```
Dada dada—
Dada dada—
Dada dada—
At the same time, three men fired simultaneously.
The last to fall were actually two armed militants.
Song Heping quickly switched to a supine shooting position when it mattered most, rolling backwards while simultaneously firing his gun as he went down.
Although the two militants also fired their guns, their bullets missed, whizzing past above Song Heping's body.
This tactical move, practiced tens of thousands of times, was etched into his bones, forming muscle memory.
Even though it had been several years since he left, he hadn't lost this foundation.
In a critical moment, it miraculously saved his own life!
But after taking down two men, Song Heping was forced by a barrage of bullets to quickly crawl back behind the car.
"Chef! We're surrounded! 5 enemies at the 9 o'clock position, I took down two!"
Song Heping urgently warned the Chef.
The situation was dire.
There were people in three directions.
Only the 6 o'clock position was clear of enemies.
But the enemy was on high ground, like hunters.
He and his fellow companions were trapped on the highway, with no way out.
As he was contemplating what to do next, Song Heping suddenly heard that terrifying whistling sound again...
Whiz—
Dammit...
Another RPG...
Song Heping loathed these things.
He had played with the 40mm grenade launcher, and the 40mm was born of the same mother as the RPG, being virtually identical.
In the past, Song Heping quite enjoyed firing RPGs, the shell from a recoilless gun is invisible when fired, but an RPG's trajectory can be clearly seen as it soars towards the target with a whoosh, and that soul-stirring path it took was a pleasure to watch.
But he had never imagined that one day he would be on the receiving end of such a device.
The RPGs in the hands of militants all over the world were always a mystery.
It seemed as if they would never run out.
You'd never know how many there were.
Are these things really that cheap?
Boom—
Before Song Heping could move, the RPG struck the front of the car he was hiding behind.
Fortunately, it didn't hit the spot where he was concealed.
But it was a close call.
Song Heping's ears rang with a cacophony of bells and drums, and even wearing noise-cancelling headphones, he couldn't withstand the explosion at such close range.
His body experienced that sensation of the soul being shaken out.
Time seemed to suddenly stretch, the explosion had passed in just a few seconds, yet it felt as long as several hours...
He clumsily got up, unable to tell north from south, east from west, having lost all sense of direction.
The Grim Reaper seemed to appear above him again, coldly gazing down.
Thump thump thump—
The muffled sound of gunfire filtered through the sound filter into his ears.
Such muffled yet shocking machine gun fire...
It didn't sound like the PKMs or the like used by militants.
Song Heping raised his head, craning his neck towards the direction of the gunfire.
An armored Humvee with an M2HB heavy machine gun mounted on top appeared from nowhere, stationary a few dozen meters away.
He could even see the face of the machine gunner, the face of a U.S. soldier wearing sunglasses.
That guy was handling the heavy machine gun like sprinkling water, spilling all the bullets from the ammo box liberally.
Stone chips flew in all directions on the overpass, and the 12.7mm caliber bullets from the M2HB heavy machine gun cut a few militants who had not yet found cover in half.
One of the militants' halved corpses fell, crashing heavily onto the roof of a sedan...
Reinforcements had arrived.
He was saved again.
He had faced life and death more times in these two days than in the past twenty-plus years.
Song Heping felt as if his life was no longer real.
In less than ten minutes, the attackers had scattered.
Everything quieted down once more.
Roadside attacks in Baghdad were always like this, Easy come, Easy go.
```
Song Heping collapsed onto the ground, his clothes already soaked with sweat.
Looking around at the bodies lying haphazardly beside the vehicle and by the roadside, he suddenly felt the sensation of having barely survived a disaster.
The cook came over to pull him up from the ground, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile.
"Not bad, not bad at all! Song, you are a natural-born warrior!"
A warrior?
Song Heping wasn't interested in his praise.
Did he need the praise?
What he needed was money.
This job was way too dangerous.
He definitely couldn't do this for a living long-term.
He needed to make money fast and get back to his country, or else he didn't know how long he would last.
So he said, "Cook, I want to ask you something."
The cook responded promptly, "Go ahead!"
Song Heping asked, "Was my performance today considered up to standard?"
The cook was just as straightforward, "Of course it's up to standard, even excellent!"
To more accurately express his approval, the cook gave a thumbs up.
"You are the best rookie I have ever seen!"
Song Heping said with a wry smile, "Then can you fulfill the promise you made to me?"
The cook was taken aback, "What promise?"
Song Heping said, "I want a daily wage of three hundred US dollars."
The cook suddenly remembered.
Holy crap!
Was this kid looking to go official?
He had promised Song Heping that if he proved his worth, he could become a full-fledged member immediately.
A word spoken, a deed done, he couldn't go back on his word now.
"Alright! Three hundred it is!" the cook readily agreed.
Of course, he was quick to agree.
What is most important in the 21st century?
Talent!
There were no shortage of freelance mercenaries coming to Baghdad to make money, but the quality was extremely mixed, and their combat abilities were uneven.
Large PMC companies would meticulously select and conduct detailed background checks on their official mercenaries within their own countries, ensuring they met the requirements before signing a contract.
A small team like the one led by the cook didn't have many options; after arriving here, they mostly relied on referrals from others, basically word of mouth.
The three team members who had died before were all from South Africa, all brothers.
They claimed to have worked in the EO company for three years, deployed on missions in Africa, and had seen real combat.
When the cook first came to Baghdad, he brought White Bear, Grey Wolf, and Queen with him; many mercenary missions required more than five people, so in a desperate rush and without much investigation, he agreed for the trio to join.
After all, the South African EO company was once a well-known name in the private military industry, employing mercenaries from elite troops around the world; before the company dissolved, it made the remarkable feat of 60 people withstanding an attack by thousands of RUF soldiers, with only 20 casualties.
Unexpectedly, within less than a month, these three guys ran over an IED due to negligence, killing two on the spot.
Another who was injured crawled out of the vehicle in attempt to escape, but he ran onto the line of fire in a panic, and was shot into a sieve by ICDC soldiers providing support from behind.
In the midst of gunfire, the last thing wanted is for someone to cross the friendly line of fire; it's indicative of extremely poor tactical quality.
Three died in one mission, and in the end, they couldn't continue, passing the job to someone else.
This caused the reputation of the "Musician" Mercenary Corps to hit rock bottom; in the Baghdad mercenary circle, they were practically synonymous with uselessness.
In addition, the cook and his team were all from Da Maozi; there weren't many from Da Maozi among the mercenaries here to make money, and as remnants of the once sunsetting Red Empire, they were ostracized by the circle dominated by Anglo people.
Before Song Heping joined, the cook hadn't received a mission for a week, and at this rate, the team could only disband and fly back home.
After conducting a handover and revealing their identities to the supporting US Army, the five people didn't dare to linger and hurriedly stuffed Angel back into the vehicle, rushing towards the Green Zone.
Once back in the Green Zone, today's mission would be considered complete.
Ten thousand US dollars would be in their hands.
Once back in the car, White Bear couldn't help but ask the cook, "Boss, what did that kid say to you?"
The cook said, "He wants to become a formal team member."
White Bear asked curiously, "Did you agree?"
"Why not?" the cook replied, looking thoughtfully at the Opel car ahead, "The kid just lacks a bit of experience; with some training, he will definitely be a good hand."
White Bear commented, "Why is he in such a hurry to become official?"
"He said he's poor," the cook explained, "He has a mountain of debt back home, and now he has only one hundred and twenty US dollars left on him."
White Bear grinned, "Looks like he is driven mad by poverty."
"Being poor is good," the cook said, "It's those who are poor who are willing to fight with everything they've got."
He pointed to himself, pointed to White Bear, and then said with a sigh, "Aren't you and I on this path because we were poor and wanted to get rich?"