0141 A Difficult Choice

Time was pressing. Gritting his teeth, Hou Rui scrambled to his feet, clutching his head as he dashed into a small building by the street. Before the joint forces' bullets could catch up with him, he quickly sprinted up to the second floor. Yet, upon reaching the wall of a room, Hou Rui froze—because the layout of this house was nothing like he had imagined.

It turned out that in Kismayo’s traditional architecture, most of these street-facing houses were standalone two- or three-story residences, without any connecting passages between them. So even though Hou Rui had reached the second floor, there was no way for him to circle around to the joint forces’ flank.

But Hou Rui was not one to give up easily. Besides, in such an urgent situation, there was no time to devise another plan. If he didn’t figure out a way to take out the enemy’s two machine guns immediately, not only would the mission be impossible to complete, but the swarm of joint forces soldiers downstairs would surely kill him on the spot.

Forced entry.

Determined, Hou Rui began to act. First, he slammed the butt of his rifle hard against the wall several times, moving sideways as he did. When he found a relatively thin spot, he raised his Type 64 rifle and started firing in circular sweeps against the wall.

To maximize bullet penetration, Hou Rui pressed the muzzle almost against the wall, so each bullet deeply embedded itself into the structure. Subsequent shots pierced even further, acting like a chisel to weaken the wall’s integrity.

“Rat-a-tat-tat”—a whole magazine emptied quickly. Without hesitation, Hou Rui swapped in another magazine and continued firing. When this one was spent as well, a basin-sized hole riddled with bullet marks had appeared in the wall.

With mounting urgency, Hou Rui began smashing the wall with the rifle butt again, prying loose large chunks of the weakened surface. Once the thin wall was finally breached, he withdrew his Type 92 pistol, discarded the empty Type 64 rifle, and slipped into the adjacent house next door.

Dirty and dust-covered, Hou Rui hurried to a window and peered out. On the street below, a joint forces pickup truck came into view.

However, even the best attack position was useless now, as Hou Rui only had his Type 92 pistol left—with just over a dozen rounds, what could he do? If he fired recklessly, the enemy would unleash a furious counterattack, and that would surely be his end.

“I need something... something that can kill a lot of soldiers,” he muttered to himself like a madman, starting to rummage through the room. But due to the Liberators’ brutal rule, most Kismayo residents had already fled. Those who remained had little more than empty homes. Where was Hou Rui supposed to find something useful?

Yet when he turned to the kitchen next door, he indeed found a battered small propane tank. Hope renewed, Hou Rui shook the tank vigorously, hearing liquid sloshing inside—proof that at least a third of the liquefied petroleum gas remained.

“You’re it. Everything depends on you now.”

With a clatter, Hou Rui dragged the propane tank back to the window, then without hesitation, hurled it fiercely toward the joint forces’ pickup truck.

As the small propane tank fell through the air, the joint forces’ machine gunner atop the pickup spotted it. Turning his gun to suppress the window, the gunner was moments too late—Hou Rui, steady at the window, had already raised his pistol and fired two quick shots.

“Bang, bang! Boom!”

The propane tank exploded midair, unleashing a fireball nearly 230 meters wide over the advancing joint forces. In an instant, flames engulfed not only the pickup but also dozens of soldiers, turning them into blazing human torches.

“Ahhh!”

Soldiers with upper bodies aflame writhed desperately, trying in vain to extinguish the flames. But in the fierce firefight on the street, once they fell, there was little chance of rising again.

“Long live Lieutenant Douglas!”

Watching Hou Rui single-handedly destroy the enemy pickup and two machine guns, Little Camel nearly went mad with excitement. Shouting, he leapt from cover and launched a countercharge against the stalled joint forces soldiers. More Allied soldiers followed behind him, shouting as they poured out, their Type 47 rifles unleashing a hailstorm of bullets that drove the enemy back to the left side of the street.

After the triumphant charge, Little Camel’s face flushed with excitement as he began to withdraw to defensive positions. Meanwhile, Hou Rui seized the opportunity to cross the street and reach the entrance of a shortcut alley nearby.

“Lieutenant, where are you going?” a shout came from behind.

Hurriedly turning, Hou Rui saw Little Camel’s puzzled face, holding a Type 47 nearly half his own height, standing over a hundred meters away, watching him run toward the alley.

Should he tell them to leave the city first? Or should he stay to help hold off the enemy’s advance? But if he stayed, what about General Garcia? What if the general fled—where would he find him? What of the mission assigned by the organization? What about the chip embedded in his neck? And Jin Shanshan?

In a moment, countless thoughts flooded his mind, but none had answers. Hou Rui was truly lost, unsure what to do.

Yet despite the turmoil, instinct and body took over. Though his mind reeled with hypothetical questions, Hou Rui did not slow his pace. Locking eyes once more with Little Camel, he dashed into the alley, leaving a stunned Little Camel and the expectant Judy behind on the fiercely contested street.

“Wait for me! Once I take down General Garcia, I’ll come back for you!” Hou Rui shouted silently to himself, then without looking back, raced toward the Civic Square.

“Lieutenant! Lieutenant! What do we do?” Far behind, Hou Rui faintly heard Little Camel’s despairing cries, but soon the gunfire resumed its fierce roar.

Faster, just a bit faster!

Suppressing his worries, Hou Rui sped onward. After thirteen minutes of furious sprinting, the outline of Civic Square loomed ahead. It too bore the scars of the battle—apart from pockmarked craters, the ground was littered with the charred skeletons of 45 burnt-out pickup trucks.

Staring blankly at the Allied soldiers’ corpses at his feet, Hou Rui wondered: was he too late? Had General Garcia’s convoy been wiped out by the Americans? Was his mission now just a headless mystery? Were all his efforts, months of endurance and compromise since leaving Egypt, a cruel joke?

Just as despair began to sap his fighting spirit, a motorcycle suddenly burst from a side street. A man in an Allied officer’s uniform deftly maneuvered through obstacles, charging straight toward Hou Rui.

“Move aside! Don’t block the road!” the Allied officer shouted in English upon spotting Hou Rui.

In response, Hou Rui stepped aside as if to yield the path. But the moment the biker brushed past him, Hou Rui suddenly swung out an arm, grabbing the man’s neck and pulling him off the motorcycle onto the ground.

“Ah! Crash!” The motorcycle skidded far away. The stunned Allied officer hadn’t recovered when Hou Rui already pressed his Type 92 pistol against the man’s body.

“Bang!” The first shot struck the officer’s thigh.

“Bang!” The second hit his shoulder.

“Ah!”

Without warning, Hou Rui fired two shots in quick succession, then pressed the pistol slowly against the man’s eye and demanded, “Speak! What’s your name?”

“I—I’m Sergeant Yaso. I’m also an Allied officer. You’ve got the wrong enemy!” Yaso cried out in pain from the gunshot wounds, sweating profusely, fearful Hou Rui would mistake him for joint forces and kill him.

“Where did the general’s convoy stationed here go?”

“General? Convoy? I don’t know!”

“Then why are you rushing off on that motorcycle?”

“Out of the city! The enemy already took the city hall and barracks. The Alliance lost this city. What’s the point of staying now?” The deserter showed no hint of guilt.

“Where will you go after leaving the city?”

“East, of course—to Colonel Gordon’s territory, about 780 kilometers away across the Juba River plains.”

After a brief questioning, Hou Rui roughly deduced the possible whereabouts of General Garcia’s convoy. Without hesitation, he picked up the abandoned motorcycle and hopped on.

“Hey! You bastard, don’t steal my bike!” Yaso shouted from behind, but Hou Rui didn’t look back. He revved the engine and sped out of the city as fast as possible, driven by an inexplicable feeling that General Garcia was still alive and heading toward Colonel Gordon’s controlled area.