I manufacture weapons in the Middle East and am wanted globally?

All the lights in the factory were on, but one of the fluorescent tubes was broken, flickering on and off like it was blinking.

Chen Zheng, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, squatted in the corner of the workshop, watching the bald man and Chiang Kai-shek work.

He's been watching for almost two hours and still doesn't get tired of it.

These two "workers" are so damn useful.

No salary, no overtime pay, no social insurance and housing fund, no food or water, not even toilet breaks.

Working around the clock, never complaining or uttering a sound.

Absolutely awful!

They're practically capitalists' best...partners!

No, cattle and horses need to eat grass, but these two don't even need grass; they're pure perpetual motion machines.

From 3 p.m. until now, more than three hours later, how much work have Bald Man and Chiang Kai-shek done?

Gun barrels, 80 in total.

The Makarov PM gun barrels, 48 ​​in total, were from the afternoon batch.

The Stechkin APS barrels, numbering 32, were added later. Each barrel underwent four processes: deep hole drilling, reaming, boring, and rifling, resulting in an inner wall so smooth it could be used as a mirror.

There are also three complete guns.

The three Stechkin APS were fully assembled, and apart from not being blued, they were no different from those from the military factory.

Chen Zheng walked over, picked up a gun, pulled back the slide to look at the firing pin inside, then closed it again, pulled the trigger, and clicked it cleanly, with a smooth, even stroke and a crisp reset.

He picked up the magazine again, pressed the spring with his finger, and found that the spring was just right, so there should be no problem with feeding.

He put down the gun and glanced at the gun barrels piled up in the corner. There were 80 of them, neatly stacked like bundles of steel bars.

If they were all sold...

Just as he was lost in thought, the phone rang.

Three words popped up on the screen: Khalid.

Chen Zheng answered the call.

"Chen," Khalid said in a low voice, as if afraid of being overheard, "is it convenient for you to talk?"

"It's convenient for you to tell me."

"I've found a buyer for you."

"But what?"

"However, their identities are somewhat complicated."

Khalid lowered his voice even further, "Don't ask any more questions, and don't ask them when you meet them. They give you the money, and you give them the goods."

"Don't worry, I'm not that curious. Curious people die young!"

"Okay." Khalid seemed relieved. "Now take your things and come to the Alzahra Hotel in the south of the city. I'll be waiting for you at the door."

"Be careful on your way here, things aren't going well in Della tonight."

"understood."

After hanging up the phone, Chen Zheng pulled a burlap sack from the corner of the wall. It was one of those woven fertilizer bags, gray in color, with Arabic script printed on it. His father used to buy them from the market for 50 cents each.

He packed 80 gun barrels into the bag, filling it to three-quarters full. It was incredibly heavy. He tested the weight; it was about 40 or 50 kilograms. One person could carry it, but it would strain his back.

Then he tucked two APS pistols into his lower back.

The gun grip was digging into my lower back, which was a bit uncomfortable, but it made me feel much more at ease.

He threw the sack into the truck bed, covered it with an old canvas, and tied it twice with rope.

The pickup truck sputtered and drove out of the factory.

Della at night and Della during the day are two different worlds.

During the day, at least there are people, cars, and businesses on the streets. But at night, the whole city feels like it's being choked and can't breathe.

Half of the streetlights were not working, and those that were lit were dim and yellowish, illuminating only a few meters away.

All the shops on both sides of the road were closed, their metal roller shutters tightly shut, covered with various slogans spray-painted on them. Some were political slogans, some were insults, and some were not so clear that they were covered by other colors.

Chen Zheng slowed down the car and kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

There were almost no cars on the road.

Occasionally, a pickup truck or SUV would drive by from the opposite direction, its headlights so bright he couldn't open his eyes.

"You son of a bitch, turn on your high beams! Do you think this is T-state?!"

What? You don't know that place?

That's the City of Light!!!

Everyone is Ultraman!

...

The Al-Zahra Hotel is a three-story building located on the main road in the south of the city. Its exterior is painted a beige color, some of which has peeled off, revealing the red brick underneath. A neon sign hangs at the entrance, half lit—"Al-Zahra Hotel"—the rest of the letters are off, making it appear from a distance as "Al-Zahra Ho el".

Chen Zheng parked the pickup truck in the open space opposite the hotel, turned off the engine, and got out of the car.

He first dragged the sack out of the truck bed and carried it on his shoulder.

Khalid stood in the doorway, wearing a gray jacket, his hands in his pockets, and a cigarette butt under his foot, which he was grinding around.

Upon seeing Chen Zheng, he quickly approached him.

Khalid turned and walked into the hotel. "Come with me."

The hotel lobby was small, with a counter, a sofa, and an old television set playing an Arabic drama. Behind the counter sat an old man wearing reading glasses, doing his accounts.

Seeing Khalid and Chen Zheng enter, he looked up at them, then lowered his head to continue calculating.

What kind of good person would stay in a hotel late at night?

But regardless...

This is what we're here to eat!

Khalid led Chen Zheng up to the second floor.

The corridor lights were voice-activated; they would turn on briefly when stepped on and turn off again after a few steps. The floor was covered with a dark red carpet, obscuring its original color. The air smelled of a mixture of mildew and smoke.

Khalid stopped at the door of the innermost room and knocked three times.

The door opened.

The person who opened the door was a local man in his thirties with a short beard, wearing a dark blue robe and a checkered turban. He glanced at Khalid first, then his gaze fell on Chen Zheng.

Khalid said in Arabic, "The person has arrived."

The man nodded and stepped aside.

Chen Zheng carried the sack inside.

There was another person in the room.

The man was sitting in a chair by the window. He was in his early forties, with a square face, high cheekbones, and a scar on his chin that looked like it had been cut with a knife.

He saw Chen Zheng, but did not stand up; he simply nodded slightly.

"Sit," he said in Arabic, his voice low and slightly guttural.

Chen Zheng put the sack on the ground and sat down on a plastic stool. Khalid stood next to him without sitting down.

The scarred man glanced at the sack on the ground, then at Chen Zheng, and spoke, his words slow and clear.

"Khalid told me that I have some special products."

Chen Zheng nodded: "The barrels. Makarov PM and Stechkin APS."

The scarred man's eyebrows twitched. "How many?"

"There are 48 Makarov ones and 32 APS ones," Chen Zheng paused.

The room was silent for two seconds.

The scarred man and the short-bearded man by the door exchanged a glance.

The man with the short beard walked over, squatted down, untied the rope of the burlap sack, and pulled out a gun barrel. He weighed it in his hand, then held it up to the light.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he handed the gun barrel to the scarred man.

The scarred man took it, but didn't rush to look at it. Instead, he first ran his finger along the outer surface, feeling the texture of the cutting tool. Then he held it up to the light, squinted one eye, and looked into the barrel.

I watched it for about ten seconds.

"How much?" he asked.

Chen Zheng took a deep breath.

"A Makarov barrel costs $90, while an APS barrel costs $95, because the APS barrel is longer and involves more processing steps," he said.

The scarred man did not bargain.

He took a wallet out of his uniform pocket, counted out a wad of US dollars, and placed it on the table.

"48 Makarov barrels, $4320; 32 APS barrels, $3040." He pushed the money over. "Count it."

Chen Zheng stared at the stack of money, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it was going to jump out of his throat.

He reached out, took the money, and counted it one bill at a time.

One hundred, two hundred, three hundred...

I've finished counting.

$7360, not a penny more, not a penny less.

He folded the money neatly, stuffed it into the inside pocket of his pants, patted it to make sure it wouldn't fall out.

"The goods are all yours now," he said.

Damn, I've never seen a buyer pay so readily!

This is way better than that Indian guy who only gave me a deposit!

They're much more conscientious than those troublesome bosses in China!

Those swindlers in China only know how to say, "Business is tough these days, come settle the money at the end of the year." When the end of the year comes, they'll tell you, "Oh brother, I've barely had a proper New Year," and you'll just relax and pay them back next year.

The new year has begun... I can't get through on the phone.

Fuck!

No wonder so many people like doing business in the Middle East; they really pay well!

The scarred man stood up, walked to the sack, bent down and took out the gun barrels one by one, placing them on the bed.

"Wait!" Chen Zheng suddenly said.

Several people looked over and saw Chen Zheng pull out a Stechkin APS from his waist, and the atmosphere immediately changed.

The scarred man's expression changed. He and his companion simultaneously drew their pistols, their eyes turning sinister. "Khalid, what are you doing?!"

Khalid was also bewildered?

Do Chinese people also engage in double-crossing?

When Chen Zheng saw the gun pointed at him, his scalp tingled, and he hurriedly said, "No, no, no, there are no bullets! Hey, this is a product, a product!!!"

As he spoke, he removed the magazine and dropped it on the ground. Upon seeing this, the scarred man's expression softened. He put down his gun and gestured for his companion to fetch it and take a look.

Chen Zheng handed him the weapon, saying, "I'm just a businessman, buddy. I'm a man of my word!"

The scarred man glanced at the pistol, a Stechkin APS. Although it looked a bit rough, it was clearly still usable.

"Is this the same type of barrel?"

Chen Zheng nodded, "Of course, I never make counterfeit products; reputation is very important!"

How much do you have?

"Production is slow, only two available. If you want them, I'll give them to you for $1000!"

The other person thought for a moment, nodded, and then took out the money and handed it over.

Chen Zheng loved Franklin so much. He laughed and said, "If your guns break down in the future, you can come to me. I'll charge you a 10% handling fee, and I'll replace them with new ones!"

The three Arabs were taken aback by what he said.

Do weapons come with after-sales service?

"I'm a businessman, and I'm sincere with my clients. I want everyone to be satisfied; it's my responsibility!"

Upon hearing this, the scarred man's expression visibly softened.

Syrian black market workshops don't allow returns!

The gun didn't explode during the on-site test, so it passed!

The barrel exploded?

That must be because you're doing it wrong.

"My name is Abu Ali," he said. "If you have any goods in the future, you can contact Khalid directly."

Chen Zheng nodded: "Okay."

Abu Ali said nothing more, but winked at the man with the short beard. The man wrapped the barrel and the entire gun in a cloth and tucked it under his arm. The two men walked out of the room, one after the other.

The sound of footsteps gradually faded away in the corridor.

Chen Zheng sat motionless on the plastic stool.

After about ten seconds, he suddenly stood up, took two steps around the room, sat down, and then stood up again.

"It's done?" He looked at Khalid. "That's it?"

Khalid was also smiling, but there was a hint of relief in his smile: "It's done."

"Holy shit." Chen Zheng plopped down on the bed. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit."

He took the wad of US dollars out of his pocket and counted it again.

He took out $800 from his pocket and gave it to the other person.

"your."

Khalid didn't stand on ceremony, took the money, counted it, and said with a smile, "Thank you, boss!!"

"Chen, you really scared me this time. Don't be so reckless next time you make a deal. I felt like I peed my pants when you pulled out that gun!"

Chen Zheng laughed heartily, "One must be bold in life."

Khalid was taken aback, then sighed, "This is the second time I've heard this from you Chinese. The first time was from an FZ man who said he was heavily in debt, then cast the Holy Grail nine times, and then smuggled himself into Syria and sat there for two months."

"He also told me this: 'Be bold.'"

Chen Zheng asked curiously, "And then?"

"He's selling fried rice in Gaza now."

"????"

"We can sell $2000 a day," Khalid said.

"Hold!!"

……