Chapter 1855 - 1395: Return to Mosul

The last twilight sank into the Tigris River on the west bank, casting a long shadow from the minaret in Mosul's old city.

The air was a mixture of burning garbage, the aroma of grilled lamb spices, and the ever-present war smoke.

Song Heping tightened the checkered headscarf around his head, revealing only his eyes. His gray robe was covered in dust, and his old leather shoes had cracked, a stark resemblance to the thousands of unemployed on the streets of Mosul.

He queued outside the Bab al-Sindeh Checkpoint in the northern city, with over twenty other civilians waiting to enter.

"Documents," the Illiguo soldier said impatiently.

Song Heping handed over a wrinkled ID card, with the photo of a Shiite Arab named Kasim Ali.

It was one of his fake identities in Iraq.

For a PMC Company boss, having only one identity in war-torn regions was unacceptable.

The person in the photo was a civilian killed in crossfire three years ago, whose ID had changed hands on the black market before ending up with Song Heping, with the photo now replaced.

The soldier studied the ID and Song Heping's face for several seconds.

Song Heping's makeup worked effectively.

The fake goatee not only suited the traditional look of an YSL man but also obscured most facial features. The dark eyeliner made his eyes appear sunken, and his cheeks were dusted heavily to appear as a worn-out foreign fugitive.

"Go ahead."

The soldier waved his hand, already focusing on the next person.

Song Heping bowed his head, quickly passed through the checkpoint, and vanished into Mosul's maze-like alleyways.

Mosul had just been freed from three years of rule by 1515, leaving the city almost completely in ruins.

The buildings along the streets were riddled with bullet holes and shell craters. Some were entirely demolished, with debris and rubble spilling over the sidewalks.

Yet, even amidst the ruins, vendors still set up stands selling everything from vegetables to smuggled cigarettes.

Inside tea houses with colorful lanterns, men smoked hookahs, and TVs blared Egyptian soap operas, their volume turned up as if to drown out the gunfire from the city's depths.

Song Heping avoided the Main Street, sticking to narrow alleys.

He could feel the city's taut nerves.

Militiamen with guns sat in the backs of parked pickups, snipers observed from rooftops, and checkpoints could suddenly appear at any street corner.

At nightfall, Song Heping reached the edge of the eastern industrial zone.

This had been a 1515 stronghold, now filled with burned-out vehicles and collapsed factories.

Enter a dilapidated building and ascend to the sixth floor.

Song Heping stopped in the shadow of the ruins, the night wind lifting the hem of his robe.

After ensuring no one was nearby, he untied his belt, which concealed a specially made flat pocket.

His fingertips delved in, retrieving a metal cylinder slightly larger than a lighter.

He gently unscrewed it, revealing a folded Steiner M Series monocular observation mirror, its lens coated to minimize reflection under moonlight.

He tore the thick collar of his robe to reveal a hidden tactical scarf.

The fabric, treated with a special coating, unfolded at his fingertips, automatically shaping when draped over his shoulders and neck, blurring infrared features.

Finally, he crouched down and pulled out three high-energy compressed candies from the right boot's compartment, wrapped in foil, each capable of sustaining basic metabolism for six hours.

This was his only "food" at the moment.

No firearms, no knives.

In this city fragmented by multiple powers, conventional weapons at checkpoints meant a death sentence.

All he had were the observation devices, energy supplies, and the combat instincts ingrained from years of military experience, hidden within everyday clothes.

He stood, switching the observation mirror to low-light mode.

The view was instantly tinted with phosphorescent green, revealing building outlines, distant watchtowers, and patrol team heat signatures.

He slipped silently into deeper darkness, navigating the seams between shadow and light with each step.

The wind stirred up sand and dust, making a faint sound as it struck crumbling walls.

Now, he was no longer the destitute civilian who had passed through the checkpoint but reverted to being the ghost capable of surviving within enemy territory, observing and waiting for the opportunity with just a little light and energy.

His target was three kilometers away, the Joint Operations Group base.

It was the forward base for US Special Forces operations, and currently, the "Witness" division's operational hub in Mosul.

The building lost half in last winter's firefight but the concrete structure remained relatively intact.

From here, he had an unobstructed view of the Joint Operations Group base panorama.

The base was set in an abandoned textile factory, surrounded by three-meter-high concrete walls topped with barbed wire and cameras.

Watchtowers were situated at all four corners, their searchlights sweeping slowly across the surrounding area.

The main building was a three-story office block, alongside a hangar and helicopter landing pad, currently housing two Black Hawks and one Little Bird helicopter.

Song Heping raised his binoculars, starting to focus.

The activities within the base were clearly visible.

US Army soldiers wearing desert camouflage patrolled, some chatting by the Hummer.

Suddenly, the side door of the main building opened, and two individuals in black combat uniforms without any insignia dragged a figure out.