Seven days later.
Sunset in Beirut always comes particularly quickly.
Song Heping stood behind a rusty container at the port, watching the sunset dye the Mediterranean blood-red.
The salty sea breeze, mixed with the smell of diesel, hit his face, and his wound started to ache again.
The gunshot wound on his right chest had almost healed. After all, it wasn't a serious injury; although the armor-piercing bullet broke through the bulletproof vest, it didn't penetrate his lung—a mere flesh wound.
Jiang Feng leaned against the container beside him, their positions allowing them to see behind each other, forming a cross-vision—typical guard stance.
"Ten more minutes," Song Heping glanced at his watch, "the 'Ghost' should be arriving soon."
Jiang Feng nodded, vigilantly observing their surroundings.
The port was noisy. Cranes roared, cargo ships blared their horns, and workers shouted loudly in Arabic.
