Chapter 13: The Cook

That night, Song Heping did not sleep well.

Just as he was drifting into sleep, a pair of eyes appeared in his mind, staring at him from the darkness—both eerie and familiar, sending a chill down his spine.

He woke up with a start.

Looking around, everything was pitch black.

Old Yao called from his room, “Heping, what’s wrong?”

Song Heping was drenched in sweat. Touching the sheet, he realized it was soaked through.

Those eyes…

He remembered.

They seemed to be the eyes of the woman he had beaten to death earlier, or maybe those of the armed man crushed beneath the door panel.

He couldn’t tell, nor did he want to.

His heart raced again as sweat poured down his body.

All cold sweat.

“It’s nothing, just a nightmare,” he said.

Old Yao was silent for a moment in the room, listening closely while lying in bed.

In the still darkness came Song Heping’s heavy breathing.

Old Yao hurriedly got out of bed and went to the front room to turn on the light.

What he saw startled him.

Song Heping sat on the edge of the bed, drenched in sweat, his clothes soaked through. His face was pale, his gaze vacant as he stared silently at the floor, as still as a clay statue.

“What’s wrong with you?” Old Yao asked again, unable to hold back.

“Ugh—” Song Heping suddenly opened his mouth and vomited violently.

Old Yao left early the next morning.

He took a US military transport vehicle, heading back to the base in Kuwait to join the convoy loading supplies.

All commercial flights at Baghdad Airport had ceased operations; only military planes took off and landed. To fly home, one had to first go to Kuwait or neighboring countries.

After Old Yao left, Song Heping felt somewhat empty inside.

Now, he was truly alone here.

He wanted to go to a supermarket in the Green Zone to call his sister back home, to tell her he would send money on time, and after finishing his personal matters, he would head to District 11 to find Yevgeny.

Currently, Baghdad’s communication networks were damaged due to the war, making it impossible to communicate.

The commonly used network in the Green Zone was provided by the US Microwave Communications Inc. (MCI), but their services were plagued with problems, often congested and crawling at a snail’s pace.

Where there is demand, there is supply. Just as this place lacked people willing to do either legitimate or dirty work, countless mercenaries had arrived.

With poor network services, international network operators naturally stepped in to seize market share.

The most reliable communication was via the Thuraya system, a satellite network formed by three geostationary satellites designed to last fifteen years, covering Europe, North Africa, Central Africa, South Asia, and 110 countries.

The US AAFES company-operated supermarkets in the Green Zone offered this satellite phone service.

The best part was that they even provided wire transfer services, with reasonable fees.

Just as Song Heping picked up his luggage to leave, an Opel station wagon sped to the door, screeching to a halt and kicking up a cloud of dust.

The window rolled down, and a man who looked Mongolian waved at him.

“Song! Get in!”

Song Heping looked at the visitor, feeling a bit familiar but unable to recall exactly who he was.

“The ‘Cook’ sent me to pick you up!”

“Cook?”

“Yevgeny!”

Hearing the name, Song Heping finally understood.

It was the bald man from last night, Yevgeny, who also had the nickname “Cook.”

Looks like his plans were about to be disrupted.

District 11 was farther from the Republican Palace, located at the northeasternmost corner near the blast walls.

It was a cluster of containers and tents.

Only PMC employees and some US National Guard personnel lived there.

B-12 was three containers joined together.

When Song Heping saw Yevgeny, the man was having breakfast at a simple table in front of the containers.

Seeing Song Heping, the Cook called out, “Come eat breakfast quickly. After that, we’ll head to the company’s mission center—there’s work today.”

Once Song Heping sat down, Yevgeny sliced two pieces of bread for him and pointed to a pot of soup on the table. “I made this. Try it. Authentic Russian cuisine.”

Song Heping glanced at the pot; the broth was bright red, like stewed tomatoes, with other ingredients he couldn’t identify.

He frowned involuntarily.

The Cook was very enthusiastic, pushing the wooden ladle forward with the same invitation: “Try it!”

Though Song Heping had little interest in that pig’s slop-looking thing, he reluctantly took the ladle, thinking it couldn’t be worse than eating bugs during survival training.

He scooped a bit and sipped cautiously—his eyes lit up.

“Tastes pretty good! What’s this soup called?”

His praise was sincere, not flattery.

The soup was not as bad as expected: tangy and sweet, refreshing and appetizing.

“Borscht,” the Cook said happily, flashing a mouthful of white teeth. “Let’s use breakfast time to talk about you joining us.”

As he spoke, he glanced at his watch like a busy man with many affairs.

“Let’s introduce ourselves first.”

The Cook gestured to several people at the table.

“Everyone, introduce yourselves. We’ll be comrades back to back.”

The Mongolian-looking man who brought Song Heping smiled and went first.

“My name is Uzair Sultan. You can call me ‘Grey Wolf.’”

He extended his hand for a shake.

Song Heping introduced himself too.

“My name is Song Heping. You can call me Song.”

“Song,” Grey Wolf nodded.

Song Heping felt a bit crushed.

It seemed his surname was hard for foreigners to pronounce accurately.

But this was a minor matter, not worth fussing over.

Then it was Andrey’s turn.

He rubbed his chin, still sore after applying three ice packs all night.

He was a bit resentful about last night’s failure but had to admit Song Heping was skilled.

He extended his hand and said, “I’m Andrey. You can call me ‘Polar Bear.’”

When Song Heping shook his hand, Andrey suddenly grabbed him and pulled him closer.

“Kid, I was too careless last night, or I wouldn’t have lost. We’ll have a rematch when I have time.”

Song Heping asked, “Odds still 1:10?”

Andrey was surprised by the response, hesitated, then said, “Alright, 1:10.”

Song Heping replied, “I’m busy today. Another time.”

“Good!” Andrey was pleased, feeling he could get revenge after losing to Song Heping in the Forbidden Zone bar last night. “It’s a deal!”

The last to introduce herself was the team’s only female, the blonde girl.

“I’m Yulia. You can call me ‘Queen.’”

“Queen?”

Song Heping thought the name was quite imposing, but then it made sense. Any woman in this line of work had to be tough.

Although Yulia was fierce, she was at least very attractive.

It wasn’t that Song Heping had any thoughts about her; any man appreciated something pleasing to the eye.

Yulia wasn’t unattractive, and her figure was stunning.

Working in a war zone alongside a bunch of rough men, having a splash of color among the drabness was a pleasant thing.

Yevgeny said to Song Heping, “I’m Yevgeny. You can call me boss, though some call me ‘Cook.’”

He looked over the group and continued, “As you see, we’re short-staffed. Counting you, there are just five of us—a small combat team at most. There’s plenty of work in Baghdad now. Leave the job hunting to me; don’t worry about making money. Your only worry should be whether you survive to get paid.”

A hint of sadness flickered in the Cook’s eyes.

“A few days ago, I had seven men. An IED took out three of them. This line of work is dangerous. You still have a choice. If you don’t want to do this, turn around and leave. I won’t hold you back. But if you stay and work with me, once you take a mission, you have to fight with your life on the line. If you’re afraid to die on a mission, I’ll deal with you according to military rules—understood?”

“Understood,” Song Heping said. “Exchanging life for money—that’s fair.”

His calmness surprised Yevgeny, who smiled and said, “Song, I like your straightforwardness.”

Then he said, “Hurry up and finish breakfast. After, we’ll go to the black market. By the way, you have some money on you, right? If not, I can lend you some and deduct it from your pay later.”

Song Heping had heard of Baghdad’s black market but never been there. After all, he used to do legitimate business, while black market goods were mostly illegal.

In any war zone, there was always a black market.

During wartime, many supplies were strictly controlled, and currencies often collapsed, making normal trade impossible. Underground trading was indispensable.

“I have some,” Song Heping said. “What? Do you need a deposit to work for you?”

Yevgeny said, “Not a deposit. You need to buy some gear—guns, bulletproof vests, stuff like that. You can’t just rely on that Beretta of yours to work with us, can you?”

Song Heping hadn’t expected to have to buy his own gun.

He thought equipment would be issued. Now it seemed, damn it, he had to pay for it himself!

He couldn’t help but ask, “We have to buy our own guns?”

Yevgeny said, “You’re new, so you don’t know the rules. Not just in my small team—all mercenaries here buy their own gear. Even the big companies don’t provide equipment. The company only pays your salary; you buy your own gear. Otherwise, if you die during probation and the gear is lost, I’d be the one losing out.”

Song Heping smiled wryly. The deeper he went into this world, the more he realized he had to watch and learn.

After breakfast, Yevgeny led the group to the parking lot to get the vehicles.

Along the way, he boasted about how formidable his team was and introduced the others, praising their prowess.

Song Heping gained a rough understanding of the mercenary team.

Everyone, including Yevgeny, was from Russia.

Except for Prigozhin, the rest were in their thirties, mostly former scouts from the Soviet Guards 76th Airborne Division.

Yulia was special—she had been a member of the first female special operations company in the Soviet Guards paratroopers, and she and Andrey were lovers.

After the Soviet Union collapsed, the economy was devastated by shock therapy. Even soldiers struggled to make ends meet.

So they left the military and followed Yevgeny, initially trading arms and controlled items before becoming mercenaries.

As for Yevgeny himself, surprisingly, he never served in the military but still became their leader, which puzzled Song Heping greatly.