0048 Elite Task Force (II)

“Whoa! Is this knife meant for executions?” Hou Rui blurted out instinctively.

“It’s just a personal hobby, nothing more,” Shellcase replied, shaking his head repeatedly. Only then did Rui take a closer look at the short man. He noticed that Shellcase’s palms were covered in calluses, and even the way he sat was different from everyone else—he crouched on his toes, body taut as if ready to spring into action at any moment.

These physical details, paired with the oversized recurve knife, led Hou Rui to the conclusion that Shellcase was a master of close-quarters blade combat. As Rui was secretly admiring Shellcase’s prowess, Shellcase suddenly pointed to the item in Rui’s hand, bared a row of sharp white teeth in a sly grin, and said, “By the way, I’ll give you a deal on this—one thousand dollars.”

“You want money? And that much? Forget it, I don’t want it anymore.” Hou Rui recoiled as if scalded, about to toss the thing aside, but Shellcase was faster. He lunged forward, gripping Hou Rui’s wrist with one hand, that toothy smile still on his face as he swung the gleaming recurve knife. “Once you accept it, the deal is done. No take-backs!”

Damn, I fell for his trick. Hou Rui realized the situation, but could only accept it with a resigned sigh. As he cautiously observed the other task force members, wary of missing any more hidden experts, the Sprite had already finalized the action plan and assigned Hou Rui his first task.

“Stray Dog, you team up with Shellcase, Misha, and Emma to get a vehicle. Ironman and Mophead, you’re on explosives prep.” After giving assignments, Sprite turned to Flower Snake. “We’ll track Raven’s convoy. The rest of you, check out Blackwater’s camp, but remember—do not get spotted.”

Immediately, the group split up. Hou Rui wanted to ask what kind of vehicle they were after, but Shellcase, small in stature but surprisingly strong, was already dragging him out of the room.

Once outside, the group dispersed on the street. Wrapped up tightly to blend in, Hou Rui followed Shellcase toward the outskirts. Consulting the mental map he’d memorized before leaving, Hou Rui deduced they were heading toward the government army barracks.

The pedestrians thinned out, most hurrying along with purpose. Feeling more exposed, Hou Rui quickened his pace, caught up to Shellcase, and whispered, “Are we heading to the government barracks?”

“As long as you know.”

“But what kind of vehicle are we after?”

“If we’re hitting the barracks, it’s got to be a tank or an armored vehicle.”

“Seriously? Doesn’t the organization usually supply our gear? Why do we have to get our own this time?”

“Heh. When they don’t provide equipment, it’s a sign they don’t have much faith in this mission. They think the odds of success are low, so they’re playing it safe—just limited intel support. Whether we get killed or captured, the organization won’t be implicated.” Shellcase, disguised as a local old man, stroked the goatee on his chin as he spoke.

“So this mission is even more dangerous than usual?”

“When is a combat team mission ever not dangerous? This one’s just especially so.”

Shellcase’s words suddenly brought a name to Hou Rui’s mind—Ding Ye. When they parted ways after the Vietnam mission, Ding Ye’s skills and marksmanship already surpassed his own. Two more years of high-risk missions, two years forged in life and death—how terrifying would Ding Ye become when he resurfaced?

Gripped by a sense of crisis, Hou Rui lost interest in conversation. He tightened his grip on the AK-47 under his robe, his gaze growing sharper. Words were meaningless; the only thing that mattered was surviving and growing stronger, day by day, to withstand the weight of Ding Ye’s looming shadow.

The rest of the journey passed in silence. Before long, they reached the noisy vicinity of a military camp.

The camp was surrounded on all sides by two-meter-tall concrete walls topped with barbed wire, an impregnable fortress. At each corner stood a tall guard tower, each equipped with heavy machine guns, sealing off all nearby streets. At the entrance, serpentine barricades forced vehicles to slow, and a tank plus two armored vehicles stood sentinel. About two squads of regular troops guarded the gate, a scene of layered defenses and palpable tension.

Hou Rui and Shellcase squatted at a market about 800 meters from the camp gate, munching on food as they carefully observed the camp, searching for exploitable vulnerabilities.

After a few minutes, Hou Rui set down his cornbread, leaned toward Shellcase, and whispered, “This is an armored regiment’s camp, right? Isn’t stealing a vehicle from here way too risky?”

“All the city’s camps are the same. If we don’t pick this one, the only other option is the garrison in the city proper, and they have attack helicopters.”

“Yeah, let’s stick with this one then.”

As they whispered, a few off-duty government soldiers swaggered into the shop, sitting right at the table next to them and loudly ordering food. Startled, Hou Rui and Shellcase immediately lowered their heads, wanting no trouble.

Soon, plates of fruit and snacks were brought to the soldiers, who began eating and talking boisterously. Hou Rui, face half-hidden by his scarf, risked a quick glance. They really did seem to just be here for food—no threat, for now. He lowered his voice further. “I saw two Type-1 armored vehicles and an early-model T-72. If we could get those out, Blackwater or anyone else would be toast.”

“You shouldn’t be called Stray Dog, but Mad Dog! My plan to grab an armored car is already pushing it, and you’re eyeing a tank? In these narrow city streets, a tank without infantry support is a death trap,” Shellcase immediately shot down Rui’s wild idea.

“Fine, armored car it is.” As Hou Rui spoke, he habitually glanced at the neighboring table—this time, unfortunately, locking eyes with a government soldier.

“Not good! Time to go,” Hou Rui muttered, seeing the soldier’s expression harden as he set down his food and stared intently. Rui immediately lifted the hem of his robe and stood up.

“Split up!” Shellcase replied instantly, darting out of the shop before the soldiers could react. Hou Rui rushed out as well, and the soldiers leapt to their feet, the one who’d noticed them shouting and pointing at Rui. Ignoring him, Rui broke into a jog, darting into a nearby alley.

The soldiers gave chase, following him into the maze of backstreets, quickly cornering Rui in a dead end he didn’t know about.

Four AK-47s were leveled at him. The lead soldier waved an S-model rifle, barking commands in Arabic—likely telling Rui to raise his hands. With no choice, Rui complied, watching the soldiers draw closer, ready to make a desperate move. Just then, a small shadow appeared silently behind the soldiers.

A flash of the mirror-bright recurve blade—Shellcase slashed the nearest soldier’s neck. As the blade cut, he surged forward, spinning with the knife’s momentum to bisect a second soldier at the waist.

The man screamed, his torso severed but life not yet fled, as the other two Libyan soldiers, finally hearing the commotion, began to turn. But Shellcase had already flung the recurve knife in a spinning arc, burying it deep in the chest of one. The last soldier, still stunned, was rushed by Shellcase, who deftly pushed aside the gun’s muzzle with one hand, seized the soldier’s belt knife with the other, and sliced his throat.

Hou Rui watched, stunned, as Shellcase dispatched the Libyan soldiers in the blink of an eye. He’d known the man was skilled, but this was something else.

“Ugh, I really hate sweating. So sticky,” Shellcase muttered, yanking his blade from a corpse. He glanced at Rui’s astonished face. “What are you gaping at? Grab any weapons that are still usable!”

“Oh, right!” Rui quickly crouched to help.

With a final stab, Shellcase ended the suffering of the bisected soldier, then collected four rifles, some ammo, and grenades, and led Rui out of the alley.

When they returned to the safe house, Ironman was busy at a huge table, surrounded by bottles and jars. Hou Rui watched as Ironman carefully measured out chemicals labeled in Arabic, mixing them into empty jars, some requiring gentle stirring, others slight heating, eventually producing a line of about seventy-eight bottles of various colored liquids...