156: Chapter 156 Only the Dead Don't Change the Script

The shock absorber system of the off-road vehicle groaned on the washboard road of the Gobi Desert, sounding like it was about to fall apart.

The cabin was filled with the smell of blood, low-quality fuel, and the faint scent of disinfectant from Ares Industries' laboratories on Sophia.

"They originally planned to execute me tomorrow."

Sophia huddled in the corner of the back seat, clutching a half-empty bottle of mineral water, her knuckles white from the effort.

Her emerald-like eyes stared at the pitch-black wilderness outside the window, her voice hoarse as if she had swallowed a mouthful of sand.

"Using poison gas provided by a neighboring country—of course, it was planted there in advance by Ares Industries.

Then my corpse would have been dumped at the border, becoming an excuse for that crazy uncle to declare war on the neighboring country."

Chen Mo sat in the passenger seat, using a tactical knife to pry open the scab on his forearm that had already hardened, picking out a tiny piece of shrapnel.

"A perfect script."

He flicked the shrapnel out the window without even frowning.

"If I were a Hollywood screenwriter, I'd give Robert an award.

For less than ten million dollars, he could trigger a two-hundred-billion-dollar arms order.

The return on investment is much higher than drug trafficking."

"Do you only care about money?"

Sophia turned her head sharply, her eyes filled with the indignation and humiliation typical of royalty.

"Your Highness, I don't sell misery; I sell services."

Chen Mo pulled a military tablet from his backpack, which he had snatched from that unlucky supervisor at Ares Industries.

He turned the screen around to face Sophia.

"The current situation is that the aircraft carrier strike group of the US Fifth Fleet has already left the Bahrain base, citing 'maintaining regional stability.'

If we don't do something, by the time the sun rises tomorrow, even if you are alive, this war will be set in stone.

After all, living people can also be 'coerced.'"

Chen Mo tapped the screen a few times, bringing up the recording mode.

"Do you want to survive? Do you want to take back your crown?"

Chen Mo aimed the lens at Sophia's pale, dirt-streaked, yet still exquisite face.

"Then cry.

Look into the lens and repeat what you just told me, using the most desperate, terrified tone of your life.

Remember to mention that company that treated you like a lab rat, and your dear uncle."

Sophia was stunned.

"Right here? In this broken car?"

"Realism, Your Highness.

The audience doesn't need holograms; they need to see dust, blood, and genuine fear."

Chen Mo tossed her a blood-stained piece of gauze.

"Wipe your face, but don't wipe it too clean.

Start."

Ten minutes later.

An encrypted video was sent directly to Jack Martin's safe house server in New York via the independent satellite link of Legacy Defense.

Almost simultaneously, this video exploded like a virus across major global social media platforms, dark web forums, and the internal email accounts of The Pentagon.

In the video, the long-missing oil princess was in rags, with the still-burning secret laboratory of Ares Industries in the background.

She tearfully accused Ares Industries of kidnapping her and attempting to manufacture a false-flag operation to trigger a war.

The direction of public opinion shifted.

The CNN pundits who had been clamoring for 'military intervention' shut their mouths.

Politicians in Washington began frantically making calls to verify intelligence.

The aircraft carrier strike group that was sailing at full speed received orders to stand by.

Chen Mo closed the computer, looked at the curve of Ares Industries' stock price on the screen, which had plummeted off a cliff, and lit a cigarette with satisfaction.

"Alright, Robert's script has been torn up by me."

He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes looking through the rearview mirror at the pitch-black horizon behind them.

There, several blinding headlights were biting into the night like mad dogs, approaching rapidly.

"But he seems to intend to change the ending—by writing me into the script as a corpse, too."

Nightingale slammed the steering wheel, and the off-road vehicle drifted around a sand dune, its tires kicking up a sky full of yellow sand.

"Boss, the radar shows three 'Big Raven' drones have locked onto us.

Following behind is the 'Sandstorm' mercenary group."

Nightingale's voice remained calm, but the veins on her arm holding the steering wheel were bulging.

"That is the most expensive Cleaner in the Middle East, all retired SAS (Special Air Service) members."

"SAS?"

Chen Mo stubbed out the cigarette butt on the dashboard, a cold smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"What a coincidence, I specialize in curing all kinds of special forces."

He pointed to the blinking coordinate point on the navigation map.

"Drive toward two o'clock.

That's an abandoned ancient castle left over from the Crusades.

Since they want to play cat and mouse, I'll pick a good graveyard for them."

The ancient castle was nothing more than broken walls and ruins; the severely weathered stone walls stood in the center of the desert like rows of jagged, rotten teeth.

The wind grew stronger.

According to the perception of the [Desert Survival Expert], a sandstorm was approaching.

For Chen Mo, this was a natural hunting ground.

"Hide the car behind that wall and siphon the fuel from the tank."

Chen Mo jumped out of the car and nimbly commanded the twelve veterans.

They didn't say a word, quickly occupying the high ground and blind spots for shooting.

Sophia was stuffed into a relatively sheltered grotto.

She looked at the man, who was wearing an expensive suit yet skillfully stuffing C4 explosives into the cracks of the stones, and couldn't help asking: "Do you intend to stop them with these stones?"

"Stones can't stop bullets."

Chen Mo buried a tripwire in the sand and dusted off his hands.

"But fear can."

Rumble— The roar of engines overwhelmed the sound of the wind.

Five modified heavy Humvees surrounded the ancient castle like steel beasts.

The searchlights on the roofs illuminated the ruins as bright as day.

"Listen up, people inside!"

A voice-modulated male voice came from the loudspeaker, carrying arrogance and bloodlust.

"I am the Commander of 'Sandstorm,' Poison Scorpion.

Hand over that woman, and I can give you a quick end.

Otherwise, I will peel your skin off and hang it on an oil derrick to air-dry."

The response to him was a crisp gunshot.

Bang!

The loudspeaker exploded instantly, and the crackle of electricity sounded particularly harsh in the night sky.

Chen Mo leaned behind a stone pillar, the muzzle of the Barrett in his hand still emitting blue smoke.

"Too much talk."

He pulled the bolt, chambered a new armor-piercing incendiary round, and said, "Nightingale, lights out."

The veterans who had been lying in ambush pulled their triggers simultaneously.

They didn't shoot at the enemy, but at the searchlights on top of those Humvees.

The sound of shattering glass connected into one.

The ancient castle instantly plunged back into darkness.

"Attack! Blow this pile of broken stones to the ground!"

Poison Scorpion's roar rang out.

Several RPG rockets whistled over, trailing smoke, and smashed into the stone wall, sending stone chips flying.

Dozens of heavily armed mercenaries, aided by the firelight, advanced toward the ancient castle in a tactical formation.

Their movements were professional and their coordination was seamless; they were obviously not the kind of militia that only knew how to shoot wildly.

But the moment they stepped into the ruins of the ancient castle, the wind direction changed.

The sky-filling yellow sand pressed over like a wall, and visibility instantly dropped to within five meters.

"Everyone, turn on thermal imaging!"

Poison Scorpion shouted in the communication channel.

However, the screen was a blur.

The rocks here had absorbed plenty of heat during the day and released it at night, appearing like clusters of burning ghost fires on the thermal imager, making it impossible to distinguish where the stones were and where the people were.

"Welcome to my home field."

Chen Mo's voice seemed to come from all directions.

He didn't use a gun.

In this sky-filling yellow sand, the muzzle flash would expose his position.

He pulled out the tactical hunting knife he had seized from the "Butcher," and his whole body slid silently down the ruined wall like a gecko.

A mercenary was holding an HK416, searching the corner cautiously.

Suddenly, a hand reached out from the sand and grabbed his ankle.

Before he could scream, Chen Mo had erupted from the sand, the blade precisely severing the tactical communication wire on his neck and incidentally slitting his throat.

Blood gushed out and was instantly swallowed by the wind and sand.

[Killed elite mercenary, obtained temporary status: Adrenaline Intensification (10 minutes).]

The system prompt flashed through his mind.

Chen Mo didn't stop; he backhanded the rifle that was about to fall from the corpse and fired a burst into the fog two meters behind him.

Pfft, pfft!

Two muffled sounds.

Another mercenary trying to flank him was shot in the forehead and fell straight down.

"Over there! Nine o'clock direction!"

Dense bullets swept over like pouring water, causing stone chips to fly everywhere.

But there was no one there anymore.

Chen Mo used the [Desert Survival Expert]'s perception of the terrain to shuttle through the gaps in the ruins like a ghost.

Every place he passed, he took a life.

He wasn't fighting; he was hunting.

Trip mines blew off the mercenaries' thighs, and the pre-set "oil drum traps" burned three guys trying to charge into human torches.

Screams, explosions, and the sound of the wind mixed together, plunging this self-proclaimed "ace" mercenary group into complete panic.

"He's above! He's above!"

A mercenary pointed in horror at a broken beam overhead.

Chen Mo was indeed there.

He looked down at them like a flock of lambs waiting to be slaughtered.

He held a compound bow—a trophy brought from McLean's hunting grounds.

Twang!

The bowstring vibrated.

A special explosive arrow whistled down and nailed into the mercenary's chest.

Boom!

Flesh and blood flew everywhere.

In just ten minutes, only fewer than five were left of the thirty-man elite squad.

Poison Scorpion finally collapsed.

He had never seen such a fighting style.

The opponent didn't seem like a human, but more like a monster born from this desert itself.

"Retreat! Retreat!"

Poison Scorpion shouted while running wildly toward the command vehicle parked on the outermost perimeter.

He opened the car door and was about to start the engine when he felt a cold, hard object pressed against the back of his head.

"Nice car."

Chen Mo sat in the shadows of the back seat, the M1911 in his hand pressed against Poison Scorpion's brainstem, while his other hand toyed with the encrypted communicator torn from Poison Scorpion's chest.

"But did you forget to buy insurance?"

Bang!

He didn't give Poison Scorpion any chance to beg for mercy.

The bullet pierced his skull, and blood splattered the windshield.

Chen Mo kicked the corpse out of the car and picked up the communicator that was still flashing a red light.

A frantic call came through.

Although the signal was interfered with by the wind and sand, the unique, aged voice with a Washington accent could still be heard clearly.

"Poison Scorpion! Report the situation! Is that damn Chinese dead yet? Make sure to dispose of the body cleanly; don't let the media film that it's our people..."

The cold smile on Chen Mo's face froze for a moment, then slowly expanded into the ecstasy of a hunter seeing prey caught in a trap.

He was too familiar with this voice.

Just dozens of hours ago, the owner of this voice was still in a private club in Washington, chatting and laughing with him, signing a two-billion-dollar drone order.

General Marshall.

The top Commander of The Pentagon's Special Operations Command.

So, this snake had two heads.

Chen Mo pressed the talk button, his voice as calm as if he were chatting with an old friend.

"Good evening, General.

How is the weather in Washington right now?"

The other end of the communicator fell into dead silence.

After a full five seconds, Marshall's slightly trembling voice came through.

"... Chen?"

"It's me."

Chen Mo looked at the wind and sand gradually subsiding outside the car window, as well as the littered corpses on the ground.

"Your Cleaner's craftsmanship is too sloppy; they didn't sweep clean.

But it doesn't matter, I've already helped you dispose of them all.

Don't mention it, this is the after-sales value-added service of 'Legacy Defense'."

"Chen, listen to me explain, this..."

"Shh."

Chen Mo interrupted him, his finger tapping lightly on the recording button of the communicator.

"Don't ruin the atmosphere, General.

This recording is very clear.

If it's put on CNN's evening news, or sent to those political rivals of yours, I think your pension might be in jeopardy."

"... What do you want?"

Marshall's voice aged ten years in an instant; the majesty of being in a high position vanished.

"I don't want much."

Chen Mo watched Sophia walking out of the grotto in the distance; that woman was looking at him with an expression bordering on worship.

"I want a new script.

An ending that satisfies everyone."