Chapter 16: The PSD Mission

Loli?

Song Heping felt as if he had boarded the wrong train.

A young woman, probably in her twenties, with black hair cut to her ears and wearing glasses, emerged from the inner room. She was short and slightly plump, holding a stack of documents. She wore a short-sleeved shirt, tactical pants, and desert combat boots—this seemed to be the standard attire in the war zone, regardless of gender.

What caught the eye most was the MP5 submachine gun slung over her shoulder and a Glock 17 holstered on her thigh.

She walked over to the desk and sat down. The mission officer set the files on the table, then pushed up her glasses on the bridge of her nose and said, “Line up, everyone. Collect your briefings according to your scheduled missions and register your team members’ information.”

She then unlocked the computer before her with a fingerprint and opened the mission registration system.

The mercenaries in the hall lined up obediently like animals in a zoo, each waiting their turn to collect their assignments, occasionally exchanging bland jokes with the “loli.”

Today’s mission briefings were for mercenary teams that had already signed subcontract agreements with Blackwater International. Their task was simply to collect the mission brief and then pick up satellite phones from the communications office for work use.

There was a strict rule here regarding the satellite phones: they had to be registered upon issuance and returned after the mission. Using them to contact family was forbidden and would result in severe penalties, given the high cost of satellite communications.

Most other teams quickly received their briefings and left the mission hall to prepare for their engagements. Only the cook and a few members of the “Musician” mercenary squad, including Song Heping, remained in the room.

“Miss Loli, don’t we have a mission?” the cook asked, clearly surprised.

There should absolutely be one.

Thomas had promised to help him out.

But he was a bit worried.

His worry was not unfounded.

In the mercenary world, reputation was everything. The circle was small, and everyone knew each other.

If you succeeded in every mission and satisfied your clients, your reputation would be solid, and business would flow.

But if you failed, if things went badly, your standing would be seriously damaged. No one would risk their own reputation recommending you. When employers called to inquire, everyone would say, “Which team? That useless bunch who can’t get anything done!”

Yes. It was that blunt.

The cook’s team had suffered a disastrous defeat a few days earlier—a roadside IED attack that cost him three brothers and ruined the mission.

This had damaged the entire “Musician” team’s reputation. That night, he went to a bar and bought drinks for Thomas, hoping he could help secure some contracts through Blackwater International.

Without work, the cook and his companions would have to pack up and leave.

“Of course you have,” the loli said. “And it’s a juicy one, Yevgeny. How are you going to thank me?”

The cook plopped down next to her desk, leaned close, his eyes instantly turning tender, his tone softening and refined, a complete contrast to the angry curses he had hurled at the gun shop earlier. “Anything you want, my esteemed Miss Loli.”

Song Heping never expected the cook to have such a smooth charm. That look could melt the iciest heart, and here they were in a public place. Song even suspected that if they weren’t among so many people, these two would have rushed off to bed together immediately.

“Holy crap…”

He turned away, unable to bear the sight.

After some flirtation and sweet talk, Miss Loli finally produced the mission briefing.

“This is a PSD mission,” she said. “And the pay is good—ten thousand dollars a day.”

PSD, an abbreviation common in the private security industry, stood for personal security detail, meaning close protection work.

In fact, mercenaries preferred not to call themselves “mercenaries” but instead used terms like PSD or CP.

The mission was to pick up a female reporter named Angel from The Washington Post at the airport, escort her to a hotel in the Green Zone, and hand her over to the Elysee Security Forces (ISF).

The mission officer’s description was accurate.

The airport was only about twenty kilometers from the Green Zone. Although many roads in Baghdad were damaged by the war, requiring detours, it was still only about thirty kilometers. The short distance meant lower risk.

The whole mission was very easy—just a few hours round trip, and ten thousand dollars in the pocket. Even if divided among five people, that was two thousand each.

Very nice!

Given his previous agreement with the cook—one hundred dollars a day plus bonuses for missions—could he make three hundred today?

He wondered if on his first day he could earn that much.

After all, he only had just over a hundred dollars left in his pocket—not even enough to buy salt.

After collecting the satellite phones and registering them, the group left the mission center.

Once in the car, the cook checked his watch. “It’s nine o’clock now. The plane arrives at twelve thirty. Let’s head to the airport early and celebrate with a good meal at the restaurant there.”

The cook was in high spirits.

“Gray Wolf, you and two others take the Opel and lead the way. Andre, Yulia, and I will follow in the patrol vehicle. At the airport, two ICDC vehicles will join us. I’ll make further arrangements then!”

With a wave of his hand, he ordered, “Get in!”

Once inside, Song folded the stock of his AKM and placed it by the door beside his seat.

Gray Wolf reminded him, “Chamber a round, safety off.”

“I already did,” Song said.

Gray Wolf smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. “You served in the Chinese military, right?”

Song nodded. “Five years.”

Gray Wolf started the vehicle, checked the fuel, and asked, “Why come to Elysee?”

“To make money,” Song replied. “I’m broke.”

The window of the patrol vehicle ahead rolled down, and Song saw the cook’s hand make a forward gesture.

Gray Wolf hit the accelerator, and the Opel station wagon sped ahead, leading the convoy toward the Green Zone exit.

As their two vehicles left the mission hall parking lot and headed out of the Green Zone, Thomas stood quietly by a third-floor window of Office Building No. 2, watching them until the cars disappeared around the corner. Then he took out a secure phone used by Langley and dialed a number.

“Thomas, is everything arranged?”

“All set. I arranged for a small Russian mercenary team through Blackwater International to handle Angel’s security. These guys have clean backgrounds, no military ties. She’ll definitely do background checks but won’t find anything suspicious—no reason to doubt anything.”

“Are you sure nothing will go wrong? I’m not worried about Angel causing trouble, but the woman behind her is a real pain. If Angel finds Mr. D and uncovers anything, it’ll be bad for us.”

“Sir, I’m confident this will go smoothly. Even if it fails, the Russians won’t be linked to us—they’re neither SEALs nor Delta Force. It’s easy to explain externally.”

“Fine. I hope you don’t make another mistake. Mr. D should have been dead when we launched ‘Operation Liberty.’ It’s your failure that caused today’s situation.”

“This will all be remedied, Sir. Please rest assured.”

“Alright, I’ll be waiting for good news in DC.”