Chapter 2007 - 833: Chaos

Victor raised his eyes.

"Who?"

Bramo slid a photo over.

In the photo was a man in his forties, wearing a military uniform, standing in front of a group of soldiers.

"Agim Ceku," Bramo said, "A high-level commander of the Kosovo Liberation Army, appointed as the 'Logistics and Procurement Head' three months ago." ℯℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

Victor looked at the photo.

"Kosovo Liberation Army."

He read the name, as if chewing on something.

"What do they want?"

"Weapons. They want to fight the Serbians. The United States and Europe have been secretly supplying them, but don't dare to do it openly. The 'Black Sea Wolf' is helping them smuggle."

Victor was silent for a few seconds.

"Tell Gals, keep the Russian for now. Don't move on Kosovo yet."

Bramo nodded.

"Also," Victor stood up, "That 'Black Mamba,' he won't run far. He won't be satisfied until he sells those 30 tons."

December 9, 1997, Greece, Crete Island.

"Scorpion" and seven others landed at an abandoned fishing port.

Meeting them was a Greek man in his fifties, bald, wearing dirty fisherman clothes. His name was Strios, a local small gang leader.

"Where's the boat?" Strios asked.

"Thrown away."

"What about the goods?"

"No goods."

Strios was silent for a few seconds.

"Then why are you here?"

"Scorpion" looked at him.

"Waiting for someone."

December 10, 1997, Edinburgh.

McTavish looked at the news just sent from Liverpool.

Sarah Kent's people had caught sight of another white Transit. This time at 3 AM, at another spot in the dock area. The unloading was done by the same scar-faced black man.

He forwarded the news to an encrypted number.

Ten minutes later, a reply arrived:

"Ship located. Destination: Liverpool. Estimated arrival time: 3 AM, December 12."

McTavish looked at those words.

Two days.

December 11, 1997, Liverpool.

Sarah Kent stood at the patrol point in the dock area, gazing at the dark sea.

The wind was strong, whipping the reflective vest furiously.

Allen stood beside her, silent.

The walkie-talkie transmitted the voice of a patrol team member:

"Sarah, there's a boat southwest. No lights, very slow."

Sarah took the walkie-talkie.

"Everyone be cautious, don't get close, don't expose. Record, take photos."

The vessel got closer.

It was a fishing boat, its hull rusty, nets piled on the deck. It slowly docked, stabilized, then a few men jumped out of the cabin.

Four.

One of them had a scar on his face.

Sarah's fingers pressed the phone's camera button, recording every second.

The four men lifted a few plastic barrels from the cabin, loading them into a waiting white Transit.

The license plate was genuine.

Sarah watched the vehicle start up, departing the dock, vanishing into the night.

She put down her phone, dialed a number.

"Police? I want to report a suspicious vehicle in the dock area, license plate—"

December 12, 1997, early morning, Liverpool.

The police stopped the white Transit before dawn.

The driver was a black man, around thirty, with a scar on his face. He sat in the driver's seat, watching the encircling police cars, not trying to flee.

Officers opened the rear door.

Inside the van were thirty plastic barrels, each labeled "industrial solvent."

Lab results came out two hours later: high-purity "Black Pearl," total weight over 500 kilograms.

The Liverpool police held a press conference that morning, announcing the bust of "the city's largest drug case in history."

Reporters surrounded the Police Chief, snapping photos.

No one noticed a woman in a reflective vest standing on the outskirts of the crowd.

December 12, 1997, afternoon, Edinburgh.

McTavish watched the live broadcast of the Liverpool press conference, his lips moving slightly.

It wasn't a smile.

It was a very complex expression.

Callum stood by him.

"Sarah Kent's name didn't appear."

"She knows the rules," McTavish said, "Show-offs die quickly."

Callum nodded.

"One more thing. In Glasgow, MacLaine's people spotted a suspicious fishing boat. It didn't dock, circled once, then left. Might've heard the Liverpool buzz."

McTavish was silent for a few seconds.

"Tell MacLaine to keep watching. The goods won't stop, just change places."

December 13, 1997, Greece, Crete Island.

"Scorpion" received a message.

The message came from an unknown number, only four words:

"Goods have arrived."

He stood up, walked to the door.

Strios was smoking on the steps outside. Seeing him come out, he extinguished the cigarette.

"Let's go."

They walked along the coast for twenty minutes, reaching a more secluded cove.

A speedboat was docked in the bay, small but with a new engine.

Two men stood beside the speedboat.

One of them, "Scorpion" knew.

Hendrick.

"Where's the Boss?"

Hendrick shook his head.

"Boss won't show for now. The goods are yours."

He gestured at the speedboat.

"Five tons. It'll keep you busy in Greece for a while."

"Scorpion" looked at the speedboat.

Five tons, enough to stir up chaos in a city for half a year.

"Channels?"

"Strios will help you."

Hendrick turned to leave.

"Scorpion" called after him.

"When will Boss return?"

Hendrick didn't turn back.

"When it's time."

December 14, 1997, Mexico City.

Victor looked at the freshly delivered intelligence.

The Liverpool drug bust, 500 kilograms of "Black Pearl." A new drug network emerging in Greece on Crete Island, possibly linked to "Black Mamba." The head of procurement for the Kosovo Liberation Army frequently contacting new suppliers.

He put the intelligence down.

Bramo stood beside him, waiting for instructions.

"Europeans think seizing 500 kilograms means victory," Victor said, "They don't know, 500 kilograms is just a fraction."

Bramo didn't speak.

"Tell Gals, keep the Russian locked up for now. Use him as bait when 'Black Mamba' resurfaces."

Bramo nodded.

"Also."

Victor stood up, "Sanchez is doing well in Italy. Have him keep watching. The red dots in the Mediterranean will only multiply, not decrease."

He walked to the window.

Outside was the dusk of Mexico City, the slow-moving traffic on Paseo de la Reforma, orderly.

"This world," he said, "never lacks sellers, only those who watch them."