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Chapter 366: 364: Ten Seconds
Chapter 366: 364: Ten Seconds
Chapter 366: Chapter 364: Ten Seconds
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
Matthew looked toward the nearby shipyard, a confused expression on his face.
Bi Fang climbed out of the vertical shaft, scratching his head uncontrollably as he listened to the distant sounds of gunfire. What was going on?
Who were the Bandit Gangs fighting against?
Had Abbascan suddenly freed up his hands and sent reinforcements?
[Could it be that the heavens had eyes and sent someone to wipe out the Bandit Gangs?]
[Could it be Abbascan’s men who had arrived? Maybe Old Fang should ask?]
[Has the battle situation changed this quickly? They said yesterday that they couldn’t spare the forces, only able to send fishing boats to pick us up, and today they are able to bomb with cannons?]
[Modern Warfare.jpg]
“Don’t worry about that for now, whatever the case, it’s a good opportunity for us to get out of here. Let’s retreat!”
The current intelligence didn’t help Bi Fang make sense of the sounds of gunfire, but he didn’t ponder it further. The crisis hadn’t yet touched them, and it seemed like the Bandit Gangs were having trouble, which was the perfect chance for them to make a complete escape.
“Right, right, run, everyone run!”
“Don’t scatter and run blindly! Stick close to me, and we’ll be able to leave Yemen by tomorrow, otherwise, we’ll be caught and hauled back!”
Matthew led the way at the front, while Bi Fang took up the rear position of the procession to ensure no one got lost or fell behind.
With the raging fire at the shipyard lifting the constraints of the terrain, the group started to sprint wildly and quickly distanced themselves from the area. However, upon passing a building, Bi Fang suddenly stopped in his tracks and stared in shock at the other side of the narrow passageway.
The audience was the first to notice this scene, asking in succession what had happened and why he had suddenly stopped.
Feeling that the beam of light from the flashlight behind him had disappeared, Matthew at the forefront realized something was amiss, stopped in his tracks, and turned back to see Bi Fang who had paused.
“What’s happened?”
Matthew ran back while asking, but only saw Bi Fang pointing down the alleyway and looked in that direction.
Under the night sky, the sea surged restlessly. A black boat cut through the black waters, leaving behind white foam, and huge boat lights pierced the sky as thunder rumbled across tumbling dark clouds.
A fishing boat?
“Someone’s fishing?” Matthew exclaimed in surprise, but then immediately found the idea absurd. How could there be fishing at sea under these circumstances? Wouldn’t the boat have been bombed to pieces only a few miles out?
“It can’t possibly be a fishing boat.”
On this point, Bi Fang and Matthew’s views were aligned; this could not and would not be a fishing boat.
If it wasn’t a fishing boat, what was it doing here at this time?
“Could it really be that Abbascan actually managed to free up his hands and even arrived ahead of time?”
“Impossible. I haven’t received any news here,” replied Bi Fang, pointing to the drone. If there was any news, he would definitely know. The ship they saw now didn’t belong to Abbascan, so where on earth had it come from? Both men immediately realized the implications.
Matthew’s eyes widened with realization: “Are they picking up ‘goods’ ahead of schedule?”
Bi Fang affirmed, “That’s the only possibility!”
“A mutiny?”
Connecting this to the current sounds of gunfire, Matthew became excited. A mutiny would be great, both sides hurting each other, sending these scumbags to meet God!
“No, I don’t think it’s a mutiny; it’s more like a silencing,” Bi Fang squinted his eyes. The act of picking up ‘goods’ ahead of schedule was suspicious on its own. Moreover, he was very clear: before the rescue plan had started, this ship didn’t exist at all, meaning that the other party had arrived here within a mere two hours and then the conflict had broken out.
The timing seemed too rushed, more like a premeditated plan.
“I need to have a look.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
Matthew nearly screamed, clutching desperately at Bi Fang’s sleeve, seriously doubting if Bi Fang had lost his will to live.
Bi Fang shook off Matthew’s hand and asked seriously, “Where do you think the people picking up ‘goods’ might sell them?”
“How should I know…” Matthew didn’t want to answer, but upon seeing Bi Fang’s eyes, hesitated and replied, “They could be sold to Southeast Asia, Ugly Country, or Black Mexico.”
“Do you think these Bandit Gangs can manage that?” Bi Fang challenged Matthew in return. The behavior they were witnessing was beyond what a mere local gang could accomplish. In fact, they were only responsible for the supply of ‘goods’, and knew nothing about the channels.
The illegal sale of a single heart could fetch as much as three hundred thousand ugly dollars. With such massive profits at stake, it was more likely that a transnational syndicate was involved. If Bi Fang could get back, even just snapping a photo could expose this group to the light of day, and this act would have far greater significance than resolving the fate of just a handful of people.
[Why am I not surprised at all, and even find it expected?]
[Here it comes, the familiar feeling is back.]
[Ah, this, ah this, I have no doubts that the man before me is the true Master Fang.]
Matthew fell silent.
Bi Fang patted his collar, “You take them and continue along the route we planned earlier; I’ll catch up with you.”
With that, he ran towards the shipyard ablaze with fire without looking back.
Matthew was stunned for a moment before cursing under his breath.
“Damn it!”
“Everyone follow me, speed up!”
…
Inside the shipyard, the situation was even more exaggerated than during the earlier explosion, with fully armed soldiers split into teams of three scouring every corner of the shipyard.
Each of them was armed, firing mercilessly upon sighting someone, and many from the Bandit Gangs were laid to the ground the instant they showed up.
Gunfire was deafening, so much so that Maasai thought he was on the eastern front facing off against legions.
He was completely speechless, only able to stare wide-eyed at the Angelo before him.
“Mr. Maasai, I have said that this was going to be our last collaboration,” Sisko said as he lifted the hem of his garment as if to shake off the stains. Unfortunately, what stained it was blood, not dust.
Upon hearing Sisko start to speak, Maasai finally snapped back to reality and hastily said, “I can still capture them, still, this time it was just bad luck that let them escape, next time it definitely won’t happen, a hundred, no, two hundred! Next time I can capture two hundred, and at least half of them young and strong men, Mr. Angelo, believe me, please believe me!”
Before these men, the thugs from the Bandit Gangs were like defenseless kittens, their weapons more akin to obsolete fireplace pokers from the First World War, each one disheartening Maasai and leaving him only to plead for the forgiveness of the man before him.
Even now, Maasai believed it was this failed delivery that had brought disaster upon him.
“Don’t you understand yet, Mr. Maasai? A single failed delivery means nothing to us. The final deal is the final deal. Besides, I am not really called Angelo; please call me Sisko.”
Sisko’s face was illuminated by the fire, looking down unemotionally at Maasai who had collapsed to the ground from exhaustion, not moved in the slightest as he engaged the safety on his pistol.
Hearing these words, Maasai’s face was filled with defeat. Just as everyone thought he had given up hope, suddenly, a flash of fire lit up, revealing his fierce face.
But then, Sisko’s next words completely drained Maasai of his courage to resist, “I’m giving you one more chance, ten seconds. After ten seconds, I will only fire once. Whether you survive or not, I leave that to God.”
Maasai blinked, ten seconds?
What did that mean?
The subordinates behind Sisko all smiled simultaneously; they knew what it meant.
Before Maasai could ponder it further, Sisko on the other side had already begun counting down in a tone as steady as a clock.
“One.”
“FUCK!”
Maasai had no time to think and scrambled to his feet, but the pebbles underfoot made him slip, and his bulky body fell to the ground again, his trembling fat rippling like waves.
“Two.”
Ignoring the fresh blood on his palms and pain in his knees, Maasai struggled to his feet once more.
“Three.”
“Run, run fast.”
At this moment, Maasai burst into the fastest sprint of his life, faster even than when he was sixteen and raced a hundred meters in front of a girl he liked.
He even thought, for a moment, that he could give Bolt a run for his money.
Indeed, it’s said that human potential is merciless, and when Sisko counted to ten, even Maasai, who weighed over two hundred kilos, had run nearly seventy meters.
Looking at Maasai, who had nearly become a dot in the distance, Sisko’s lips curved slightly.
“Bang!”
“To have made it… Ugh! How, how is that possible!”
Maasai’s eyes widened; his life ended as a bullet with tremendous kinetic energy entered his body, leaving a smoking bullet hole in that bloated torso, a spray of blood carrying with it flecks of pink fat.
Sisko approached Maasai at a leisurely pace.
Maasai looked down, struggling to glance at the bullet hole, and looking up at Sisko’s blurry figure, he said only, “One day, you, you will end up the same… as me!”
Reaching Maasai’s side, Sisko tipped his hat with the gun, smiling, “Well, I hope that day comes later rather than sooner.”
“Bang!”
“Gurgle.”
Bi Fang leaned against the wall, feeling the multitude of crossfiring bullets brushing past the wall, a cold sweat sliding down his temple.
He swallowed his saliva, filled with disbelief.
Performance in terms of shooting precision, the handgun is far less accurate than rifles and machine guns, due to its short sighting baseline and lack of a stable shooting platform. In real combat, the effective range is typically only between 5 and 20 meters.
Most trained soldiers could only guarantee the precision of handgun shots at a range of 25 meters. To ensure accuracy at 50 meters, only a few sharpshooters can hit a stationary target, and if the target is moving, the difficulty multiplies.
Over sixty meters, in dim light, a single shot hit.
Impossible!