Chapter 3: Crossfire

The bearded man reached out and gave the baseball-cap-wearing Hanson a hard slap on the shoulder, then raised his rifle and began laying down suppressive fire with a rapid string of controlled bursts at the gunmen across the road.

Hanson, meanwhile, dragged one of the men up from the ground and, under the cover of several other American soldiers, started running toward the cluster of buildings on the left side of the highway.

The man being hauled along did not look like military personnel. He wore no uniform, no insignia, only a bulletproof vest and a pistol. His face was a little pale, like some civilian bureaucrat from the Green Zone.

Clang, clang, clang—

More and more stray rounds struck the vehicle, reminding Song Heping that if he did not leave now, it would be too late.

He decided to run for the buildings and hide.

If he could stay concealed in those tangled mud-brick houses for a dozen minutes or so, the American reinforcements would probably arrive.

"Aguan! We—"

While watching the situation outside, he reached back to grab Aguan, but his hand came away wet.

A sinister thought rose up again. Song Heping jerked around and saw red all over his hand.

Blood.

Aguan was gone.

He had died so suddenly that he did not even have time to groan, his eyes still open.

A stray bullet had punched through the cab and struck the poor bastard in the head.

The flimsy sheet metal of a civilian truck could not possibly stop a 7.62 round.

Watching his friend die beside him, Song Heping felt as if a ball of hemp had lodged in his throat, making him unbearably miserable.

Aguan had not had it easy either. A man in his thirties, married twice. In his first marriage he had two daughters with his ex-wife, and in hopes of having a son he divorced and found a second wife. Only the year before last had he finally gotten what he wanted: a baby boy.

An ex-wife, a current wife, three children, and elderly parents above him...

Now everything was over.

The pillar of the family had snapped.

There was no time to grieve. Song Heping turned and was about to flee this damned truck.

The moment he poked his head out, several bullets whistled past his scalp and struck the vehicle with little bursts of sparks, frightening him so badly that he fell back into the cab.

Gunfire was everywhere. In his ears he could even hear the sharp little chirps of bullets punching into the ground, or the metallic clatter of rounds striking the vehicle.

It seemed as though people were shooting at him from every direction.

He had no idea where the enemy was.

Maybe there were enemies in every direction.

"Damn it all to hell!"

Song Heping cursed to steady his nerves, then burst out and ran with all his strength.

On the battlefield, one must never be timid, never afraid of death.

The more afraid you are, the more the bullets will come looking for you.

Song Heping did not choose the same direction as the American soldiers.

They ran to the right; he chose the left.

The soldiers were the attackers' target, not him. Following Hanson and the bearded man would be no different from courting death.

It was more than thirty meters from the truck to the buildings, but Song Heping felt as though it were three kilometers.

As he ran, he kept silently repeating in his heart: May Mom and Dad in heaven protect me!

I can't die. I can't die. I absolutely cannot die!

His younger brother had just started university, and his younger sister was in tenth grade. They were both waiting for the money he sent home.

If something happened to him, they would not even be able to pay tuition.

If he was gone, they would have to live off the charity of others.

Before his father died, he had told him: the eldest son stands in for the father.

So he could not die.

No.

He had no right to die.

Thirty meters took only a few seconds, yet Song Heping ran as though every step were a matter of life and death.

His luck was not bad. He successfully darted into the local residential quarter and hid beneath the corner of a wall.

Before he had even caught his breath, the bullets came.

Bang, bang, bang—

The sudden gunfire startled him, and he instinctively ducked his head.

That flinch saved his life.

Several bullets struck the wall behind him, shaving off a chunk of packed earth.

Because the impact was so close, the dirt that sprayed up struck Song Heping's face, stinging sharply.

He had no time to see where the enemy was. He hurriedly got to his feet and kept running.

Fortunately, the houses were densely packed together, with no more than four or five meters between them.

Ahead of Song Heping there happened to be a household courtyard, and its gate was made of wood.

Panic lent him astonishing strength, and he smashed through the gate and into the yard.

The moment he struggled to his feet, he heard hurried footsteps coming from the alley behind him.

It seemed the attackers had no intention of letting him go and had already caught up.

There was certainly no time to get inside a house and hide.

Looking left and right, he spotted a large water jar in the courtyard. Without time to think, he quickly hid behind it.

In a hellhole like Baghdad, it did not rain many times in a year, so water was a precious resource. Many households kept large jars for storage.

Water had one advantage: it could stop bullets. Hiding behind the jar was a good choice.

Song Heping hurriedly pulled out the Beretta 92F. Right now, it was the only thing he could rely on.

Yet with the gun in his hand, he could not help giving a bitter smile.

The attackers had AK-47 assault rifles, while he had only a pistol. They were not even in the same league in terms of firepower.

If it came to a fight, he would suffer badly.

Fortunately, the courtyard was small, and at close quarters a pistol still had a fighting chance.

As long as he was ruthless enough, maybe there would still be a way out.

Just as he held his breath and waited for an opening, the footsteps suddenly vanished.

The air in the courtyard turned stiff and still.

Because of his tension, sweat dripped from Song Heping's forehead and pattered onto the ground.

Outside the courtyard gate, a masked gunman in an Arab robe leaned against the wall with an AK-47 in hand. Moving with great care, he bit off the ring of a Soviet RGD-5 grenade and tossed it into the yard.

Clatter—

The grenade rolled into the courtyard.

One look was enough to make Song Heping's hair stand on end.

"Fuck!"

He hurriedly curled up, trying to hide as much as possible behind the water jar.

Boom—

A few seconds later, the explosion went off.

Even though he was prepared for it, the shockwave swept across his face like a slap. A stab of pain shot through his eardrums, and his skull rang with a thunderous roar. The sensation was beyond words.

The water jar, despite taking the blast, did not shatter. It only bore more than a dozen small holes, from which water began hissing out.

What Song Heping did not know was that he had just narrowly escaped death again.

Russian grenades were famous for their brutal power, but the RGD-5 was one of the weaker types, with a lethal radius of only fifteen meters and a mere 110 grams of explosive. It relied mainly on shrapnel to kill.

If the gunman had thrown a Soviet F1 or an old RGD-42, Song Heping would have been maimed if not killed.

Before the echo of the blast had even faded, the gunman was already charging in with his rifle raised.

Song Heping knelt behind the water jar, still not fully returned from the state of soul departure.

The gunman spotted the large jar at a glance.

A cruel smile crept across his mouth as he swung the muzzle around, intent on emptying the magazine.

At the critical moment, an accident happened exactly as expected.

Perhaps even the King of Hell had no intention of taking Song Heping away today.

From the doorway of the mud-brick house, another AK-47 thrust out and raked the gunman with a torrent of fire.

By the time the gunman realized it and tried to swing his rifle around to return fire, it was already too late.

Bang, bang, bang—

The AK-47 at the doorway fired first.

The masked gunman was struck by several rounds in an instant.

At less than ten meters, 7.62 rounds pierced through flesh as easily as bullets through tofu, sending him straight to the grave.

As the gunman fell, he nearly reflexively squeezed the trigger toward the doorway.

Bang, bang, bang—

Bullets flew wildly through the courtyard, and dust burst from the walls.

A few seconds later, the gunfire stopped abruptly.

Song Heping finally recovered and cautiously stepped out from behind the jar.

The scene before him was almost absurd enough to make one laugh and cry at once.

The gunman who had been hunting him lay on the ground. He was not dead yet; his body convulsed, blood streaming from beneath him and gathering into a small river.

Song Heping edged carefully over to him and saw that the man had taken a round in the neck. It had likely severed an artery, because blood was gushing out in fountains.

But the gunman was not dead yet. Seeing Song Heping approach, he reached for the assault rifle lying nearby.

"You're a tough one, all right..."

Song Heping kicked the assault rifle away, yet a nameless anger surged up inside him. Had he somehow owed this man ten thousand miles of debt? Was it really necessary to cling to him like this?

Seeing Song Heping kick away his gun, the gunman's eyes flashed with despair. He failed to draw another breath, his head tilted to one side, and he died.