The blood of Zahedi seemed to still cling deep inside his nostrils, not yet dissipated.
Seven days had passed since that night filled with despairing gunshots.
Seven days, enough for the tense atmosphere on the streets of Tehran to slightly relax, enough for some to begin forgetting, but for Song Heping, time was merely a measure of the healing wound and the pendulum counting down to the start of his revenge plan.
This morning, he stood in a secret underground shooting range at an army base, practicing his shooting.
A gun is like a wife, if you don't use it, you'll surely become unfamiliar.
So Song Heping would practice shooting whenever he had the opportunity.
The air in the underground range was cold, filled with the familiar smell of gunpowder and engine oil.
In Song Heping's hands was a well-maintained M4 carbine, fitted with a silencer and a simple red dot sight.
He used a standard standing shooting stance, and his target was a 100-meter torso silhouette.
