Chapter 21: The Damn VIP Crashed Again

The American-made Hummer’s pitiful armor was no match for the RPG launcher; even more lethal was the fact that this RPG was fired from the overpass above—that is, a downward shot.

The rocket struck the windshield of the first Hummer in the convoy, piercing right through the bulletproof glass.

The ICDC driver’s head was instantly shredded by the metal jet; blood fogged the entire cabin. The other ICDC soldiers inside the vehicle could do nothing but scream in chaos.

Globally, the RPG launcher is considered a formidable anti-armor weapon: simple in design, cheap, mass-produced, and operable by an uneducated militant after less than five minutes of instruction.

Its many advantages have made it a star weapon on battlefields worldwide—an unbeatable choice for home defense, travel, robbery, and murder alike. It is beloved by the regular armies and armed insurgents of all backward nations on Earth.

There’s nothing an RPG can’t fix with a single shot. If not, then two shots will do.

See? Here comes the second one.

Whoosh—

Almost simultaneously with the first rocket hitting the Hummer, the second RPG arrived.

Since the first blast had killed the driver and shifted the vehicle’s direction, the second rocket struck the left door.

The shaped-charge warhead pierced through the side armor, tore open the bulletproof lining, and entered the rear seat—the soldiers’ compartment.

It detonated inside the vehicle, the fireball bursting out from the rooftop gunner’s hatch. From thirty meters away, Song Heping saw the towering flames like fireworks during the Spring Festival.

They were dead.

At least, Song Heping believed those inside the Hummer were beyond salvation.

If not dead, then grievously wounded.

At this moment, there were quite a few vehicles on the highway.

An armed attack.

In Illigo and Bakda, this term was anything but new.

Especially in recent months, these attacks happened daily.

The locals had long grown accustomed to the bloodbath, embracing a fatalistic attitude toward life and death.

The road was a battlefield. Overturned Hummers and stranded trucks blocked the way, causing all passing vehicles to stop. People skillfully opened their doors and scattered to flee.

Remarkably, there were no screams.

It was as if everyone was engaged in a daily life-or-death game.

Gunfire raged from the bridge above.

Bullets flew past with a sharp whiz, concentrated fire striking the Hummer, sparking deadly flashes.

At this point, disguising oneself as a bystander was no longer an option.

They had to disembark and flee to cover by the roadside.

Sitting inside was a death sentence.

The feeling was much the same as during the previous ambush.

Song Heping felt a dry mouth and labored breathing.

For a novice like him, the pressure and tension of real combat were still intense.

A throbbing pressure filled his temples; though under the blazing sun, colors in his vision seemed to dull.

This was the visual effect caused by accelerated blood flow from stress.

White Bear threw out a smoke grenade.

Taking advantage of the smoke, everyone began to flee rapidly.

Song Heping sprinted across the street at top speed.

About five meters from the roadside lay the wreckage of a destroyed T-62 tank; without hesitation, he took cover behind it.

Nothing was safer than here.

Grey Wolf’s luck was not as good.

He was in the driver’s seat, fleeing slightly slower than Song Heping.

That tiny delay changed everything.

Barely two meters out, a burst of bullets swept past, and a local man ahead of Grey Wolf instantly became a bloodied corpse, collapsing headfirst.

Grey Wolf immediately executed a tactical roll, tumbling to the roadside and diving behind a vehicle, hiding by the tire.

Amid the smoke, the cook and White Bear also escaped from the patrol SUV, taking cover behind concrete barriers by the roadside.

But soon, Song Heping heard the cook’s furious voice—

“Where’s the VIP?! Where’s the VIP?!”

He quickly pressed his radio’s call button, trying to reach the Queen.

The Queen was responsible for the close protection of Angel.

“Queen! Where are you? Where’s the VIP?!”

“Damn it! That crazy woman won’t get out! I can’t pull her!”

The Queen’s voice sounded desperate over the channel.

In the PSD mission, everyone had their role.

The Queen’s task was to escort the VIP from the SUV to cover after White Bear’s smoke grenade took effect—this had to be done within thirty seconds.

Meanwhile, the cook and White Bear, as companions in the same vehicle, had to suppress enemy fire for a while and then retreat to find cover themselves.

Everything had to be coordinated perfectly, flawlessly executed.

But the Queen ran into trouble evacuating Angel.

Just like at the airport, Angel broke down again.

She curled up on the rear seat of the patrol SUV, clutching the seat base like a drowning person grasping a lifeline, screaming hysterically yet refusing to leave the cursed vehicle!

The cook said to White Bear, “You’re stronger, go get her!”

Then he raised his gun, aiming at the overpass to suppress enemy fire continuously.

At this moment, the modified RPD light machine gun showed its unique advantage: its 100-round belt allowed the cook to fire for a while without worrying about running out of ammo or changing magazines.

White Bear nodded, crouched low, gritted his teeth, and charged forward.

But less than two meters out, a burst of bullets swept past; White Bear screamed and fell to the ground.

He had been so focused on the enemies on the overpass that he failed to notice three men emerging from the truck that had rammed the Hummer.

Those three militants obviously spotted White Bear; one leveled his weapon and shot, knocking White Bear down instantly.

“White Bear! Are you okay?!”

Seeing this, Grey Wolf immediately swept his AKM across the three men from the truck, accurately shooting one down. The other two dived behind the truck for cover and began to return fire.

Their shooting was evidently skilled and precise.

Grey Wolf was pinned down by two of them, unable to move.

Meanwhile, the cook was also struggling.

Though he wielded an RPD light machine gun, at least seven or eight enemies on the overpass fired at him simultaneously, keeping him pinned behind the concrete barrier.

In terms of firepower and position, the “Musician” mercenary group was at a disadvantage.

Someone shouted loudly on the bridge.

Song Heping couldn’t understand what was being said.

The scene was chaotic.

On the highway lay more than a dozen corpses. Some were innocent locals caught in the crossfire, but most were ICDC soldiers. The first two Hummers were completely silent; surrounded by piles of dead bodies, they could no longer be relied upon for assistance.

Song Heping’s position was the safest among them all.

The cook finally noticed Song Heping.

“Sang! We’ll cover you. Go help the Queen and get that bitch out!”

Song Heping poked his head out from behind the T-62 wreckage, assessing the patrol SUV’s surroundings.

Less than twenty meters away.

What chilled Song Heping to the bone was the intense interception fire from the overpass. The patrol SUV already had several bullet holes, and the asphalt nearby was peppered with impact craters. The machine gunner on the overpass was sweeping with enthusiasm.

Those twenty meters were a death trap.

“Sang! Go get that bitch out!”

The cook urged again.

Leaning against the T-62, Song Heping took several deep breaths to steady his nerves.

His first day on the job had already included an RPG attack and an ambush at the checkpoint.

It was one wave of trouble after another.

This money was not easy to earn!