Chapter 33: This Path Is Blocked

The situation was quickly clarified.

Because the U.S. military was conducting temporary operations in the direction of Ramadi to suppress an armed group entrenched in that area, the entire region had been sealed off—no one was allowed in or out.

Upon hearing this, the Chef had no choice but to order everyone to stand by.

No one expected that this wait would stretch into four hours. By nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, the convoy on the highway had grown longer and longer, yet the checkpoint showed no signs of letting anyone through.

It was then that the Chef began to grow anxious.

"What the hell is going on? They’re still fighting?"

Looking around, the Chef felt the mounting pressure. The entire highway was packed solid with vehicles and people. Most were civilians, though some were military personnel. It was impossible to determine which faction they belonged to.

The situation in Iraq was incredibly complex. There were numerous militant factions. Most pro-American factions were assimilated into the police force or the ICDC, while the elite of the former government army were integrated into units like the ISF.

Many locals, driven by unemployment, joined mercenary groups—or, more accurately, they weren't even mercenaries, just private bodyguards who picked up a beat-up AK-47 and some ammunition from the black market to start their business. These low-level bodyguards usually served minor employers who couldn't obtain gun permits from the Coalition Provisional Authority, leaving many of them operating illegally.

Currently, Iraq’s weapon control was quite strict. You needed a permit issued by the Provisional Authority to carry a firearm; otherwise, if the Coalition forces, ICDC, or ISF stopped you and found you lacked a permit, the best-case scenario was a beating and detention. If you encountered someone short-tempered, they might just gun you down without needing to provide any explanation.

Song Heping noticed several people in the stream of traffic carrying weapons. While those who dared to brazenly follow the traffic to a Coalition checkpoint usually weren't resistance members, who could really be sure?

Every extra minute spent here meant another minute of danger. The daytime temperature was scorching, nearly fifty degrees Celsius, and people were at their most volatile in such an environment.

The Chef took Gray Wolf and headed toward the checkpoint to assess the situation. If the fighting in the direction of Ramadi wasn't intense, the Chef intended to lead the convoy forward; waiting any longer would likely cause delays. The Coalition’s operations could last for days, and he couldn't just keep his convoy parked here. If he missed the meeting between the VIP, Angel, and the informant tonight, there would be no payout to speak of.

Before they even reached the checkpoint, they saw a few British journalists arguing loudly with the American soldiers. Their goal was the same as the Chef's: to get the soldiers to let them through, claiming they had an urgent interview assignment. The dialogue was hostile, thick with tension. Perhaps it was the heat, or perhaps the British held an inherent disdain for the Americans—despite their superficial alliance, the old-school British types viewed the Americans as nothing more than nouveau riche.

"We are journalists! Journalists, do you understand?! You have no right to block us!"

"If you're so capable of blocking us here, why don't you go into Ramadi? Why don't you go in instead of stopping us here?"

"Exactly! You lot are just pigs. If you’re so brave, go into Ramadi city and see if those 'Ali Babas' don't bash your heads in! You only know how to throw your weight around in front of journalists and civilians! What kind of heroes are you?"

The British journalists were quite agitated. In their view, their press credentials and British passports were supreme. Eventually, one of them even hurled the word "cunt" at the soldiers.

American troops detested that word.

The atmosphere turned volatile instantly. One soldier swung his rifle toward the British journalists and roared, "What did you say?! What did you say?! Say it again!"

Before the journalists could retort, a machine gunner on a Humvee at the front of the checkpoint, tasked with watching the Ramadi approach, began shouting, "Stop! The car in front, stop! Stop! Stop immediately!"

Following his gaze, they saw several old sedans driving from the direction of Ramadi, now less than a hundred meters from the checkpoint. Although anti-tank obstacles had been placed on the road, if one of those cars were to ram through, or if they were packed with TNT or even a makeshift IED made from a 152mm artillery shell, the explosion would be enough to send half the checkpoint to hell.

An interpreter accompanying the unit shouted into a megaphone in Arabic, ordering the vehicles to stop. Perhaps the people in the cars didn't hear, or perhaps they were simply civilians fleeing the war zone in a state of panic. The cars didn't slow down; they headed straight for the checkpoint.

At fifty meters, the heavy machine gunner on the Humvee finally snapped. Haunted by nightmares of comrades killed in suicide attacks just days prior, he didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger.

*Thump-thump-thump—*
*Thump-thump-thump—*
*Thump-thump-thump—*

The distinct, dull roar of the M2HB echoed as the heavy machine gun spat out a tongue of death. The windshield of the lead white sedan shattered instantly, and the body of the car was riddled with countless bullet holes. Blood splattered, turning the windows a solid, gruesome red. The car finally lost momentum and crashed into the side of the road, steam hissing from its boiling radiator.

The Chef cursed quietly in Russian, "Damn it!"

The three cars behind slammed to a halt. Five or six locals in robes scrambled out, looking like civilians. Two were women, wailing and screaming in agony as they ran to the first car, ripped open the door, and dragged out a man who was now a mangled, unrecognizable mess, followed by a teenage girl from the passenger seat.

Everyone who had been clamoring at the checkpoint suddenly fell silent. The British journalists stopped their commotion. One of them raised a camera and began snapping photos. Others immediately activated their camcorders, and one even pulled out a microphone to begin a live broadcast.

The American soldiers were in chaos. Some moved to block the journalists, others to pull away the wailing women.

Just then, a woman pulled a child from the back seat of the bullet-riddled car.

It was very small.

Held in her arms, it looked just like a doll. It was already lifeless.

It was an infant.

Even a man as hardened as the Chef couldn't help but look away.

"Let’s go. We’re heading back."

He turned and walked away without looking back. Returning to Song Heping’s Humvee, the Chef knocked on the window. Song Heping opened the door to let him in. As soon as the Chef climbed inside, he took off his helmet, wiped away the sweat, and said, "We can't get through. This fight could last God knows how long. Miss Angel, would you rather keep waiting or take a detour?"

Angel looked at Song Heping, then at the Chef. She clearly had no idea what to do. "I don't care which road you take," she said finally. "All I want is safety and punctuality!"

The Chef looked at Song Heping and said, "Zang, come out for a second."

He climbed out of the car. Song Heping instructed Angel, "Miss Angel, stay here. Do not leave the vehicle. Understand?"

After receiving a firm confirmation from Angel, Song Heping stepped out. Gray Wolf and the Chef were already waiting by the side of the road, and Song Heping joined them.

"We can't get through," the Chef said. "Those British idiots kept causing a scene, and you heard the gunfire—the Americans just killed more women and children. Damn it, if we try to force our way through, we’ll get gunned down too. We have to change routes. If we wait any longer and then decide to move, it'll be too late."

"What’s the route?"

"Head south to Fort Amiri, then turn north toward Haditha, and cut through from there to reach Khalis Town." As he spoke, he pulled out a map and pointed it out to Song Heping.

Song Heping looked at it and pondered for a moment. "It’s at least another hundred kilometers."

"There’s no better way," the Chef said. "We still have seven hours until eight o'clock tonight. At worst, we skip resting at Victory Base and head straight to Khalis Town."

"Fine," Song Heping replied. "It’s better than dying while waiting here."

The Chef’s decision was born of necessity. Since Angel refused to contact the informant to reschedule the meeting, this was their only option.

Of course, no one could have anticipated that this small, split-second decision would act like a falling domino, triggering a chain reaction that would define the entire event.