Mercenary Black Mamba

As a member of the Deuxieme Rep’s explosives team, Miguel was close to Jang Shin.

He had previously been a drug control officer in Columbia’s police force. He had lost his mind after his one and only big sister lost her life due to cocaine addiction.

While he ambushed a drug farm in a jungle with a machine gun, he also sent important figures of those drug cartels to jail, one after another. The cycle of bribery, threats, and eventually, becoming a hitman, was an open method of silencing enemy powers through drug cartels.

The cartel began to throw immense bribes at the crazed man to calm him down. Miguel bought weapons with that money and increased the number of informants.

The cartels began to threaten him through several methods.

Miguel, who had no family and a paranoid personality, hadn’t even blinked an eye.

In the end, the cartel sent a hitman for him.

The boring hide-and-seek between Miguel and the hitman began. There were plenty of people strewn about Columbia who would kill for several hundred dollars.

A restaurant worker tried to stab him directly, while a taxi driver attempted to shoot him. There was no point in killing the hitmen, since the cartel sent an endless stream of them. In the end, Miguel, who was tortured by fear and boredom, ran to Legion Etranger.

The magician of the machine gun, the hot-blooded man who fought against drug cartels by his lonesome, the strong backing of the Ratel team, Miguel, had died without a will in Black Mamba’s arms.

A small, sleek golden piece of metal had resolved Miguel’s fears. He no longer had to fear the hitmen sent by those drug cartels.

‘I suppose it’s a relief that he didn’t have the chance to feel any pain.’

Miguel had been silent with a strong, responsible personality. They hadn’t been particularly close in Deuxieme Rep, but they had become close comrades after surviving across the burning Sahel desert.

Gray-white brain fluid began to leak out of the bullet hole. The high protein fluid in the same class as tofu soaked his clothes. Black Mamba’s heart twisted.

Miguel was Muslim. Black Mamba sent as much of a Muslim prayer as he could remember.

“Allah is the most benevolent and knowing name. All that exists praise your name, Allah, our God. The dictator of the day of judgement, I ask for your help in praise. Your son seeks you at this place, so please give him a seat underneath your feet, and greet him warmly.”

Black Mamba tilted his head. Muslim prayers were too difficult.

“Is this right? Eh, I don’t know. You were a great comrade. I won’t forget you for as long as I live. Salam Alleh Kum! (may God’s blessings be with you!) Good!”

Black Mamba, who had finished his prayer, praised himself for a job well done.

He liked the simple message, which was heartfelt rather than a formal prayer.

There was something his master had always said: ‘the b*stards who pray well are those who earn good money, not those who serve Buddha well.’ He had said so to emphasize the heart of prayer, rather than the formalities.

With a crumpled face and barely open eyes, Miguel’s death mask wasn’t very handsome.

“Hey, Miguel, don’t frown with your ugly face. You look like a street rat.”

He gently closed Miguel’s slitted eyes. The eyelids fell, and the black, burnt face looked a little more comfortable.

Rage filled his chest before sadness took over. The rule of survival stated that he could die if he could kill others, he knew that well. But the death of his friend who had crossed between life and death was too pitiful.

“Miguel, you’ve turned into an old ant, too! I won’t leave those b*stards who caused your death alone,” Black Mamba swore as he gathered Miguel’s cold body.

Rage and sadness filled the only Parathropus human on earth. His eyes clouded red, and his head rang as though was banging on it like a drum.

‘Danger!’

His instincts warned him of danger. If he didn’t stop here, he would go on a rampage. He remembered the painful memory that had turned him into a night ghost, making him cross the distance between the river to Chungsong’s Mount Ju Wang.

“Om-ani banmeh-om namsaman da motdanam surisurimahasuri sabeha!”

He repeated a mantra once before pulling out a long, shrill scream.

“Awoooh!”

A loud howl shook the desert. It was greater than the sound of a cannon launching. Even the sounds of gunshots and explosions were swallowed by the long howl.

Black Mamba laid Miguel’s corpse back into the trench. He could always come back for his dead comrade later. Now was the time to fly around for his living comrades.

When his brief prayer ended, the sound of explosions and gunshots poured into his ears.

He could grasp the entire situation with a sweep of his eyes. The rear cannon and three-inch recoilless cannons were a problem. When he spread his senses, he could sense his comrades’ busy movements to conceal themselves from the explosions each time. The shell was lower in accuracy but had a large range of impact. The most fearsome weapon for the Ratel team, whose specialty was concealment, was an area-suppressible weapon.

The recoilless 0.68-inch cannon was manufactured by the Soviets, who bench-marked the United States’ KM67 3.5-inch recoilless canon. With its 3,000-foot shooting range, long-range attacks were possible, and its warhead’s power was immense. On the other hand, its accuracy failed, and the delay time between assembling and shooting was long. In the end, the 3.5-inch recoilless cannon moved aside for the RPG7 and finished its short life.

They were waging a hit battle, but the Ratel team suffered disadvantages in firepower and numbers. A hit battle was disadvantageous to the minority. The FROLINAT was slowly gaining distance, its main force nearing the charging range. If rifle shots and RPGs joined the fray, the situation was bound to get out of hand.

Black Mamba’s eyes shone coldly.

The reason behind this civil war was an attempt for those people, the same ones who had once captured African natives as slaves several hundred years before the European powers, to take these citizens as their slaves. He was especially sensitive to inhuman actions due to his childhood trauma.

With a clack, Black Mamba loaded in his Dragunov’s bullet.

“It’s nice that I don’t have to cover myself in blood since it’s urban warfare.”

He smiled, revealing his white teeth. It was the same smile as the angel of death, Azrael.

Ahmud was frustrated to the point of tears.

The enemy’s defense line seemed to be breaking but hadn’t yet. He found these tenacious b*stards withstanding the waves of attacks tiring. They were living up to their team name, Ratel.

The losses he had suffered in the beginning due to those land mines and claymore mines were painful, down to his bones.

This was due to the drugs. In order to prevent those young untrained soldiers from running away, he had sent them out after feeding them street drugs. It was a mistake. He had only created a greater loss from a meaningless attack.

Ahmud shoved down his panicking thoughts.

A squadron’s overall power quickly decreased when even a single person left the force. As expected, the machine gun’s frequency was silent. He could see the enemy’s decreasing firepower.

“Charge, charge! There’s a hole in their defensive line. Push forward!” Ahmud shouted at the top of his lungs.

The front guards raised their scimitars and pushed forward relentlessly.

Ahmud, surprised at the sound of Black Mamba’s howl, asked his subordinate, “Wait, what’s that sound?”

“Isn’t it the sound of a wailing animal?”

“You idiot, there are no animals around here. What animal could possibly make that noise?”

“Then shouldn’t it be the enemy’s new weapon?”

Ahmud wanted to shoot his subordinate in the head.

This was already his fifth officer. His head was full of sh*t, so much so that his insides collapsed on themselves every time he held a conversation with him.

Ahmud thought of the sound as the passing wind between rocks. Sometimes, strange phenomenons occurred in the desert.

“What’s that Hazis b*stard doing? He should have attacked the rear by now.”

It was news to them that the Hazis platoon responsible for rear attacks had long vacated the premises.

Not even his subordinate would know what went on in the rear. He only made an uncomfortable expression.

“That f*cking b*stard, is he drawing in the sand with a stick? I’m going to beat him to death.”

Hazis had already died.

Ahmud, whose insides were burning in frustration, waited impatiently for the Hazis platoon, whom Black Mamba had already wiped out, to attack.

The mercenaries’ faces were bright.

There was no-one but Black Mamba among the living who could howl louder than a male lion.

– Black Mamba’s here.

– I’ve heard, too.

– Woah, Black Mamba’s here.

The Ratel team, energized, moved their hands and feet much quicker.

Jang Shin was covered in sweat. The same went for Bell Man. They were about to drop dead from avoiding the enemy’s launches and preventing the soldiers’ advancements. It had been continuous shooting and running without care.

The FROLINAT ran forward, uncaring of their comrades’ deaths or the explosions.

“Sergeant Bell Man, I think they’ve been drugged for sure.”

“Mm, it’s not a battlefield panic disorder. I’ve heard rumors, but to think I’d see a hallucinogen at work myself… Is it Jenkem?”

“What’s a Jenkem?”

“What’s the point of knowing, you b*stard? Just shoot and run.”

Annoyed, Bell Man began to scold Jang Shin.

Jenkem was a drug used secretly across poor African countries like Chad and Congo. Surprisingly, Jenkem’s main ingredients were human excretions.

The process to produce it was simple. After placing excretions in a bottle, it turned into Jenkem after its opening was sealed with plastic or a balloon and it was left to ferment. It had the same effect as inhaling butane gas. It was highly addictive and harmful to the human body, the prime example of the lowest drugs.

“Whether they’ve been fed drugs or steroids, Black Mamba’s here, so everything should be over soon.”

Jang Shin began to aim with a much steadier hand.

The unheard predator leapt out of the trench after closing Miguel’s eyes.

“Has that b*stard finally gone crazy?”

Mike, who was supposed to be sniping, was shooting with a machine gun like crazy with the entire upper half of his body in sight. It was like a plea for death. The fact that he was still alive was even more surprising. Black Mamba threw his body and shoved Mike behind a rock by grabbing the back of his neck.

“Let go, Mouris exploded! Those dog b*stards have killed Mouris! Ahh!”

Mike twisted in his grasp as he cried. There was only one method of returning an insane man to sanity.

“Sergeant Mike, I’m sorry about this.”

Smack—

It was a hard slap, to the point where the insides of his mouth exploded, but Mike’s eyes regained focus. Mike, whose broken consciousness had returned, said something unrealistic.

“Where, where am I?”

Mike looked blankly at Black Mamba in front of him.

“Have you finally regained your senses? What happened?”

“Black Mamba, Mouris was done in. He survived three days of explosions at Guinea with me, but! Ah, ahhh!”

Mike cried out once more.

“Mouris was done in?”

Mouris’ face, which was as handsome as a Hollywood actor’s, swept across his mind. Mouris had followed Miguel. Black Mamba gritted his teeth.

“Mike, do you want to be beaten up again?”

With a gasp, Mike hiccuped and immediately regained his senses. As expected, the effects of hysteria were astounding.

“Mike, this isn’t the time to be whining. Grab your Dragunov. You need to avenge Mouris’ death.”

“Revenge? Yes, revenge.”

Mike regained his coldness and grabbed his Dragunov, then climbed under an obstacle.

“Was that the b*stard’s real personality?”

Black Mamba tilted his head. Mike was self-centered. The sight of him going crazy over his temporary partner was new.

Black Mamba left Mike behind and ran towards the front right.

In order to catch the rear mortar and recoilless cannon with his Dragunov, he had to close in at least 650 feet. Bullets poured down like hail, but they couldn’t catch Black Mamba, who was using his shadow steps.

“Ugh, those damned frog b*stards!”

Ahmud’s face crumpled after observing the battlefield. He had expected an immense resistance, but this was beyond his prediction. He had sent three waves of Jenkem-infused vanguards just to barely break through the tripwire of mines.

There were too many sacrifices. It was as though he had exchanged soldiers for the amount of distance covered. His side’s momentum was great, but the enemy’s defenses were greater. He found the armored car he had lost at the beginning of the battle even more unfortunate.

He had brought it out, determined. The front vehicle had been shattered by the anti-tank gun, and the other two, which had been showered by grenades, had engines that had broken down. Aside from being an obstacle, it had become useless.

Ahmud clenched his jaw.

The gunshots that subordinates were advancing with began to suppress the enemy’s firepower. This was thanks to the mortars and recoilless guns that supported them from the rear by countering the enemy’s grenade launcher.

One minute—with one more minute, the enemy’s defense line would fall.

If he thought about the battles during which he had suffered at their hands, his jaw clenched.

“Hehehe, try your last stretch. I’ll hang your corpses on a camel’s tail and drag you back by Allah’s name.”