Chapter 1960 - 1431: The Feast at Hongmen (3)_2

Pressure.

Invisible pressure surged in from all directions. This wasn't a naked threat, but a subtler kind of "consensus" coercion inside the circle—we all think this is good, so why don't you agree?

You're not one of us.

Song Heping's gaze slowly swept across every face.

Robbin's eagerness, Curtis's composure, Blake's brute force, Hansen's calm, Old Tom's affability, Marco's smile.

Behind those expressions, each had their own calculations.

He suddenly laughed, picked up his napkin and wiped the corner of his mouth. "I appreciate everyone's kind intentions. But I already have a plan for handling this batch of sensitive hardware."

Robbin was taken aback. "What plan?"

"Use it myself," Song Heping said. "Or sell it to clients personally vetted by me, absolutely reliable. The Stinger Missiles can be deployed at several of my key sites for air defense. My team also needs the loitering munitions and drones. As for the excess…"

He looked at Curtis.

"Mr. Curtis, if you're interested, I can sell you some less sensitive stuff. Rifles, machine guns, mortars, Gustav Recoilless Cannons, even armored vehicles stripped of fire-control systems and sensitive components—everything is negotiable. Prices are flexible."

The atmosphere in the private room instantly cooled.

The smile on Curtis's face faded a little. He slowly closed that black notebook and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Mr. Song, I have no interest in those conventional weapons. My clients want the premium goods."

"Then there's nothing I can do." Song Heping shrugged. "The premium goods, I have to keep for myself."

Robbin finally couldn't keep his face straight.

He set down his wine glass, a chill creeping into his voice. "Song, that's not playing fair. Back in the day we reached an understanding right here—agreed we'd make money together and negotiate how to split the profits. Now you swallow 2.5 billion worth of stock by yourself and won't even let us sip the soup? And we're helping you solve a problem!"

"Helping me?" Song Heping looked at him, his eyes sharpening. "Robbin, are you sure you're helping me, and not digging a pit for me?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Robbin's voice rose.

"It means this."

Song Heping slowly stood up, his gaze sweeping over everyone like a blade.

"If I agree today to sell the Stingers and loitering munitions to Mr. Curtis, then six months from now, or a year from now, these weapons show up in the hands of the Silia Government Army or some other anti-US outfit, and then 'just happen' to be discovered by US intelligence and traced back to me… At that point, who's coming to help me? You?"

He straightened, let out a cold laugh. "Or will you stand off to the side, watch me get blacklisted, see my business completely destroyed, and then… carve up the market and assets I leave behind?"

A dead silence.

For the first time, Curtis's expression changed. It was subtle, but Song Heping caught that fleeting flash of surprise.

Robbin's mouth twitched, Blake clenched his fists, Hansen furrowed his brows, Old Tom lowered his head, and Marco's smile vanished completely.

"Song, you're being too sensitive." Robbin forced himself to sound calm. "How could we do something like that? We're all friends…"

"Friends?"

Song Heping cut him off, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Robbin, back when I had the CIA biting at my heels, where were all you 'friends'? Who stepped up to say a word on my behalf? Who offered the slightest help? Nobody. You all stayed far away, afraid to get tainted by trouble. Now that you see I've got stock in hand, you come running out saying 'we're all friends'?"

He picked up his napkin, wiped his hands, then tossed it casually onto the table.

"Business is business. For conventional weapons, we can talk cooperation. Transport, warehousing, maintenance, training—these ancillary services, I can subcontract to the companies represented here. There's money, we can all make it together. But the sensitive hardware…"

He looked at Curtis, then at Robbin.

"Off the table. That's my bottom line."

With that, he turned to leave.

"Song!"

Robbin shot to his feet, his voice stripped of warmth, turning ice-cold.

"Think this through! The defense circle is very small! Walking out that door today and turning down this proposal means turning down everyone's goodwill! In the future, when you do business here and run into trouble, don't expect anyone to lend you a hand! We'll just watch you struggle alone!"

Blake also stood up, his tone hostile. "Song, don't fail to appreciate what's good for you."

Hansen didn't move, but his voice was frosty. "Song, win-win cooperation is the only long-term way. Eating alone never fattens you."

Old Tom and Marco said nothing, but their silence itself was a statement.

Song Heping stopped at the door without turning around.

"Goodwill?" He let out a soft laugh, openly mocking. "I can't afford your goodwill. As for the future…"

He turned his head slightly, catching in the corner of his eye those faces behind him, some angry, some sullen, some indifferent.

"My ability to stand here in this place doesn't come from your 'goodwill'. It never did, and it never will."

He pulled the door open and strode out.

The heavy wooden door closed behind him, shutting off the dead air in the private room and all those complicated looks.

The lighting in the corridor was soft, and the carpet swallowed all sound of footsteps.

Expressionless, Song Heping walked down the stairs, crossed the lobby, and stepped out of the standalone building.

The night wind blew cool against his face. He drew a deep breath, feeling some of the suffocating pressure in his chest dissipate.

The attendant respectfully pulled open the car door for him.

The Land Cruiser started up, rolled out of the Garden, exited the side gate of the Tulip Hotel, and rejoined the sparse nighttime traffic of the Green Zone.

Inside the car, Song Heping took out a satellite phone and dialed Jiang Feng.

"The talks collapsed," he said bluntly. "Inform the Mosul warehouse to go to maximum alert. Starting tonight, we may face pressure from multiple directions. Also, dig into every bit of Curtis's background. I want to know whose man he really is, and whether he has any links to Lemont."

"Understood." Jiang Feng's voice came through. "Old squad leader, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Song Heping stared out at the night streaming past the window. "Just confirmed one thing."

"What thing?"

"Here, we don't have friends. Only opponents, and temporary stakeholders."

He hung up and leaned back in his seat.

The lights of the Tulip Hotel receded in the rearview mirror, growing smaller, finally disappearing into the tangled maze of buildings in the Green Zone.

But everyone's expression at that banquet, and the subtext behind every word, were etched clearly in his mind.

Robbin's urgency, Curtis's composure, Blake's brute force, Hansen's scheming, Old Tom's hypocrisy, Marco's unfathomable depths.

And Lemont, who never appeared, yet whose Shadow hung over them the entire time.

What they wanted wasn't just a share of the pie.

They wanted him dead—or at the very least, wanted him completely out of the game.

That batch of sensitive hardware was just bait, a trap. If he bit down, the consequences would be catastrophic.

Refusal meant a frontal declaration of war.

Starting tonight, Black Water, Sparta, KBR, MVM—these giants deeply rooted in Iraq—would very likely join forces to squeeze his room for survival.

They controlled massive government contracts, logistics channels, and intelligence resources, and could even influence certain decisions inside the Illigo Government.

But Song Heping had no regrets.

Some bottom lines cannot be crossed.

Some traps cannot be stepped into. When you bargain with a tiger over its skin, you end up being eaten.

He opened his eyes, his gaze once again firm.

When the soldiers come, the general blocks; when the water rises, the earth dams.

Since he had chosen this road, he'd never expected it to be smooth.

That 2.5 billion in arms was both wealth and a powder keg.

Now, the fuse had already been lit.

He could hear the ticking of the timer.