Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1300 The Smell of Gunpowder Before Dawn

Titrick, Allied forward assembly area, 4:20 a.m.

The temperature was only nine degrees Celsius.

The stark contrast between the desert's frigid nights and scorching daytime heat caused the soldiers' breath to condense into white mist in front of their night vision goggles.

No one spoke, only the faint sounds of equipment clashing and the occasional suppressed cough.

This is a partially collapsed warehouse ruin, 800 meters from the target area of ​​the auto repair shop and 1,200 meters from the school buildings.

There were bullet holes and cracks from the explosion in the walls, and rubble and rusty metal fragments were scattered on the ground.

This is the starting position for the "Alpha" Company and the "Bravo" Company.

"Final equipment check."

The sound came from deep within the warehouse, deep and clear.

The speaker was the company commander of "Alpha," nicknamed "Old Man."

The soldiers began to move, methodically and systematically touching every key point on their bodies, following the muscle memory formed through thousands of training sessions.

Night vision goggles – battery fully charged, stand secure, eyepiece clean.

Weapon – Carbine, clean chamber, unobstructed gas tube, magazine full of thirty 5.56mm rounds, six spare magazines.

The bulletproof vest has Level III bulletproof inserts in place, side protection plates installed, and the first aid kit, tourniquet, and magazine pouches are in the correct positions.

Communication equipment – ​​P25 encrypted radio, earphone in ear, microphone close to the corner of the mouth, battery power over 90%.

Grenade launchers, explosive charges, smoke grenades, flashbangs, night vision binoculars, laser designators...

Every piece of equipment is thoroughly inspected to ensure it can be used immediately when needed.

"Old Man" walked to the front of the ranks, his footsteps echoing in the empty warehouse. Night vision goggles made his eyes glow faintly green in the darkness, scanning the faces of every soldier.

"Listen up, everyone!"

His voice wasn't loud, but every word pierced the air like a chisel: "We only have one chance. Once the artillery preparation begins, the convoy will advance at full speed. Upon reaching the target area, disembark immediately and deploy according to the pre-arranged formation."

He raised his hand and drew a simple diagram in the air.

"Group A, storm in from the east entrance and clear the first floor and basement. Group B, from the west entrance, are responsible for the second and third floors. Group C, provide perimeter security and suppress any enemy attempts to reinforce or break out. Group D, the demolition team, locate key load-bearing structures and plant explosives. Be quick, ruthless, and accurate."

A mercenary raised his hand: "What if we encounter civilians?"

The warehouse was quiet for a moment.

"This area was evacuated three days ago."

"Old Man's" voice turned cold. "If there are still people inside, there are only two possibilities—hostages, or militants disguised as civilians. Either way..."

He didn't finish his sentence before it was too late, but everyone understood.

War has its rules.

In places like Titrick, mercy often means death.

“The window for action is thirty minutes,” 'Old Man' continued. “After thirty minutes, regardless of whether it’s completed or not, we must evacuate. The artillery will begin extended firing at thirty minutes, covering the perimeter of the target area. If anyone is still not out by then…”

He paused, then said, "Then you'll never get out."

No one speaks.

The soldiers silently processed the information.

Thirty minutes, eighteen hundred seconds.

During this period, they had to break into a completely unfamiliar building, face an unknown number of enemies, complete a series of tasks such as searching, clearing, and demolishing, and then evacuate alive.

"Do you have any other questions?"

A tall mercenary spoke up; he was the leader of Group B, codenamed "Big Bear": "What if there really is a trap inside? I mean... a large-scale explosive trap."

This question touched on everyone's heart.

"Dad" was silent for a few seconds.

Deep inside the warehouse, a rat scurried across a pile of rubble, making a rustling sound.

“Then rely on your eyes and ears,” he finally said. “If you find anything unusual—overly dense wiring, signs of wall alteration, an area that is unusually clean or unusually messy—report it immediately and evacuate immediately. Our lives are worth more than that dilapidated house.”

He surveyed the entire area: "But I must remind you, only I can issue the retreat order. Any unauthorized retreat will be dealt with according to battlefield discipline. Do you understand?"

"Understood, sir!" A deep reply echoed in the warehouse.

Bravo was also giving a similar briefing over there.

Their target was the dilapidated school buildings, and the task was more complicated—a four-story main teaching building, two auxiliary buildings, a playground, and a wall.

The building structure is more complex, there are more possible hiding places, and the clearing and suppression is more difficult.

“Remember,” said “Butcher”, the company commander of “Bravo” Company, pointing to the map, “the school was designed to accommodate a large number of people. This means many rooms, long corridors, and many blind spots. There could be someone hiding behind every door or around every corner.”

He took out a photo, a graduation photo of the school before the war.

Hundreds of children and teachers stood in front of the school building, their smiles radiant.

“But now, there are only enemies inside.” The Butcher tore the photo to shreds. “Don’t hesitate, don’t show mercy. The moment you hesitate may be your last breath.”

Two companies, totaling 160 elite mercenaries, have now completed their final preparations.

They sat on the rubble, leaned against the walls, or lay directly on the ground, trying to gain even a few minutes of rest before taking action.

Some people checked photos of their family members, some prayed silently, and some wiped their gleaming guns clean over and over again. Many more simply closed their eyes, adjusted their breathing, and let their heartbeats slowly subside.

The next few hours will determine the life or death of many people—including their own.

Outside the warehouse, night was deep.

The stars twinkled in the clear sky, and the air after the sandstorm was so clean that the Milky Way was visible.

In the distance, the city of Titrick was faintly visible in the darkness.

Meanwhile, underground in the city, another group of people were also making preparations.

Titrick, a former major northwestern town of Ilig.

Twelve meters underground in the city, inside a large tunnel. The air is damp and murky, a mixture of sewage, mold, and the smell of human sweat.

The dim emergency lights hung from the arched concrete ceiling, casting swaying shadows.

The walls are covered with dark stains formed by water seepage over the years, resembling distorted faces.

Eight hundred people lined up and knelt on the ground.

They were arranged in twenty rows, forty men in each row, stretching from one end of the tunnel to the other end of the darkness.

Everyone was dressed in black combat uniforms, with black headscarves wrapped around their heads and masks covering their faces, only their eyes were visible.

Those eyes gleamed with an almost fanatical light in the dim light.

Some of them are young people, perhaps not even twenty years old.

There were also elderly people, with white beards.

The only thing they had in common was that these fanatical extremists were prepared to die.

Ahmed stood on a makeshift platform made of sandbags and planks.

He was wearing the same black combat uniform as everyone else, but his head was not covered, and his face was fully exposed.

“My brothers.” His voice echoed through the tunnel, carrying the unique resonance of the underground space, “Dawn is coming. And today’s dawn will be unlike any other.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the rows of kneeling figures.

“Three days ago, the infidels thought they could easily crush us. They drove armored vehicles, flew helicopters, and watched our every move with satellites. They said that in three days, at most three days, Titrick would fall.”

A low, rumbling sound rose from the crowd—a suppressed rage.

"But what about now?" Ahmed raised his voice. "Four days have passed, and they're still outside the city! Their elite troops are dead, their allies have fled, and their commander is hiding dozens of kilometers away, only daring to watch us with drones!"

"God is great!" someone shouted.

Immediately, more shouts arose, merging into a low, rumbling wave that rolled through the tunnel.

Ahmed raised his hand, and his voice gradually subsided.

“Today, I’m certain they will launch one last attack.” He pointed north, where there were only concrete walls. “They will definitely attack two places—the auto repair shop and the school. They will send their elite soldiers and the most advanced equipment. They will think that as long as they take these two places, they can break our defenses.”

He laughed, a laugh that looked eerie and sinister in the stark white light of the emergency lights.

"But they don't know that these two places are gifts we specially left for them."

He jumped off the platform and walked to a young soldier in the first row.

The young man raised his head, his eyes burning with fire.

"What's your name, my child?"

“Zabir, sir! From Mosul!”

“Zabir,” Ahmed put his hand on his shoulder, “Are you scared?”

"I am not afraid! I yearn for martyrdom!"

Ahmed nodded and walked to the next one, an old soldier with a gray beard.

And you, Jafari?

“I have lived for fifty years, sir. Today, I will live forever.”

One by one, Ahmed walked past the first few people in each row, asking questions, offering encouragement, and confirming their identities.

This is not formalism, it is a necessary process—he wants to ensure that everyone's will is firm enough, and that no one will back down at the critical moment.

Finally, he returned to the platform.

“Listen, my brothers. When the explosions start and the infidel soldiers storm the building, you don’t need to act immediately. Wait, wait patiently. Let them go deeper, let them think victory is in sight.”

He pulled a dagger from his waist and swung it forcefully in the air, the blade gleaming coldly in the light.

"Then, when the signal is given—three consecutive whistles—you pour out from every exit. From the basement, from the mezzanine, from the adjacent building, from the sewer opening. Surround them, divide them, destroy them."

He forcefully plunged the dagger into the wooden planks of the platform, the blade sinking halfway in.

"No prisoners, no mercy. They came to our land, killed our people, and desecrated our faith. Today, we will cleanse this land with their blood."

The tunnel was eerily quiet. Eight hundred eyes were fixed on Ahmed, on the dagger.

“The gates of Paradise have been opened.” Ahmed’s voice lowered, but every word was like a nail. “The prophets and martyrs are waiting. Today, either we will drive the infidels out of God’s land, or we will enter Paradise as martyrs and enjoy eternal grace.”

He took a deep breath, then roared with all his might:
"Whichever outcome it is, it is a victory!"

"God is the greatest!!!"

Eight hundred throats roared at the same time.

The sound exploded in the tunnel.

Ahmed closed his eyes, letting the sound drown him out.

The noise gradually subsided.

Ahmed opened his eyes and raised the dagger high.

"Team leaders, conduct a final equipment check. Demolition team, confirm detonation devices. Sniper team, move to pre-positioned positions. Mobility team, warm up vehicles."

As orders were issued one by one, the crowd began to move in an orderly manner.

The eight hundred people were divided into twenty teams of forty people each, each with its own mission and target area.

After the explosion, they will pour out from twenty different exits simultaneously, like twenty knives stabbing at the enemy's vitals.

Ahmed watched them disappear into the various branches of the tunnel, until only he and a few bodyguards remained.

“Sir,” a guard whispered, “we’ve received another message from Mosul asking if we need more support.”

“Tell them,” Ahmed looked into the depths of the tunnel, “that we need nothing. We just need them to remember—today, in Titrick, we will write a new chapter in history.”

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(End of this chapter)