Mercenary Black Mamba

There was a pool of blood below the feet of the old man in his fifties. He was barely breathing, with injuries all over. All 10 of his fingers had been cut off, and his collarbone broken. All of his toes had been shattered. Varying marks from being hit by a hammer were visible. His side had been dug into with a soldering iron while his thighs, shoulders, and stomach had wounds all over from a surgical scalpel.

It was known as the Chinese lingchi. Lingchi meant slowly climbing up and down a hill. It was a horrible form of execution in which a sinner was bound to a pole, and their flesh was sliced little by little, like sushi, to prevent excessive bleeding. According to Chinese records, sinners had to suffer 3,000 cuts at most.

Rather than to receive a confession, lingchi was carried out like a performance for the onlookers, and it helped to satisfy the executioner's sadism. It was an extreme act that no human should commit.

There was still blood dripping from around the wounds of his cuts, an indication of how skilled the executioner was.

"Those f*cking b*stards!"

He automatically gritted his teeth. There was a limit to torture. The man looked like he'd been tortured for several hours. It looked like details of the torturing had been videotaped too. That wasn't something any human should do.

Once in the Sahel, Black Mamba had tortured a FROLINAT soldier by breaking a few of his fingers during a fast-paced battle. However, he hadn't tortured someone to this degree. The b*stards had completely destroyed their dignity as humans. They were an evil organization that shouldn't have existed.

Frankly, the fear and torture caused by his all-torture technique were beyond disembowelment or lingchi. It left a person's bones, muscles, and organs irrecoverable from the impact despite leaving no surface wounds. The victim would lose consciousness within a short moment.

For someone who used the all-torture technique, Black Mamba wasn't in any position to call out cruelty. However, other people were cheaters, while he was a romanticist. That's what he perceived, so what else could he believe in?

He examined the man with his dimensional sight. His blood pressure had dropped, and his brain waves were unstable. These were the effects of long-term blood loss and multiple organ dysfunction syndromes. From his breathing, Black Mamba could tell that his lungs had suffered damage too.

Torturing one until their death wasn't Abu Nidal's method. The ANO specialized in explosive terrorism and kidnapping. They tried not to destroy the person's body in exchange for a large ransom. Of course, if the price wasn't paid, they would deliver a neatly cut head.

He grew curious about the man's identity. He wasn't Consul Dijolle Baylout. An old man wouldn't be able to withstand torture that broke down the body. A person had to be specialized in anti-torture or have a strong mentality to withstand it.

"Oi. White man!"

There was no response to his call. He worked as a miracle savior from time to time, but he couldn't bring a person from the dead. What appeared to be the victim's belongings were scattered across the table—a car key, stationery, a small notebook, a Swiss knife, and a key chain. Strangely, there was also a miniature Kukri. None of the belongings revealed the man's identity.

"I guess I don't have a choice."

He gave up on the man and searched the room. He didn't even look at the five bookshelves and tables. There was no reason for an approved DGSE document to be on the table.

Boom—

He activated his resonance. When there was a space on the wall or floor, his resonance vibrated differently. There was an exceptionally heavy response from the left wall.

"Bingo. You can't fool me."

He raised the bookshelf away from the wall. An embedded gold safe was sitting right there.

"Hm, what to do?"

He was a mercenary, not a robber. His hands could shatter rocks, but he couldn't break a safe made of pure gold. Even if he could, he wouldn't cause a scene like a weasel in a chicken coop.

There wasn't enough time either. From what he could tell, the b*stards who'd tortured the guy were away for a moment. He didn't know when the b*stards would return. Two million francs lingered before his eyes when he thought of giving up.

He had to try. He grabbed the safe's handle and gathered his concentration. His inner eye activated. The safe's operational gears appeared vaguely in his mind. He concentrated until his head hurt. Its figure grew more distinct in his mind.

It was a four-layered dial. Trying to match the dials would be easy as long as he could see the wheels' alignment. Turning the dials aligned the gears' metal rods. Next, he had to remove the internal latch. He began to draw upon the latch with his inhalation wave.

Click—

The three latches of the golden safe, which wouldn't budge, came undone at once.

"Phew, I should become a robber instead of a mercenary."

Black Mamba wiped off the sweat gathered on his forehead. Detailed jobs required a high level of concentration. His eyes stung as though they had fallen out, and his head became dizzy.

He calmed his mind with meditation before opening the safe's door. Several golden bars stacked on top of each other flashed under a bright white glow. The yellow-tinged light greeted the invader. Black Mamba's face brightened.

"Oh, what's this! The fruits of my labor! All praise Allah's benevolence."

He was a countryside guy who'd only seen gold spoons and necklaces. His head turned dizzier at the flashing golden mountain. He instinctively and unknowingly prayed.

It wasn't just the gold. There were documents and videotapes on the first shelf, a wad of cash on the second shelf, and golden bars throughout the lower shelves in five kilograms and 10 kilograms—50 in total.

There were 1,000 stacks of 100 dollar bills in bundles of 40. That was 4,000,000 dollars in total. He didn't even look at the bunch of coins. He hadn't known that a terrorist organization could be so rich. He considered changing his occupation from a robber to the head of a terrorist organization.

"Tsk!"

It was an astounding amount, but a bit too much. He didn't even have a bag to place it in.

"I should finish my work and return for the profits later."

Deep regret was seen on his face after he closed the safe door.

"The man's gone."

His life force, which had been hanging by a thread, ended. There wasn't life inside the room anymore. He had to examine the room filled with electronic devices next.

Creak—

The sound of friction from the chicken coop rang from above.

"Eek!"

Black Mamba immediately closed the safe and returned the bookshelf to its original position. He hid behind the dead man and activated becoming one with nature.

He sensed three people on his radar. They were either those who had tortured the victim or the operators of the electronic devices room. That was the core of Ruman. It was strange how the place was left unattended for even a brief moment.

Clang—

The basement door opened.

"I miss pizza too."

"Let's order something through the phone."

Black Mamba was surprised. He hadn't expected to hear English in Syria. The two men entered the room in a chatter. Another person followed them quietly.

The two b*stards were wearing gandouras, while the last one was wearing the Syrian military uniform without any rank. They took out their liquor and placed fries wrapped in oil-absorbing paper on the table. They were planning to snack and drink throughout the night. From Black Mamba's viewpoint, that was a completely unwelcoming situation.

Black Mamba, who was pulling out darts from his pouch, pushed them back in. There was no need to scare the snake by beating the grass. He could get rid of them after completing his work and collecting his profits.

"Shire, let's finish it up if you're done eating. We'll drink ourselves to oblivion once everything's done."

"I get it, so don't rush me. Oi, Paskal Belmont, are you dead?"

The guy named Shire pushed up the man's eyelids and placed his thumb and forefinger on the man's carotid artery.

"Damn it! Oi, Dyson, this b*stard's really dead."

"We've got everything that we need from him. It doesn't matter if he's dead."

"Damn, we could have gotten a hefty sum if we handed the guy to Abu Nidal, you know?"

"Leave it. We've got what we needed. Just getting our pay will be enough."

"Sadam, when's the supply truck coming? We're out of whiskey."

"It'll be arriving tomorrow morning. They must have failed to pay any attention because of the mess in Aleppo. I apologize, sir," the Arab in the military uniform replied very politely.

Paskal Belmont? Bonipas should know. F*cking b*stards, I'll pay you with a whip. You guys won't be eating any food tomorrow.

They were b*stards who drank comfortably after wringing a human ragged. He immediately included their names on his list.

"Shire, how was the training for those Horazan b*stards?"

"I'm almost done filling up the ranks. They've begun training three days ago."

"Hehe, how do you think Mitterrand will react with his a*s on fire?"

"They're all half-mad. Won't it be a problem later?"

"It's nothing for us to be concerned about. Those heads must have planned something."

Black Mamba realized something important while listening to Shire and Dyson's conversation. Those guys were American spies. From their destructive methods, they were probably the DIA's shadows. They'd created a small organization called the Horazan by gathering extreme terrorists. The members were commissioned to train in Ruman and were now preparing to attack France.

He suddenly had an idea that the real reason behind his deployment to Ruman could have been due to the Horazan. It was a likely story if the fox-like Bonipas had orchestrated it.

He wanted to beat the truth out of them by using the all-torture technique, but he didn't have time. He didn't want to go that far, either. He was a spy, not an eraser. Whether it was the Horazan or the ANO, he could just blow them up.

Black Mamba left the basement without a trace. He was planning to teach them a proper lesson after doing his part and gaining some profit.

"Shire, something just passed by."

"B*stard, don't say things like that. The number of humans who have died here in the past thousands of years has crossed the five-digit mark. I bet it's crawling with ghosts."

Humans couldn't foresee the future. How would one know that a terrible fate was waiting to swallow them?

A black shadow crossed the field like a wild bird. His first target was the camps, which he presumed to be the terrorists' dorms. There were six permanent camps made of bricks built on a concrete foundation, and four temporary camps made of wooden structures that looked like a corset topped with metal trusts.

The black shadow sneakily pushed the door and entered. The camp was designed similarly to the Korean military's old camp. There was a path in the middle with beds on both sides. It was designed to maximize the number of inhabitants within a small space.

There were 50 people with greasy hair and mustaches sleeping under a dirty blanket. The assassin had come, but the guard was sleeping with his head between his knees. Even then, he had a firm grip on his AK rifle.

Black Mamba looked down at the different types of snoring terrorists. Why were they suffering here? They were sons, husbands, and fathers. Were their religious beliefs strong enough for them to abandon their families?

No. They were rattlesnake offspring. They were humans who would spit venom everywhere once their training ended. Some people were hopelessly dragged around like Jamal, but there wasn't enough time or any way to pick out the rotten apples.

I'm not a gentleman or a judge. I am the Azrael, the eraser. I wish you all well.

Black Mamba attached a C-4 set under their beds and created a self-exploding device. The device was a set that combined a detonator and a timer. All he had to do was add the C-4's to a medium and connect them. It only took him six seconds to add the two together.

It took him five seconds to infiltrate the first camp. The setting time had taken six seconds, and there were 10 targets. He needed 110 seconds in total.

He allocated 600 seconds to get through the ammunition storage room, weapons storage room, the headquarters, and the training centers. He estimated 300 seconds to find the headquarters' entrance and 30 seconds to escape. He needed 1,040 seconds altogether. The timer was set to 1,040 seconds. His watch was also set to 1,040 seconds.

He planned to direct his resonance with accurate travel and preparation time. If explosions overlapped, even 25 kilograms of powder could blow up the entire camp.

Would it work? Explosives weren't his specialty. He wasn't confident. He recalled the explosives masters, Mouris, Chartres, and Burimer. They were strong, responsible friends. He shook his head and concentrated on his work.

Black Mamba faced an unexpected obstacle during his mechanical set-up. There were five tent camps, the 24-person tents that the Americans had used in the field during WWII.

He recalled the Horazan that the Shire b*stard had mentioned. They were those b*stards. He was confused and didn't understand why so many people wanted to become terrorists.

They're the b*stards who'll attack public places randomly, right? I'll end you all. If you die, you won't suffer the pain of being grilled into a crisp. Aren't you grateful?

Black Mamba's eyes burned intensely as he took out Zaitun's Peskett CCW. He hadn't known that he would be using such an ugly assassination weapon. However, there was no reason not to flaunt his abilities when he had the best weapon available.

Ruman—the place that started the traditions of assassins and suicide terrorisms in the Arabic regions—was greeted by the true assassin, the king of assassins. The Horazan, which was about to be known as the worst terrorist organization, encountered the Angel of Death even before it could advance.

You guys make your decisions, and I will make mine. Teacher, forgive your apprentice.

When he pressed the lower button on the handle, a blue-tinted tooth-like knife appeared. The tip of its blade, which had the strongest poison, botulinum toxin, gleamed ominously. It was the moment when Horazan's misfortune and the DIA's failure came to be.