Four o'clock in the morning, the eastern suburbs of Jiāngchéng.
The quiet coastal road leading to the planning exhibition hall is forgotten by the world. Only black and gray remain between heaven and earth, the viscous sea fog rolling and swallowing the light, even the sounds being chewed and swallowed. The muffled sound of waves hitting the reef in the distance is the only heartbeat in this dead silence, so heavy it makes one panic. The dense windbreak forest by the roadside, twisted and grown by the sea breeze, turns into grotesque figures like grasping claws and dancing claws under the night sky, forming a natural silent barrier.
This is not just a coordinate on the map, but the perfect slaughterhouse chosen by the international top mercenary team "Blood Wolf" for a target worth 300 million US dollars. The string of death in the air is quietly taut, waiting for the fatal touch.
*
At the top of the abandoned lighthouse, fifty meters above the ground, the sea breeze rages unrestrainedly.
The sniper codenamed "Ghost" remains motionless, like moss growing on mottled concrete. Wearing a high-priced, high-tech "Ghost" ghillie suit, it perfectly imitates the texture and thermal signals of concrete moss, and can even finely adjust the surface temperature according to ambient humidity, making it completely blend with the background under thermal imaging. The prone posture is honed through countless trials, with each support point precise to the millimeter to minimize recoil impact. The breathing is long and subtle, no more than six breaths per minute, with chest movements almost imperceptible.
His right eye is glued to the eyepiece of the high-precision thermal imaging scope, the ice-cold eye cup isolating all external interference. The world in his vision is a monochrome block, but any object with heat is exposed. The crosshairs, like the most loyal hound, are fixed on the "optimal shooting point" on the middle section of the road that has been repeatedly calculated – a slight bend where the vehicle speed changes slightly, and the field of vision is relatively open and unobstructed. The Barrett M82A1 anti-materiel sniper rifle by his feet, which has been deeply modified, is more like a cold industrial work of art. Its nearly 1.5-meter long body exudes a special mixed aroma of gunpowder and gun oil, and the muzzle brake as thick as a baby's arm resembles the fangs of a ferocious beast. Beside it, three special .50 BMG armor-piercing incendiary rounds lie like sacrifices awaiting offering, their brass casings reflecting a cold, dark sheen under the dim light. He is waiting, with patience beyond that of ordinary people, for the legendary "giant beast" to walk into this gate of death that he guards. Time seems to have frozen for him.
*
Behind the shallow reef three hundred meters away from the planned ambush point, on the other side of the road.
The strongman codenamed "Tank" is like a polar bear meticulously setting up its den. Over 1.9 meters tall, he is covered in heavy bulletproof armor, his muscular arms covered in ferocious tattoos. Opposite to Ghost's extreme silence, Tank's very presence is full of power. He has just completed the final check of the second demolition point.
His thick fingers are unusually nimble as he fits the last piece of C4 plastic explosive into the hollowed-out reef crevice like kneading clay, making it perfectly seamless. It is covered with special waterproof camouflage mud, its color and texture indistinguishable from the surrounding rocks. The shape of the explosive and the amount of charge have been precisely calculated to direct the blast wave and shrapnel most effectively towards the road. His equipment is comparable to a mobile individual firepower point: an M4A1 carbine slung across his shoulders with an M203 grenade launcher underneath, spare grenades resembling sausages hanging on his chest strap; an AT4 anti-tank rocket launcher tube on his back emitting a cold gleam in the mist; his tactical belt at his waist holds several M67 fragmentation grenades as well as several spare C4 charges and a remote detonator.
"Damn, this damn weather is so damp, my joints are almost rusting," Tank curses in a low voice into the encrypted earpiece, his voice hoarse like sandpaper rubbing. He carefully checks the signal indicator light on the detonator, his focused expression contrasting sharply with his rugged exterior. "Shadow, test the signal, don't screw up at the critical moment."
*
"Shadow received. Signal strength 100%, link stable, no abnormal interference whatsoever." A calm, clear, emotionless female voice comes from the headset. The electronic warfare expert codenamed "Shadow" is disguised as a morning jogger, running rhythmically in the parking lot of a seaside park eight hundred meters from the ambush circle. Wearing a well-fitting tracksuit and wireless earphones, with a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, she looks no different from countless citizens exercising early in the morning.
However, inside the seemingly ordinary sports backpack on her back is a set of high-performance signal interception, jamming, and camouflage equipment worth millions of dollars. The equipment is working silently: emitting strong, wide-spectrum, obstructive interference, cleverly avoiding the main frequencies of police and emergency services to prevent premature attention; simulating the normal communication signal traffic of the road section so that surveillance systems occasionally scanning the area show no flaws; and simultaneously, like an invisible vortex, greedily capturing all unauthorized radio signals within the ambush circle. Data streams on the laptop screen flow like a waterfall, being analyzed in real-time by a set-up algorithm. She is not only the team's information shield but also an early warning system. Any unexpected radio communication (such as a vigilant bodyguard calling for support in advance) will be captured and extinguished at the first possible moment. She is the guardian of the invisible electronic maze set up by the "Blood Wolf" team.
*
On a side road further out from the ambush circle, seemingly blocked off due to "underground fiber optic cable construction" by mobile roadblocks and traffic cones. An unmarked black van is parked quietly, its body speckled with mud, perfectly blending in with the image of a municipal engineering vehicle.
Inside the van, the scene is different. The team member codenamed "Viper" sits in a modified seat, a dim LED reading light overhead providing illumination. Dressed in a black tactical suit, he does not wear the exaggerated armor of Tank; the fabric is soft and light-absorbing, ensuring absolute freedom of movement. He is meticulously and gently wiping two Glock 19 pistols equipped with custom-made silencers with a piece of suede. His movements are soft, as if caressing a lover's smooth skin, disassembling, cleaning, oiling, and reassembling each part, checking them repeatedly. But his eyes, visible through the gaps in the strands of hair falling over his forehead, are cold and sharp, devoid of emotion like a viper locking onto its prey.
He is the close-combat cleanup specialist, the team's "scavenger." His mission is not frontal assault but to deal with any unplanned "impurities": like a unlucky driver who happens to pass by, nearby fishermen who might be out early, or... if the target somehow survives the barrage of rockets and sniper fire from the wrecked vehicle and climbs out, he will be the final, most desperate scythe of the god of death. In addition to the two pistols on his thighs, a high-end Mad Dog tactical dagger is strapped to his quick-draw holster, its blade treated with a matte finish, flashing a fleeting, absolutely deadly cold light only at certain angles under the dim interior light.
*
On the rooftop of a high-rise apartment building about a kilometer away from the ambush center, "Reaper," the meticulously chosen commander, has an excellent vantage point, a comprehensive overview of the situation, and sufficient concealment and safety. As the team commander, "Reaper's" equipment is the most concise: an HK416 assault rifle equipped with an advanced optical sight is placed beside him, leaning against the railing, with a secondary high-magnification stable imaging scope. He himself is like a sculpture, calmly scanning the entire ambush area inch by inch through the scope.
His brain is the central processing unit of the entire killing machine. He is not only confirming the position of each team member but also rapidly rehearsing every subsequent step in his mind: the convoy enters the optimal shooting point, the target vehicle is hit by "Ghost's" first shot, "Tank's" explosives detonate simultaneously, flipping the escort vehicle, "Shadow" maintains communication silence, "Tank" and "Ghost" clean up any surviving resistance, "Viper" maintains outer perimeter security, dealing with any unexpected events, and finally, everyone withdraws along the planned route... At the same time, he is simulating dozens of possible contingencies: the target convoy changes route in advance? Escort forces exceed estimations? A police patrol unit happens to appear? Or even the target vehicle is an exaggeratedly armored car? For every possibility, there are at least two backup plans. Calmness is the cornerstone of "Blood Wolf's" team's confidence.
"All units, final status confirmation," "Reaper's" low, steady voice sounds on the encrypted channel, without a trace of emotion.
"Ghost is in position, visibility is perfect."
"Tank is in position, explosives are ready, just waiting for the signal!"
"Shadow is in position, communications are clear, electronic barrier established, monitoring shows no police anomalies."
"Viper is in position, intersection is sealed, maintaining absolute silence."
Reaper glances at his wrist, at the military tactical watch with satellite time synchronization and multi-environment sensor functions: six-thirty in the morning.
"Estimated arrival time of the target is ten o'clock this morning. Three and a half hours remaining. Maintain the highest level of silence, remain in place, and conduct final equipment checks." He issues the final order.
The channel is instantly filled with absolute silence, even the sound of breathing is imperceptible.
Only the whistling sea wind outside and the unending, tireless sound of waves crashing against the shore play a somber prelude to the symphony of death that is about to unfold.
The entire ambush circle has taken shape. It is an invisible, lethal spider web woven from top-tier killing techniques, high-tech equipment, and cold will, with each node flashing with the cold light of death, interlocking seamlessly. They have simulated attacks on this "standard business security model" convoy no less than fifty times, with a 100% success rate.
In the mind of the man codenamed "Reaper," the target is already a cold corpse with a marked price.
*
Nine fifty in the morning.
The thick sea fog reluctantly dissipates somewhat with the rising temperature, but the sky is still shrouded by heavy, lead-gray clouds, making it suffocating. A dull sense of impending rain permeates the air.
Downstairs at the Dingshang Clubhouse.
Ā Jié takes a deep breath, as if trying to suppress the unease swirling in his heart. He once again skillfully checks the Glock 17 pistol in his underarm holster, confirming it's loaded and the safety switch is operational. He bends down to quickly inspect the underside of the vehicle, tires, and engine compartment for any abnormalities—a habit ingrained from his time in special forces, even in seemingly safe environments. Finally, his gaze lands on the rearview mirror inside the car. In the mirror, Chén Fán is still leaning comfortably against the wide aviation seats, his eyes closed, his facial features soft, his breathing even, as if not going to a crucial business event but heading for a leisurely vacation. That extraordinary calmness only makes Ā Jié's heart beat faster.
"Boss, it's time. We're leaving." Ā Jié tries to keep his voice as steady as usual, but the white knuckles gripping the steering wheel betray his inner tension.
"Mmm." Chén Fán doesn't even lift an eyelid, merely emitting a short syllable from his nose as a response. This extreme composure, at this moment, sounds to Ā Jié like dancing on the tip of a knife.
The motorcade slowly exits the clubhouse gate. Three identical black Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedans, one in front and two behind, maintain a standard, rigorous business travel formation, smoothly merging into the increasingly busy traffic flow of the morning, heading towards the new eastern district of the city.
Ā Jié's concentration is at its peak, activating almost all the instincts honed on the battlefield. His eyes constantly scan the road ahead, the sides, the rearview mirrors, and the pedestrians and vehicles further away like the most precise radar; his ears strain to distinguish any discordant sound amidst the city noise. The convoy proceeds along the planned route, appearing orderly.
However, the closer they get to the coastal road marked on the map, the sharper and more piercing the alarm bell deep in Ā Jié's heart rings!
It's too quiet!
This road connecting the old and new urban areas, while not a main thoroughfare, should never be this devoid of other civilian vehicles within sight ahead and behind! This unusual "emptiness" carries a strange, meticulously arranged artificiality. It's as if... this entire road has just been "cleared" by an invisible hand!
The windbreak forests on both sides of the road appear even deeper and darker under the gloomy sky, as if countless cold eyes are hidden behind every tree. The salty smell in the air seems to be mixed with a faint scent of metal and gunpowder (this might be Ā Jié's hallucination, but it's this hallucination that amplifies the tension).
"Boss... this stretch of road ahead seems a bit off." Ā Jié can't help but speak again, his voice carrying a barely perceptible dryness, reminding him. His right foot is already hovering over the brake pedal, ready to react to any sudden situation.
"Maintain speed and continue on the original planned route." Chén Fán finally opens his eyes, but his gaze is not directed at the tense atmosphere outside the window. Instead, he looks through the car window towards the distant, mist-shrouded sea horizon, his eyes as deep as the sea itself. His voice is still calm but carries an irrefutable decisiveness. "Drive your car."
Ā Jié's jaw muscles tense, and he grits his teeth, swallowing back all the words of advice. He can only grip the steering wheel tighter, his palms sweaty, making the leather wrap slippery. As a former professional soldier, he chooses to obey orders, but as a bodyguard, every cell in his body is screaming danger!
The three black Mercedes-Benz cars, like three unknowing elegant prey, maintain a steady speed, driving defenselessly onto the coastal road that has been completely shrouded in the deathly shadow of the "Blood Wolf" team. The scenery outside the car windows remains the same, but in Ā Jié's eyes, every inch of space is filled with viscous murderous intent.
*
At the top of the abandoned lighthouse.
In "Ghost's" high-power thermal imaging scope, the three vehicles representing wealth and death finally appear as expected. The heat emitted by their engines shows as a conspicuous bright white silhouette in the scope. His slender index finger rests lightly and steadily on the cold trigger, the trigger travel compressed to the brink of firing. His entire body's functions are adjusted to peak performance, his heart rate actively suppressed to below forty beats per minute to ensure absolute stability at the moment of firing. The world has disappeared from his perception, leaving only the crosshairs in the scope and the middle vehicle within the crosshairs that is about to become a tomb.
"Shadow reports: Target convoy has completely entered the ambush zone. Standard formation, three vehicles in total. Thermal signal in the middle vehicle indicates a single high-heat source, probability of it being the main target is extremely high. Full-spectrum communication jamming activated to maximum. The area is completely silenced. Monitoring shows no abnormal police movements."
Inside the van, "Viper" silently pulls down his black balaclava, revealing only his eyes, devoid of any emotional fluctuation. His hands hang down, lightly pressing the grips of the Glock 19s in his thigh holsters, performing a brief drawing exercise.
Behind the reef, "Tank's" palm-like hand tightly grips the red detonator button, his thumb resting above the safety cover. His bulging muscles are coiled like a spring, filled with explosive power. The corners of his mouth even stretch into a nearly cruel, excited arc.
On the rooftop of the apartment building, "Reaper's" scope aperture is adjusted to its maximum, locked onto the rear window of the middle Mercedes-Benz S-Class. Although the privacy glass makes the inside blurry, he can almost "feel" the figure worth 300 million US dollars sitting there. Time, space, angle, speed... all parameters are instantly reconciled in his mind for the final convergence.
Now!
An icy killing intent, like a Siberian cold wind, flashes in "Reaper's" eyes. He speaks into the microphone with a voice that seems to freeze the air at absolute zero, delivering the final death sentence to his team members:
"Target has entered optimal range."
"All units-"
"Action! Action! Action!"