67: Chapter 67 How come she's two sizes bigger?

The Land Cruiser crushed the last clump of bushes, and the view exploded open.

Li Li was pinned to his seat.

At the end of the gravel road, a patch of leveled red earth stretched to the coastline. Two intersecting asphalt runways spanned the entire flat area, with runway markings in standard NATO specifications—white background with red edges.

On both sides of the runway, Black Hawk helicopters and F/A-18 "Super Hornets" were lined up inside and outside steel-structured hangars.

Above the guard post at the main runway entrance, a flag fluttered in the sea breeze.

The Stars and Stripes.

A U.S. military base.

Masirah Island. Territory of the Sultanate of Oman. It was no secret that the U.S. military had a forward deployment point here, but a covert field airfield of this scale—was absolutely not in any public records.

Then again.

A U.S. military base was better than a Mossad black site.

At least the Americans followed protocol. They read you your rights before hitting you and handed you a cup of coffee before an interrogation.

Civilized. Very civilized.

The Land Cruiser slowed down and drove onto the side road at the edge of the runway. Ahead was a simple fence gate with sandbag bunkers nearby, and two U.S. soldiers wearing multi-terrain camouflage were holding M4s.

Delia pulled out a dark brown leather wallet and flipped it open. An ID with a photo, printed in both Hebrew and English at the bottom.

The U.S. soldier leaned over to take a look, then looked at Delia's face again.

Two seconds.

The barrier arm rose.

They didn't say a word the whole time. They didn't check under the car, didn't search the trunk, and didn't ask the passengers in the back to show ID.

The Land Cruiser drove past the barrier and headed deeper into the base along the side road.

Delia stuffed the ID holder back into her pocket, steering with one hand.

"Mr. Li."

"Hmm."

"What you said last time... that the Chinese invented three hundred ways to die for a pig."

Li Li twisted his wrists slightly within the zip ties.

"I did say that."

"Sweet and sour pork ribs." Delia's pronunciation in Arabic became very slow, popping out syllable by syllable, "Sweet, sour, ribs. Right?"

"Right."

"And that... what was it called? Twice-cooked... something?"

"Twice-cooked pork."

"Twice-cooked pork." Delia repeated it, her pronunciation so absurd that it made Li Li suspect her tongue was tied in a knot, "Pork belly, sliced, garlic sprouts, broad bean paste. I looked it up."

"You're a spy, what did you use to look it up? Wikipedia?"

"YouTube." Delia stared at the runway ahead, "There's a blogger from the East, he makes one dish per episode. I've watched thirty-seven episodes. I liked the twelfth one the best, he roasted a whole suckling pig. I watched it four times."

An Omani princess, a Israel spy, half-Muslim, watching East Asian pork cooking videos in a Middle East war zone.

Surreal.

"You'll have a chance to taste it," Li Li said.

Delia tapped her fingers on the steering wheel.

"I hope so."

The three words were so soft they were mostly drowned out by the sound of the engine.

Li Li didn't respond.

But he could hear the weight in those three words.

It wasn't just being polite.

There was some other emotion.

The Land Cruiser turned past the fuel depot and stopped in front of a two-story prefabricated office building. It had desert-colored exterior walls and blast-proof film on the windows. Two jeeps and a Humvee were parked at the entrance.

The iron door of the office building pushed open.

Four people walked out. Three men and one woman. Dark casual clothes, light tactical vests, holsters strapped to their right hips.

Not U.S. military.

Their skin tone, facial features, gait—Israel people.

Li Li's back muscles tensed for a split second.

Mossad.

Mossad personnel coming and going freely on a U.S. military base. This wasn't just borrowing the facility; it was a joint operation.

The two countries most capable of causing trouble, crammed onto one small island.

Damn.

The leader was a bald man in his early forties, with broad shoulders and a low center of gravity when walking—a professional habit of being ready to turn sideways and draw his weapon at any moment.

"Delia."

The bald man greeted her in Hebrew, with the relaxed tone of a superior to a subordinate.

Delia turned off the engine and got out.

"Malcolm."

Malcolm leaned over and looked into the back seat through the window.

Li Li locked eyes with him for a second.

Malcolm's gaze shifted from Li Li to his zip-tied hands, then to Jiang Rumu, who was sitting next to him with her eyes closed.

"Is this the internet celebrity from the East?" In Hebrew.

"And his partner. They are together."

"Bring them up. The boss is waiting."

Delia shook her head.

"Not yet." She tilted her chin toward the back seat, "Hands tied, middle of nowhere, surrounded by your people and U.S. soldiers. Where could they possibly run? Swim back to the East?"

Malcolm thought about it.

The logic held up.

"Fine. Come up with me first. The boss flew in specifically from Tel Aviv for this trip; he wants to see you in person."

Delia nodded.

She followed the four people toward the office building for three steps.

Stopped.

"Wait a second."

She turned around and walked back to the Land Cruiser.

The four Mossad agents looked back at her but didn't stop her.

Delia walked around to the passenger side and opened the rear door.

Jiang Rumu's head swayed as it lost the support of the door. Her eyelashes were trembling slightly—she was already awake.

Delia bent down.

She reached her hands behind her neck and unclasped a necklace.

Amethyst.

A teardrop-shaped pendant, an extremely thin silver chain, the silver at the clasp worn shiny from years of wear.

She hung the necklace around Jiang Rumu's neck.

The silver chain closed, and the amethyst fell onto the collar of the dirty red dress, the cold metal touching her skin.

Jiang Rumu opened her eyes.

Delia crouched in front of her, less than twenty centimeters away.

"Sorry."

One word, in English.

Jiang Rumu looked at her, her just-awakened eyes lingering on Delia's face for two seconds.

Delia didn't say a second word.

She stood up and turned to Li Li.

The two of them locked eyes across half the cabin.

Delia's expression was complex—not a smile, but something indescribable that flashed by.

Then she turned and left.

Her cargo pant legs were tucked into old military boots, her ponytail swayed twice in the sea breeze, and she followed the four people into the office building. The iron door closed behind her.

Bang.

On the gravel beach, only one Toyota Land Cruiser with the engine off remained.

One tied-up man.

One woman with an extra amethyst necklace around her neck.

Jiang Rumu moved.

She straightened up and leaned back against the seat. Her red dress was crumpled into a ball, her hair was a mess, and there were dried tear stains on her face. But her eyes were completely clear.

She looked down at the amethyst.

Then she looked up.

"That woman..."

Her voice was still hoarse, each word carrying the texture of sandpaper.

Li Li waited for her to finish.

Jiang Rumu stared at the tightly shut iron door of the office building and tilted her head.

"How did her chest... get so much bigger overnight?"

Li Li's movement of twisting his left wrist stalled for a half-beat.

He looked at Jiang Rumu.

Jiang Rumu looked at him.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm serious." Jiang Rumu brushed her messy hair behind her ear, "At the banquet last night, she was wearing that gown, I saw it very clearly. At most a B. Just now, when she bent down to put the necklace on me, I was facing right at it—"

She gestured.

"At least two sizes bigger."

Li Li's brain "buzzed."

He suddenly remembered that he had previously called Delia a flat-chested princess. Delia's bust size had exploded by two sizes overnight, and she was wearing a loose T-shirt and cargo pants.

And then she walked into a building.

In that building was a high-ranking Mossad official who had flown in specifically from Tel Aviv. And under his butt, deep in the crevice of the seat, that hard metal protrusion—was still there.

"When you know what to do—you have two minutes. Run in the direction of the sun. Take her with you. Don't look back."

Li Li looked up at the second-floor window of the office building.

The curtains were drawn. He couldn't see anything.

He looked down at the angle of the morning light shining through the car window.

The sun was in the east.

To the east was the coastline.

On the coastline was parked—

"Boom!"

The entire second floor of the office building exploded.

It wasn't gunfire.

It was an explosion.

The shockwave blew off the blast-proof film from all the second-floor windows, and shattered glass and debris from the prefabricated boards sprayed thirty meters outward. Fireballs poured out of the windows, and thick smoke wrapped in tongues of flame shot straight into the sky.

The Land Cruiser's body swayed from the air blast.

Jiang Rumu was jolted upward, hitting the back of the front seat.

The back of Li Li's head knocked against the car window.

Tinnitus.

Persistent, sharp tinnitus.

The second floor was no longer a second floor; half of the reinforced concrete floor had collapsed, and fire was leaping out from the gap.

Li Li lowered his head.

Under his butt.

The seat crevice.

His fingers stretched in that direction, limited by the zip ties—this time no one said "it's not time yet."

His fingertips touched cold metal.

A folding knife.