd people's patrol.

Song Heping began to devise a plan.

He needed a small team.

The number of people could not be too many, making the target too obvious; it needed to have enough mobility and firepower to deal with emergencies.

He thought of some suitable candidates from the mercenary camp.

The mercenaries under Milosh couldn't be mobilized, as it would arouse Lemont's suspicion.

They had to be transferred from Hulmatu's side.

He took out his phone and sent Jiang Feng an encrypted message, notifying them of the meeting place.

If everything went smoothly, they would rendezvous with him within 8 hours.

The next was the equipment.

The warehouse supplies promised by Duke were the basis, but he needed some special equipment.

Anti-surveillance equipment and chemical weapon detectors in case Misu really went mad, deciding to perish with the pursuers, also medical kits, and enough cash.

In this region, US Dollar was more effective than any weapon.

He listed the inventory, calculating weight and volume.

They would drive modified Toyota Land Cruisers, a vehicle omnipresent in the Middle East, unlikely to raise attention.

Weapons selection included both US-made and Russian-made, likewise to avoid exposing identity.

The planning work took an hour.

After completion, Song Heping shut down the computer, lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

He rarely questioned his choices.

The Special Forces career taught him that indecisiveness is more fatal than making wrong decisions.

But tonight, a rare doubt quietly emerged.

Duke's proposal was too perfect.

A perfect trap or a perfect opportunity?

Fifteen billion dollars in arms...

All felt somewhat unreal.

But on the other hand, Duke's fear was real.

A general about to lose everything is dangerous.

He closed his eyes, letting training replace thought.

Breathing slowed, heartbeat steadied, mind cleared of distractions.

Two hours later, he would head to the warehouse to begin preparations.

Tomorrow evening, he would depart for the Syria border.

Whether Misu was dead or alive, whether evidence existed or not, this operation had already changed some things.

He and Duke established a dangerous symbiotic relationship, one that could bring immense wealth or lead to mutual destruction.

And in Washington, in Langley, in the White House, others were also taking action.

Those big figures involved with the "Seeder Plan" and "Witness" departments wouldn't sit idly by, Hillary's team wouldn't allow scandals to ruin her inauguration, Pentagon bureaucrats would desperately protect their agency and budget.

All these forces were colliding.

Song Heping checked his watch for the last time, set the alarm, then closed his eyes to sleep.

Tonight would be a sleepless night.

11:40 PM.

He dragged out an inconspicuous backpack from under the bed, containing always ready emergency gear—fake passport, cash, a Glock 19 handgun, two spare magazines, satellite phone, encrypted tablet.

Then he turned off the lights, went out, downstairs, drove, heading towards Muhammad Avenue.