bookrebus Chapter 1089 I shielded you behind me, and you still blame me? That doesn't make sense.
Chapter 1089 I shielded you behind me, and you still blame me? That doesn't make sense.
The sound of something cutting through the air was sharp, like an arrow aimed at their souls, shooting out from the sea of fire behind them and piercing straight into their backs.
Uncle Jin had estimated the weapon's kill radius, which perfectly covered their running route, leaving them with no way to avoid it.
At the critical moment, there was not a moment's hesitation.
Faced with the survival instinct ingrained in the bones of the infiltrators, all distracting thoughts are instantly crushed.
Uncle Jin suddenly exerted force with his feet, his previously low-profile figure suddenly accelerated, and he darted to Miller's side in one step. Before Miller could react, he grabbed Miller by the back of his collar and, with an explosive force completely inconsistent with Uncle Jin's thin physique, yanked him hard behind him.
The movements were swift and precise, without the slightest error, just like the big yellow dough that the silly boy had rubbed.
(A string of characters floats across the big yellow screen: Woof woof woof?)
next second.
Boom!
Flames exploded behind them.
A violent shockwave carrying shrapnel and debris swept across the area, but Miller's body blocked most of the fatal impacts, killing him instantly.
Uncle Jin was violently thrown by the remaining blast wave, crashing heavily against the concrete wall of the air-raid shelter before sliding to the ground.
The scorching heat scorched off half of his hair, and flying shards and shrapnel pierced his limbs. The excruciating pain overwhelmed him like a tidal wave, and a metallic taste instantly filled his mouth.
In the split second before his vision went black, a thoughtless one flashed through his mind:
Is this considered a frontline rescue?
The Jin family members are truly heroes and great men at heart...
Should I apply for a Congressional Medal?
In the final moment before his vision went black, he seemed to hear a voice from the void—probably Miller, whose soul had already wandered to the underworld, gritting his teeth:
"You motherfucking son of a bitch! You call this noble? You dare to call this noble?"
That's your idea of a cover?
What kind of son of a hero would use people as human shields? Fuck you! Fuck your goddamn noble! I'll be watching you from hell, you piece of trash, and I'll drag you down with me to be buried with you sooner or later!
Uncle Jin remained calm and composed:
I did protect you behind me. It's just that the explosion happened behind me.
You can say I misjudged.
But you can never say that my actions were not honorable.
Besides, this area is under the jurisdiction of King Yama. You, who can't speak the language, can slowly go and reincarnate into the animal realm...
Meat shield, in place.
It wasn't luck. It was calculation.
He was only seriously injured. Not KIA.
enough.
"Mr. Jin?" The nurse's gentle voice abruptly pulled him back to reality.
Uncle Jin slowly opened his eyes, and the sharpness in his eyes faded like the tide, returning him to his weak and tired state.
The nurse checked the IV line and said softly, "Please rest well and don't worry too much. A good rest might bring you a pleasant surprise!"
The door was gently closed.
The ward fell silent once again.
Uncle Kim slowly calmed his breathing, his thoughts returning to his interactions with the local CIA in Phnom Penh.
That was the night he finalized the report on the Xiangjiang Operation. When the people at the CIA liaison station in Phnom Penh learned that his plan to intercept the Taiwan Special Fund had a very high probability of success, they were all like they had been injected with chicken blood, and they insisted on holding a welcome party for him in the embassy district of Phnom Penh.
After all, the leader cut one-fifth of the CIA's budget, with the Asia region being the hardest hit; the sites below were already struggling to make ends meet.
Phnom Penh Station is on the very edge of the world, so much so that they have to be stingy with even the activity funds for their informants. Now that they see a glimmer of hope in getting a share of the Taiwan Special Fund, they are naturally doing everything they can to curry favor with the head of Far East intelligence.
Whiskey, gin, and local murky beer quickly created a lively atmosphere. After a few drinks, secrets and complaints started to spill out like bubbles bursting from a bottle.
After all, secret agents are human too, and everyone wants to confide in someone.
The initial information was unremarkable.
"Jin, do you know what's going on in Battambang?" A bearded intelligence officer leaned closer and whispered, "One of our informants suddenly disappeared last month. Nowhere to be seen, neither alive nor dead, but then he reappeared this week—dressed impeccably, and driving a brand new Peugeot. When we asked him where he'd been, he said he went on a pilgrimage to Angkor Wat. A pilgrimage? Was that suit a gift from Jayavarman VII in a dream?"
A bald, middle-aged man next to him scoffed, "That's nothing. What I'm dealing with is even worse—the deputy director of the Phnom Penh police station, whom we've been cultivating, was suddenly transferred to manage files last month. The new guy is completely unresponsive and even threatened to crack down on 'foreigners' shady dealings.' Damn it, before, you could just make an arrest at a casino in the middle of the night with a single phone call; now, even checking a license plate requires going through procedures, procedures! By the time the approval comes through, it's too late."
"Tch, at least you guys can follow the procedures. On my side, even my local informants have run away—not because they were poached, but because they thought our stipends were too low, so they switched to being foremen at the French rubber plantations. Foremen! They earn more in a month than I get reimbursed for cigarettes in a year!" The bearded man took a big gulp of liquor, his face full of grief and indignation.
Another person came over, looking miserable, and complained about how the Cambodian Royal Cambodian Army was utterly useless: "Director Jin, you don't know, these Cambodian officers can't do anything except embezzle military pay and resell the weapons and supplies we provide."
The special forces teams we trained, the guns we just issued were immediately sold on the black market on Cambodia's western border. Half of the American equipment in the hands of local left-wing armed groups came from these people!
Another person immediately chimed in, his tone full of disdain: "What's so special about that? The Cambodian royal family maintains diplomatic relations with us on the surface, but secretly keeps in touch with northern Vietnam. Not long ago, someone even saw his special envoy secretly meeting with Chinese officials in Bangkok. Only those idiots sitting in their offices at headquarters actually think they can hold the line against opposition in Southeast Asia with these people."
Some people, fueled by alcohol, grumbled about the mess on the Thai-Cambodian border: "It's even more chaotic in Siam. The right-wing forces we support are fighting the left-wing guerrillas every day. The border checkpoints are all useless. Weapons, personnel, and drugs are flowing freely. Headquarters is urging us every day to cut off the supply lines of the local left-wing armed groups. With this mess, how can we cut them off?"
Jin Wumai had already obtained all this information through his own channels. He held his wine glass, a formulaic smile on his face, nodding occasionally in agreement, but inwardly he found it all rather uninteresting.
It's all just trivial, mundane stuff from Cambodia, with absolutely no valuable information.
Just as he was finding the party boring and was about to leave early, a middle-aged man in the corner who had been drinking silently and not saying much suddenly started cursing. His voice wasn't loud, but it went straight into Uncle Jin's ears.
"...Damn it, those people at headquarters are a bunch of useless idiots! They're always focused on this trivial stuff in Cambodia, and they completely ignore the really important stuff!"
Uncle Jin raised an eyebrow and looked at the man.
The man looked unfamiliar, probably in his fifties, with a thin face, sunken eyes, a wrinkled shirt, and a crooked tie. He exuded an air of despondency, as if he had given up on everything.
The person in charge at Phnom Penh Station was quick-witted. Seeing that Jin Wumai had become interested, he immediately leaned close to his ear and whispered a rapid introduction to the man's background.
This man, named Evans, originally worked in the CIA's Domestic Intelligence Division. Six months ago, he offended some superior and was unfairly treated, being transferred from Washington to Phnom Penh, Cambodia, a godforsaken place, where he became a marginalized figure with no one to care about him.
Evans seemed to hear their whispers and raised his glass with a self-deprecating laugh: "King, want to hear my story? Three years ago, I was still in the local precinct, making $20,000 a year, with a loving wife and obedient kids. And then..."
He let out a burp.
"Then she divorced me."