Chapter 2021 - 838: Chaotic Frontend~!!!

Kosovo, Mitrovica.

Ceku stood in a building half-destroyed by shells, looking down at the street through a shattered window.

The Serb neighborhood was ablaze.

His troops had crossed the Ibar River last night, and using rocket launchers provided by "Black Mamba," they took out three Serb militia posts. At dawn, four flags of the Kosovo Liberation Army rose on the river's opposite bank.

"General," the adjutant ran over, panting, "The Serbs are gathering in the north, at least two hundred men, with armored vehicles."

Ceku did not turn around.

"Send the third battalion to hold them off. Have the rocket launcher operators find good positions and wait until the armored vehicles are within range to fire."

The adjutant hesitated.

"The third battalion fought all night yesterday, only half of them remain."

Ceku turned around.

"Then fight with half."

The adjutant said nothing more and ran off.

Ceku looked out the window again. The streets were littered with rubble and craters, a destroyed Serb truck still smoking, black smoke rising into the air, dispersed by the wind.

He remembered the weapons sent by "Black Mamba."

Those guns, those rocket launchers, and those white powders.

He kept the guns for himself. The powders he distributed to his men, letting them exchange them for money, intelligence, more men.

Now the results were showing.

The Serbs were panicking.

What he didn't know was that in Belgrade, the Serbian President had already made three calls to Moscow.

The Russian's response was always the same: "Under study."

Albania, Durres Port.

"Scorpion" stood in the shadows of the dock, watching the fishing boat arriving from Greece slowly berth.

The ship carried the last batch of "Black Pearl." Three tons, wrapped in waterproof cloth, hidden in the secret compartment at the bottom of the hold.

He had stayed in this port city for half a month. Changed three residences, discarded seven phones, the scar on his face becoming more noticeable, so he simply grew a beard to cover half his face.

The fishing boat stopped, and a person jumped off.

Strios's man, named Costas, a Greek, in his forties, specialized in running this line.

"The goods are here," Costas walked over, lowering his voice, "The buyer is waiting over there."

"Scorpion" glanced at the two parked trucks in the distance.

"Where's the money?"

Costas handed over a canvas bag.

"Three hundred thousand. Remaining payment upon delivery."

"Scorpion" opened the bag and took a look. A pile of euros, old notes, not sequential.

He tossed the bag to the man behind him.

"Unload the goods."

An hour later, all three tons were loaded onto the trucks.

"Scorpion" stood by the truck, looking at Costas.

"Tell Strios, this is the last batch. From now on, I'm done with him."

Costas was momentarily stunned.

"You're leaving?"

"Scorpion" didn't answer. He climbed into the driver's seat of the first truck and closed the door.

The truck started, heading into the night.

Pristina, Kosovo Liberation Army's temporary command center.

Agim Ceku looked at the hand-drawn map on the table, his finger stopped at a certain point.

The point was called Podujevo, forty kilometers north of Pristina, an important Serb stronghold. There was a military camp there, stationed by over two hundred Serb police and militia.

Taking Podujevo would open the road to Serbia's heartland.

"Enough weapons?" he asked.

The logistics officer stood beside him, flipping through a notebook.

"Forty rocket launchers left, enough ammo for two battles. Short on rifle bullets, but we'll manage."

Ceku nodded.

"Black Pearl" was selling well, the money exchanged for more weapons. Even though a hundred tons of goods were intercepted over in Africa, the remaining fifty tons were still there, enough for him to use for another six months.

"Tell the brothers, act the night after tomorrow."

Washington D.C., Langley.

Turner sat in the office all day.

The desk was piled high with files, none of which he read.

Messages from Kosovo came one after another. Ceku's forces were advancing, Serbs were retreating, Belgrade was cursing, Moscow was playing dead.

Europeans were getting anxious.

France and Germany's Foreign Ministries were releasing statements one after another, demanding "immediate ceasefire from both sides." The United States Department of State also issued a statement, wording it ambiguously, merely "calling for restraint."

Turner knew why the State Department was ambiguous.

Because half of the weapons in Ceku's hands were sent by Americans. Not openly, but secretly. Through "Black Sea Wolf," through shell companies in Eastern Europe, through channels personally designed by Turner.

Now those weapons were killing Serbs.

If the news were to break, a hearing on Capitol Hill could last a year.

"Sir."

The assistant stood at the door.

"News from London. Graham's people are investigating the hotel manager's family. They've found the whereabouts of the money."

Turner's fingers paused on the table.

"How much?"

"Five hundred thousand. Transferred to his wife's account."

"Where is his wife?"

"Greece."

Turner was silent for a few seconds.

"Have 'Black Sea Wolf' handle it."

The assistant didn't move.

"Sir, the hotel manager is already dead. If his wife also dies, won't it be too obvious?"

Turner looked at him.

"Too obvious is better than getting caught."

The assistant turned and left.

Turner looked out the window again.

A thin layer of ice covered the surface of the Potomac River, gray-white, like the color of this winter.

He remembered the last words from "Black Mamba."

"I will come to Washington to find you myself."

Now "Black Mamba" hadn't come. But others had.

London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham looked at the report just sent from Greece, his fingers tapping on the table.