One-on-One

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War is not a matter of courtesy, where a favor must be repaid in kind, nor is it as straightforward as repaying a debt. War is a game, and its only stakes are life and death.

Gazing through the pale green lens of his scope, Li Changjiang meticulously swept his field of vision again and again, searching every corner he could see. He knew well enough that his opponent was doing the same. In a duel between true marksmen, there was little need for cunning or trickery—especially not in a one-on-one sniper’s standoff like this.

Numbers flickered incessantly on the display, and at the bottom, in the section marked “effective firing range,” there remained only a single number: 50.

At a range of 50 meters, Li Changjiang was confident he could kill anything that appeared within his sight.

“Damn, missed!”

In a building less than fifty meters from Li Changjiang, behind purple and black striped curtains, a white man shook his fist in frustration.

“Han, calm down!”

“Cunning man from China, he actually slipped away.”

The man called Han raised his sniper rifle again, crouching behind the curtains to observe the scene below. From his vantage point, he had a commanding view, able to catch even the slightest movement on the ground, yet he couldn’t spot any trace of his Chinese adversary through the scope.

Damn it! Where did he go?

Li Changjiang, too, had failed to spot his opponent’s position. The shooter was clearly a veteran; the moment Li had entered firing position, the other had given nothing away. From the trigger’s pull to the return to silence, the enemy had fired four shots in total. The first Li had dodged, the second had struck Louis, and the third and fourth had both missed.

Now, it was a contest of endurance.

But Li Changjiang was certain his opponent would be forced to expose himself first. The reason was simple: Williams and the others were still down below. The enemy couldn’t keep his attention fixed solely on Li.

“Boss, we should make a move,” Lin Tao suggested.

Bob seemed to see the same opportunity. Williams and his men glanced around, uncertain whether the enemy was alone or if there were others lying in wait, ready to pick them off the moment they made a move.

“Tim, do you see anything?”

“No! No movement at all.”

Time ticked by slowly.

Li Changjiang’s left arm, supporting the rifle, began to go numb. Maintaining this posture for so long would have been impossible if not for his sheer force of will.

Both sides waited.

Meanwhile, back in the military camp near the western edge of Benghazi—

As they moved deeper toward the heart of the camp, the atmosphere grew ever more tense and foreboding. In a small courtyard on the eastern side, gun-toting rebel soldiers stood at the ready, their vigilance clear—this was obviously a place of great importance.

Barty frowned.

This was no ordinary spot; it was a prison, one converted from an old cellar.

Slap! Slap!

“Speak! Where is Kazzafi?”

“Pah!”

“That’s enough. Let him go.”

“Yes, General.”

The man in plain white clothing was none other than Abel Doussevance, the officer in charge of the camp and, for now, the second-in-command of the Libyan rebel military.

The man who had been lashed nearly beyond recognition was the prisoner the Eagle-Lion Squad had captured in Tripoli.

As for his true identity, they neither knew nor cared.

Walking along the dim, yellow-lit corridor into the interrogation room, Barty’s expression was tinged with suspicion. As a former member of the US Navy Special Forces, he knew all too well what purpose such corridors served.

That the Libyans had built such a heavily guarded prison here meant they were holding someone of extreme importance. Libya’s situation was precarious; despite Western support, the rebels fought with little distinction. Barty was confident he could carry out an assassination mission if he chose.

But he hadn’t forgotten his role as a mercenary. To him, war was nothing more than a way to make money.

“Good day, Mr. Barty.”

“General Abel, I doubt you’ve brought me here just for a friendly chat.”

Barty was wary of Abel’s intentions. Libyans, after all, were not known for their warmth.

“Of course. I know, Mr. Barty, that you have maintained certain ties with the United States Marine Corps, isn’t that so?”

Abel gestured, and the soldiers behind him withdrew, standing at a distance to prevent eavesdropping.

Barty’s eyes flickered at this. That information was highly confidential—how could Abel know?

“No need to worry. I may not care for Americans, but you’re different, Mr. Barty. We are partners, are we not?”

Lighting a cigarette, Abel walked over to the table, poured two glasses of red wine, and handed one to Barty. The two clinked glasses gently.

“I need weapons—large quantities. Rifles, rocket launchers, even anti-tank guns and surface-to-air missiles, plus copious grenades. Price is no object. If you can get me these, I can guarantee you’ll make more money than you could ever spend in a lifetime.”

Abel spoke with almost casual indifference.

Barty found himself tempted.

He knew well enough that arms and drugs were the most lucrative trades in the world, but such things were never as simple as they seemed. Smuggling small amounts of equipment didn’t faze him, but the “large quantities” Abel mentioned must amount to a truly staggering number.

Of course, the profits would be equally immense.

Still, he hesitated.

“Mr. Barty, perhaps you could introduce me to Colonel Sloan,” Abel suggested.

This time, Barty truly lost his composure.

His dealings with Sloan were deeply secret, virtually impossible for anyone to know about. Clearly, Abel had some information in hand.

“General Abel, since you already know about Colonel Sloan, perhaps I can arrange an introduction. But you must realize, American weapons are nothing like the Russian ones—they’re not so easily found.”

“Of course. American weapons are the finest I’ve ever seen,” Abel said with an exaggerated thumbs-up. Who could guess what he really thought?

“Mr. Abel, I also have a piece of free intelligence for you. I wonder if you’re interested.”

Barty was sure Abel would be pleased with the news he’d brought.

“Let’s hear it.”

“I’ve heard that the Eagle-Lion mercenary squad has a new Chinese member. But from what I know, this Chinese man isn’t actually a mercenary; he’s come to Benghazi looking for someone. Who exactly, only they would know. Most importantly, this Chinese man appears to be an active-duty soldier.”

“A Chinese?” Abel gave Barty a meaningful look.

He wasn’t concerned with the conflict between Caesar and Eagle-Lion—let them fight and he’d profit from the chaos. But this news from Barty genuinely intrigued him.

A Chinese? And a soldier, no less?

What was he doing in Libya?