Chapter 3: Chaos

The filming went smoothly the next day. As journalists, this group still enjoyed a certain degree of immunity. It was mainly because they were so articulate—no one wanted to give them any ammunition that could turn into a public relations disaster, so both the Lebanese and Israeli sides treated them with relative courtesy.

“One more day of shooting and we should be about done,” Kong Bailing nodded in satisfaction, reviewing the footage on the camera. All his material was being transmitted back home in real time. Since there was no large-scale military conflict between Lebanon and Israel at the moment, the reporting could pretty much conclude here.

“Good work, Xiao Zhang,” Zhong Rong patted Zhang Liang on the shoulder with gratitude. During filming, a family whose home had been shelled a few days earlier became agitated and nearly caused a confrontation. Fortunately, Zhang Liang had reacted quickly, restraining the two men before things got out of hand—otherwise, the camera might have been smashed.

“No problem,” Zhang Liang shook his head slightly, though inwardly he breathed a sigh of relief. Damn, it was finally coming to an end!

Back at the hotel, the three of them, in high spirits, ordered extra food and brought it up to their room. Today was a special day—Zhong Rong even managed to trade with some colleagues for a few bottles of beer.

“Cheers, happy Little New Year!”
“Cheers!”

They clinked their bottles together. Indeed, today was the Little New Year in China, just one week away from the most important festival of the year—Spring Festival.

“So, Xiao Zhang, where are you from? Your accent has a bit of a northern flavor,” Zhong Rong asked casually after setting down his glass, just making conversation.

“I’m from the north, from Fengtian,” Zhang Liang nodded, seeing no reason to hide it.

“Then you two are pretty close—Old Zhong is a native of Beijing, and I’m from Suzhou,” Kong Bailing laughed, tossing a peanut he’d brought from home into his mouth.

“Oh, a real Beijinger, eh? Do you have a courtyard house?” Zhang Liang raised an eyebrow, teasing.

“No…” Zhong Rong looked helpless—not every Beijinger owned a courtyard home! “Those things are way out of reach for ordinary folks like us.”

“But this guy’s family is doing pretty well—two apartments in Beijing, both within the second ring road,” Kong Bailing remarked with a tinge of envy. When he first partnered up with Zhong Rong, he’d heard about it and couldn’t help but feel a little jealous.

That’s prime real estate—over a hundred thousand a square meter. Definitely well-off, and an only child to boot!

“Don’t be fooled by the price—those places don’t sell easily. My family’s hutong is a typical old, run-down area. There’s always traffic, the environment is bad, and most of the buildings are later add-ons. I get lost in there all the time,” Zhong Rong waved it off. By Beijing standards, his family was quite average.

“You’re still better off—I'm still living in my work unit’s dormitory. I could never afford a place in Beijing…” Perhaps it was the alcohol talking, but the two older men grew more talkative.

Most of the time, Zhang Liang simply listened quietly, chiming in only occasionally. He drank just one can—he never drank much while on assignment, needing to keep his mind and body sharp. But today was different; nostalgia crept in, and he allowed himself a rare exception.

After a relatively hearty dinner, Zhong Rong and Kong Bailing, tipsy from the beer, drifted off to sleep. Zhang Liang, left alone, walked to the window, lit a cigarette, and gazed at the moon.

“It’s been nearly four years since I’ve been home. I wonder if there’s a chance this year…”

Boom—

In the early hours, a sudden, violent explosion shattered the night. Zhang Liang, who had just closed his eyes, sat up instantly, hurried to the window, and peered outside. Not far from the hotel, a residential building was ablaze, shouts and cries piercing the silent night.

“What’s going on?” Zhong Rong and Kong Bailing, now awake, asked anxiously.

“Explosion—I’ll go check it out,” Zhang Liang replied calmly, noting the commotion outside the door.

“We’ll go too,” said Kong Bailing, grabbing his camera and following Zhang Liang closely, his old partner at his side. They weren’t the only ones—many journalists had been roused and were rushing out of the hotel.

Boom, boom—

Just as the three emerged, two more explosions erupted in the distance. In the sky, bright trails from rockets streaked by in an instant.

“Rockets—they’re coming from the Israeli side,” Zhang Liang narrowed his eyes. Damn, of all times…

Boom—

A rocket shot overhead, exploding just a few hundred meters away.

Rat-tat-tat—

Amidst it all, faint gunfire echoed from the “Blue Line,” growing steadily louder.

“Take cover—it’s likely a localized clash; it shouldn’t last too long,” Zhang Liang said, preparing to usher the other two back to the hotel. But Zhong Rong looked at him earnestly.

“Xiao Zhang, I know you want to protect us, but Old Kong and I have to report on this!”

Journalists from other countries had already fanned out, finding vantage points and starting live broadcasts. Kong Bailing’s camera was rolling, capturing footage of Israeli troops breaching the ceasefire line. This wasn’t just breaking news—it was their duty as war correspondents.

“Make it quick,” Zhang Liang said after a moment’s silence, glancing at the others. Their job was here—what else could he say?

“Thank you,” Zhong Rong said gratefully, hurriedly pulling Kong Bailing to a secluded spot to broadcast the night’s devastation to the world.

“Dear viewers, this is Zhong Rong. The time is now 4:38 a.m. on February 12, 2015, Beijing time. As you can see, the Israeli side has suddenly launched a barrage of rockets at the Lebanese side. Flames and gunfire fill the night…”

Watching the impassioned reporter and glancing at the other journalists in similar states, Zhang Liang couldn’t help but feel a measure of respect. Not everyone had the courage to report live under rocket fire and the threat of stray bullets. Their dedication was beyond reproach.

But trouble soon arrived—a roar sounded, and several armed pickups stormed into the town. A dozen soldiers leapt out, heading straight for the journalists.

“This isn’t good,” Zhang Liang frowned, his heart tightening as he saw John and his cameraman roughly shoved to the ground, their camera snatched away. These men were clearly prepared—no insignia visible.

Zhong Rong and Kong Bailing saw it too. Zhang Liang didn’t dare linger, quickly pulling them behind a building. Kong Bailing’s camera kept filming the armed men attacking journalists.

“As you can see, a group of unidentified armed men without insignia has stormed into the town from the ‘Blue Line’ direction and are seizing journalists’ cameras…”

Zhong Rong whispered into the lens, his words carefully chosen—“unidentified” armed personnel from the “Blue Line” direction.

Even though his voice was low and Zhang Liang had hidden them in time, the armed men who’d been watching them would hardly let them slip away so easily. Two men with rifles were already moving toward their hiding place.

“Damn it,” Zhang Liang muttered, covertly drawing his handgun and tucking it behind his waist.

“Don’t do anything rash—they won’t dare go too far,” Zhong Rong quickly advised, noticing his movements. As long as they weren’t lunatics, no one would attack them outright—at worst, they’d just stop them from filming.

Rat-tat-tat—

Not far away, an armed man suddenly opened fire on a particularly persistent reporter. Blood spattered, and the scene fell silent.