084 Money! So much money!

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Location: North Africa, the Gulf of Sirte region along the Mediterranean coast, Misurata.
Local time: 5:00 a.m.

The battle had raged through the night.

Li Changjiang's lungs worked like a pair of bellows, gasping for air. His nerves were taut with tension, not at all eased by being away from the center of the fighting; if anything, he was even more wary now.

There was hardly a safe place anywhere in the city. All he wanted was to find Nicholas, confirm the whereabouts of the two Chinese and his father, Li Lin, and then get the hell out of this place.

“Damn it!”

Almost by instinct, he ducked and dashed into the building to his left.

A sharp whistling sound sliced through the air!

Every hair on Li Changjiang’s body stood on end.

With a muffled thud, a bullet punched through the wooden door beside him, tearing straight through it.

He couldn’t help but feel a chill of fear, pressing himself against the wall and gulping for breath.

A sniper!

Damn it! He was well away from the center of the crossfire—how could he have run into a sniper here?

He forced his mind to calm, thinking quickly as he glanced around. Soon, he spotted an ideal location.

But he didn’t dare move.

Since the enemy had already marked his position, they wouldn’t leave any blind spots. If he hadn’t sensed the danger and instinctively ducked, he would have been a dead man.

Li Changjiang picked up a piece of broken wood beside him and tossed it out.

A whistle, a thud.

Just as he expected.

The sniper was still out there. Staring at the bullet hole in the board, Li Changjiang was out of ideas.

Rushing across would be suicide.

“Missed the shot!”

“What?”

In the darkness, two voices spoke in precise Mandarin—faint but clear, one of them unmistakably a woman.

Elisa couldn’t tell if the Chinese man beside her was actually the sniper, but that last shot was far inferior to the marksmanship she’d seen from Li Changjiang.

Shi Junqiang was speechless.

Where had this Libyan woman come from, daring to question his shooting skills? But then he remembered—if not for her, he’d probably have been gunned down by that Libyan kid himself. The retort on his tongue was swallowed back.

“Compared to your compatriot, your marksmanship is terrible!”

“What?”

“My marksmanship is terrible? If you think you’re so great, why don’t you try it yourself!”

Of course, he kept that thought to himself, but he was very curious—who was this Libyan woman talking about? His compatriot? Another Chinese here? Could there really be other Chinese in this damned place?

Shi Junqiang’s thoughts raced. He had been stuck in this frustrating, infuriating place for nearly two days.

But the woman wasn’t wrong—his shooting wasn’t at its best. Still, if she knew what it was like for an assault trooper to attempt a nearly 400-meter sniper shot, she might reconsider, especially under these dim conditions when all he could see through the sniper scope was a vague silhouette.

Shi Junqiang was a mercenary.

His shooting skills were beyond question. As a rare type among Chinese, he’d graduated from a French university and secretly joined the French Foreign Legion without his family’s knowledge. After retiring, he entered the tense regions of West Asia and North Africa as a freelance mercenary.

This trip to Misurata had originally been just a job—but who would have thought those Libyan fools would provoke the Americans?

From a mercenary’s perspective, you rarely picked a fight with major powers like the US or Russia. Some would risk it all for money, but at least no one was as reckless as the Libyans, going head-to-head with the Americans.

Retaliation was the American way.

So, anticipating the US would strike back, he’d chosen to pull out. But those damn Libyans weren’t about to let him leave in one piece. Luckily, the Americans arrived in time to muddy the waters, or he wasn’t sure he’d have made it out alive.

“You’re saying there are other Chinese here?”

Shi Junqiang was astonished.

At this moment, in Misurata, any foreigner had to be either a mercenary or a captive. But the Chinese Elisa spoke of evidently weren’t captives, which surprised him greatly.

To his knowledge, Chinese mercenaries were exceedingly rare—someone like him was almost unheard of.

“Yes.”

Elisa’s answer was simple, but clear.

Shi Junqiang wanted to press further, but one look at her icy expression made him think better of it.

On the other side—

Realizing the sniper was still watching him, Li Changjiang abandoned any idea of dashing out; the only option was to wait it out.

But just as he steadied his breathing, a gunshot rang out outside.

A whistle, a thud.

“Fuck!”

A sudden curse reached his ears, and a figure stumbled inside. They came face to face, the newcomer drawing a gun—but Li Changjiang was faster.

“Okay, whoever you are, don’t shoot!”

“Who are you?” Li Changjiang was stunned at the sound of the voice.

“Shit! A Russian!”

“Li! Fuck!”

Both men cursed at almost the exact same moment.

“Son of a bitch, I’m hit. Li, what are you doing here?” Nicholas’s voice was strained, clearly in pain from the shot.

“Let me see!” Nicholas had no idea Li Changjiang was carrying a night vision device. Dazed, he let Li grab his arm.

Fortunately, the bullet hadn’t lodged in the wound but had passed clean through the muscle of his upper arm. Still, stopping the bleeding was going to be tricky. Last time, he’d thrown a handful of dust on Hamis’s wound to staunch the blood and nearly killed the bastard. No way he’d try that again.

“There’s a tourniquet in my bag!”

It was only then that Li Changjiang noticed the massive backpack slung over the Russian’s shoulder and couldn’t help but roll his eyes—this was a battlefield, not a sightseeing trip.

He hauled the bag over.

Damn, it was heavy.

“Fuck!” Nicholas reminded him as soon as the zipper was open.

“It’s in the outermost compartment.”

Li Changjiang quickly found the tourniquet, tore a strip of cloth from Nicholas’s shirt to wipe away the blood, located the wound, and bound it tightly. Only then did the two men slump weakly against the wall.

They were both silent, their breaths the only sound in the stillness. When a faint light finally crept over the horizon, Li Changjiang tried to get up and fished two chocolate bars from the bag.

“Thank you.” Nicholas didn’t stand on ceremony—he took the chocolate with his uninjured hand, bit it open, and swallowed it almost without chewing.

“Any more?”

He handed him another, then a third, then a fourth.

“Fuck, that’s the last one!” After the fifth, Li Changjiang finally refused.

But when Li Changjiang’s gaze fell on the Russian’s backpack, he froze.

Damn.

Money!

The bag was crammed full of money—bundles of colorful US dollars.

No wonder that bastard had been hauling such a heavy load.