Mercenary Black Mamba - Chapter 228
Black Mamba tucked Jamal underneath his side and sprinted towards the middle of the forest. The longer the night lasted, the more dreams there were. Unsettled matters had to be completed to prevent further trouble.
Zaitun flinched. A black shadow approached as though it had emerged from the ground. A black object was dropped beneath Zaitun’s feet like a reaped bunch of hay. It was a healthy-looking Arab wearing dishdasha pants and a faded t-shirt.
“Already?” Zaitun’s eyes widened.
He’d returned after disappearing for 10 minutes.
“He couldn’t have been alone…”
“Five were called to Allah’s side.”
Zaitun became speechless. The MP5 was a gun known for its excellent noise performance, but its ringing could be heard within a range of 300 to 400 meters at night. The guy was basically saying that he got rid of the enemies 500 meters outside of the range and kidnapped one in 10 minutes. It was impossible.
Zaitun cleared his suspicions. That was a human who shook off the effects of botulinum toxin within five minutes. From the beginning, he was a human who was beyond the logic of this world. He had to consider it for the sake of his own mental health.
Black Mamba threw Jamal down and didn’t spare him a second glance. He moved a large, flat rock in front of Zaitun and sat.
“Let’s keep talking.”
Zaitun’s astonishment disappeared. During the eight years of his life as a shadow, he’d gone through all kinds of impossibilities, but he’d never gotten used to murder. There was still some reluctance left in him.
The human before him was someone who had killed five people just moments ago. That fact had long been erased from the guy’s head. Killing a chicken wouldn’t have produced such indifference. The guy was the psychopath of the century with a nuclear bomb in his hands. Zaitun’s heart felt suffocated as though someone had placed a rock on top of his chest.
The DIA had been created as a means to counter the Soviet Union’s nuclear threats in 1961. Since back then and now, the Yankees were good at whining and exaggerating.
The air force had whined that their nuclear missiles were behind the Soviet’s when it came to potency; the navy had whined that there was an increase in the Soviet’s threat of nuclear submarines; the army had whined that the Soviet’s armed forces were developing tank-deployed nuclear weapons.
The conclusion had been to unify and increase the army, navy, and air force’s spy system. Their headquarters were set up in Bethesda, Maryland, and they had also established a large scale spy training and redevelopment center.
While the CIA concentrated on the production and refinement of information networks, the DIA concentrated on destruction-based missions through field agents. Unlike the CIA, who turned the world into a frenzy now and then, the DIA moved underwater. In secret missions, they sometimes disguised themselves as the CIA. Most of the CIA’s destructive missions could be seen as the DIA’s handiwork.
Shadows were the DIA’s main field agents. They were real, traditional secret agents who mainly destroyed buildings and assassinated targets. The DGSE had predicted that there were 800 shadows in action.
A new shadow recruit from the special forces underwent three years of redevelopment at the Bethesda training center. The shadow program went above and beyond the Delta force’s training program.
The officers would kidnap the trainee to inflict extreme torture or disguised themselves as an enemy state’s spy to lure them with beauties and money. There was a horrible education program that surpassed the KGB’s counter-torture training too. The best agent and murder weapon, shadow, was created after they passed all those stages.
“I can’t tell you the national secrets.”
“Of course. How did you get into the DGSE?”
“Hehehe, those idiots! The DGSE has been struggling to keep up with their performance since Mitterrand increased the SDECE. The officers were on fire for trying to increase the number of slippers. An officer’s graded capacity is largely based on the number of local informants they gathered, after all. I cursed Assad out a few times in the bathroom at a park, and they immediately came knocking.”
“Tsk, those idiots who know nothing but to throw their weight around! There should have been a filter.”
“I didn’t pass the lie detector test last year due to a mistake. The officer had looked past it. His resume would be affected if a local agent under his control is considered fake, after all. Fooling the lie detector isn’t a big deal. That stupid machine can’t detect agents who believe their lies to be the truth. All shadows should be able to pass it.”
“Damn b*stards, there are holes all over the place despite showing off.”
Black Mamba clicked his tongue. The DGSE officers were engaged in racial superiority and cultural arrogance. They had the misconception that Arabs and colored ethnicities could be treated like children. That was the reason why they had failed to filter Zaitun out.
“What are your intentions? Why did you attack me?”
Zaitun’s dark red face had been bleached white. The lax countermeasure hadn’t been enough to stop the blood flow from his exposed major veins. Black Mamba pulled out an explosion-proof tape from his backpack and wrapped both of his arms firmly.
Zaitun’s face creased. He tried to smile, but his muscle couldn’t move properly.
“My role is to protect Assad. Basically, to kill people like you. America doesn’t trust Mitterrand. He’s been through all kinds of bullying, trying to gain power outside his domain and promoting something vague like moralistic politics as his ideal. The NSA decided that France is trying to get rid of Assad to swallow down Syria.”
“You’re protecting the evil side?”
Black Mamba looked on in disbelief. It had been long since the U.S. had reported Syria to be on the evil side.
“Why are you acting like an amateur? What evil? That’s a fake ideal that those in power make up in times of need. In reality, Assad is America’s VIP. Most Middle East countries’ are governed by the Sunni faction. The goal of the Islamic countries dominated by the Sunni is to overthrow Israel. As you know, America is influenced by Jews. Assad is America’s, no, the Jews’ trojan horse against the Sunni’s government.”
“Still, that’s not enough reason. The U.S. is a country that holds human rights with great importance. Assad is a dictator who uses surveillance and violence as a method of ruling. The U.S. protecting someone who has killed 1,000s of their own citizens?”
“Whether Assad is a dictator or not, it doesn’t matter. If Assad falls, Israel and Lebanon would fall into danger. The Muslim Brotherhood has over 20,000 armed members. Its entire organization is made up of units of 100,000, while its hidden supporters add up to over 100,000,000. Soon, the Middle East will be drenched in blood because of them. If Assad falls, nevermind Syria, the entire Middle East would fall into the hands of extreme fundamentalists. Damn, I can see the lobsters from the Bay of Fundy. Ha, ha.” Zaitun gasped.
When blood ran low, cells wouldn’t receive the appropriate amount of oxygen. A person would turn weak and hallucinate.
Black Mamba tipped over his canteen and dripped water into Zaitun’s mouth.
“America wants the ANO to shake up France. Assad must be safe. You hate Assad’s government, but Assad mustn’t be shaken now.”
“Of course, this is your vision as well as America’s?”
“Hehe, yes. I thought France would send their airborne regiment or at least 10 teams from the GIGN. When you showed up alone, I was flabbergasted. What could you do alone? I considered you a pitiful being that would die after suffering some damages.”
“You didn’t think of killing me but decided I was a threat later on?”
“Yes. I nearly had a heart attack when you got rid of the Mukhabarat. When you managed to throw a grenade into a guard post 200 meters away, I knew something wasn’t right.”
“Zaitun, it seems like you’re a consultant and not a spy. An agent won’t have the broad vision and analytical capabilities to read current events like you do. As far as I know, you’re the best agent I’ve ever met.”
“F*** the best, I’ve turned this way and can’t do anything.” Zaitun laughed humorlessly.
“Who are you? What are you?”
“I’m the Eastern Swordsman, a Korean.”
“Oh, a Korean Oriental Invincibility! Good. It’s a waste for you to be in the frogs’ den. The Eastern Swordsman, why don’t you think of joining America? America cares for its talents. They can offer 10 times the reward that you’re receiving.”
“I’m the Eastern Swordsman.”
They were words said with confidence. A smile flashed on Zaitun’s face. That guy was a real man. There weren’t many who strongly valued honor and trust in a world obsessed with wealth.
“You’re a trustworthy fellow to have as an ally, but a dangerous person to have as an enemy. I guess I can only hope that my country won’t clash with you. If Assad dies now, there will be great chaos. Countless people will die, and 1,000s or even 1,000,000s will become refugees.”
Black Mamba tilted his head.
“Why do you keep mentioning Assad’s assassination? Assad isn’t my target. I’ll disappear after getting rid of the ANO.”
“What! Is your only target the ANO?”
Zaitun’s eyes widened. The ANO was the hidden knife that Assad had secretly raised. He’d figured that Assad was the Eastern Swordsman’s final target all along. There was no reason for the Eastern Wordsman to lie, and he didn’t seem the type to do so.
“Kekeke! I can’t believe I’m about to lose my life over a single mistake. I suppose it’s the fate of all spies.”
“The U.S. wouldn’t directly support the terrorist organization. How far are they involved in Syria’s affairs?”
Zaitun hesitated for a moment before replying.
“The CIA and DIA are working together and have interfered significantly. The CIA provides them with informed missions and weapons while the DIA is in charge of Assad’s safety and eliminating assassins. I can’t tell you the real mission.”
Zaitun closed his eyes. It was a sign that he had nothing further to say.
“Hm, the interference of the Yankees!”
Black Mamba groaned. His heart felt heavy. The Soviets and the U.S. were known as the strongest countries on either side of the world, but that was an ignorant misconception. The dictionary definition of a national power stated an overall ability in developing a country and increasing its chances of survival.
The U.S. overwhelmed the Soviets by at least three times when it came to politics, military, economics, and technology. The amount of influence the U.S. had over the world was 10 times stronger than the Soviets. The U.S. was the only country in the world that had division-scale offshore landing capabilities. The U.S. only needed the Soviets as the head of all evil.
How could he not be pressured when a powerhouse, the U.S., was involved. Just thinking of their uncountable intelligence gathering, self-sufficiency, and modern weapons made his heart lurch.
Damn those old b*stards, didn’t they know, or did they not tell me despite knowing?
Negative emotions towards the DGSE kept piling.
Zaitun opened his eyes.
“Thank you for treating me like a gentleman. I’ll give you a small gift. The DGSE’s manager of the Middle Eastern affairs in the Intelligence Department is the KGB’s mole. There should be a CIA mole. You’re more dangerous than a nuclear bomb. I need to tell them the existence of the Eastern Swordsman. It’s so hard and tiring. Just kill me as you have promised. Damn, my daughter’s waiting for me in New Jersey.”
Black Mamba liked Zaitun. The guy loved his country and his role and had a stable mentality. He wanted to make the guy his lackey, but he wasn’t someone who could be lured. It was already too late. Now was the time to relieve his pain.
He was a man with damaged limbs who was dying in a land far from his daughter and his hometown. His teacher’s words about death in life and life in death filled his heart. Unable to raise his hand immediately, Black Mamba gazed tenderly at Zaitun.
The clouds drew back. The quarter moon, which would soon turn into a full moon, revealed itself. The empty land drew its bare face underneath the blue-tinted moonlight. It was an area surrounded by overlapping barren plains filled with sparse bushes and grass. There weren’t any trees, rocky hills, or cliffs.
“Guh!” Jamal woke up.
“Pi ayiyi maka-nin naheunu alan?”
His head was spinning, and his sight turned hazy. A heavy pain rushed over from the back of his head. He tried touching it with his hand. It was fine, without any tear or wounds. However, it hurt so much.
The pain that rushed up his spine brought him back to his senses. His hazy consciousness regained its steadiness. He’d lost his consciousness after a black shadow fell on him while his comrades had died from losing their heads. Jamal realized the situation that he was in. His hands and feet weren’t bound, but he was a prisoner.
Jamal was devastated. Thoughts of being put through extreme torture filled his head—from having his neck ruthlessly cut off, hanging on a tree with his skin torn off, and burning to death over a fire.
Those were the methods that the ANO used to get rid of religious critiques. All heathens were religious critiques. Even Assad, who had abandoned the Islamic mindset, was a heathen that needed to be punished.
He’d been taught to commit suicide when taken prisoner by a heathen. He didn’t have a gun or the Khanjar that he used to carry by his side. He had to bite his tongue to die, but he didn’t have the courage.
Two men came into his sight underneath the bright moonlight. The man, who was leaning on the rock, had no hands. At a glance, he could tell that the man was being tortured. The material wrapped around his arms was soaked in blood. It looked dark underneath the moonlight, but he’d experience cutting off hands to know what it looked like.
Someone was sitting up straight beside him. Jamal gasped. He recalled the shadow who had shattered his five comrades’ heads and came onto him like a tiger.
It was him. Jamal knew it instinctively. That person was the one who kidnapped him. He had to run to live. He feared torture because he had tortured others.
Jamal, who was about to gather strength in his legs, jumped. His ears rang. No, his head was ringing. He curled up like a caterpillar and wrapped his head.
The man turned around.
Surprised, Jamal breathed rapidly. Like a predator, bioluminescent eyes were hovering in the air. His limbs lost all of its strength. He couldn’t even dream of fleeing.
The man turned back around as though he didn’t care.
Black Mamba’s palm left and landed on Zaitun’s chest. There was an impact. Zaitun’s heart collapsed once more.
Jamal covered his mouth with his hand. Black liquid kept flowing out of the man’s mouth. That human was scary, no, that was a scary being.
Black Mamba dug the ground with a gloomy expression on. The DIA shadow, Zaitun, who had been assigned to protect Assad, was buried in an unnamed hill in Kaparja Valley. There were two lines engraved on his headstone.
[Zaitun, the man who adopted violence to maintain peace, rests here. For whom did he toll the bell?]
 A loose white garment that is worn by Muslim men in the Arabian peninsula.
 “Why am I here?”
 “What happened?”