Chapter 2022 - 838: Chaotic Frontend~!!!_2

"The hotel manager's wife is in Athens. Half a million euros were added to the account. A hundred thousand were withdrawn three days ago."

Ellis stood in front of him.

"She already bought a ticket to Saint Petersburg. She leaves the day after tomorrow."

Graham was silent for a few seconds.

"Intercept her."

Ellis hesitated.

"How do we stop her? Greece isn't our territory."

Graham looked up.

"Have the Greeks stop her. Tell them this woman is involved with the 'Black Pearl' case."

Ellis nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait." Graham called him back.

Ellis turned around.

Graham stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window was the Thames River, its murky surface dotted with a few barges. In the distance, the cranes of the Shard Building were still turning, like tireless giants.

"How much does that woman know?"

Ellis thought for a moment.

"Probably not much. But whatever her husband knows, she might have overheard some of it."

Graham nodded.

"That's enough."

Athens, Constitution Plaza.

The woman was named Maria, fifty-three years old, a Swiss, the manager's wife from the Zurich hotel.

She sat in a café on the edge of the plaza, looking at the gray sky outside.

The ticket in her hand was for the day after tomorrow. Saint Petersburg. She had a cousin there, running a small inn, who could take her in for a while.

Her phone rang.

It was an unfamiliar number.

She picked up.

"Is this Mrs. Maria?"

The voice spoke in Greek with an Athenian accent.

"I am from the Athens Police Station. We would like to request your assistance in an investigation."

Maria tightened her grip on her phone.

"What case?"

"Your husband's case."

She hung up, stood up, and walked quickly to the other side of the plaza.

She had only walked less than fifty meters when two men blocked her path.

One was wearing a leather jacket, the other a tracksuit. Neither looked like police.

"Mrs. Maria," the man in the leather jacket spoke in English with a Slavic accent, "someone wants to see you."

She wanted to shout.

A hand covered her mouth.

The pigeons at Constitution Plaza flew up in a startled flock.

San Costa Rica, San Miguel.

Colonel Garcia stood atop an abandoned church, looking down at the street below.

This church was the highest point in the city, offering a clear view of the surroundings for five kilometers. In the distance, the outline of San Miguel Port was faintly visible in the mist, with a few fishing boats docking.

"Colonel, the radar shows those ships have issues."

The adjutant handed over a tablet.

Garcia glanced at it.

The ships were sinking too deep, moving too slowly, docking at dawn—typical drug boats.

"Send a patrol boat to take a look."

Twenty minutes later, the patrol boat commander reported back:

"The ship is loaded with 'Black Pearl.' Three hundred kilograms."

Garcia put down the walkie-talkie.

First day at San Miguel. Three hundred kilograms.

This sea was even filthier than San Costa Rica Port.

"Colonel," the adjutant pointed into the distance, "there's activity over there."

Garcia lifted his binoculars.

Three speedboats were approaching at high speed outside San Miguel Port. People with guns stood on board.

"Get the troops into combat positions," Garcia said, "those guys aren't here to unload.""

Three minutes later, gunfire erupted.

The first battle at San Miguel Port lasted for forty minutes.

The Mexican garrison lost two men, wounding seven. The attackers lost seventeen, with the rest fleeing.

Garcia stood at the dock, looking at the bodies.

All were young men, barely over twenty, with dark skin and tattoos—a skull and a snake.

Those guys again.

"Colonel." The adjutant approached, "President Calderon's call."

Garcia took the phone.

"Colonel Garcia," Calderon's voice was urgent, "what's the situation at San Miguel?"

"The attack was repulsed. We lost two men."

The other end was silent for a few seconds.

"I'll arrange compensation. What else do you need?"

Garcia looked at the bodies.

"We need more people. They won't come just once."

Mexico City, National Palace.

Victor looked at the report from San Miguel.

"Skull and Snake" tattoos. Three speedboats. Seventeen bodies.

He looked up.

"Tell Garcia to send another battalion there."

Bramo nodded.

"And," Victor said, "have Gals check where those people came from."

Bramo hesitated.

"Gals is in Congo."

"Send him to Costa Rica. It's more urgent there than Congo."

Kosovo, Podujevo.

Cheku stood at the gate of the destroyed military camp, looking at the scattered bodies inside.

Serbs. Forty-seven in total.

His troops lost twenty-three men, but they took the place.

"General." The adjutant ran over, "Serbian reinforcements have arrived. Armored vehicles, at least ten."

Cheku didn't turn around.

"Deploy the rocket launcher teams."

The adjutant hesitated.

"We don't have many rockets left. It'll take half our supply to hit those armored vehicles in one volley."

Cheku turned around.

"Then use half."

The battle lasted three hours.

Seven Serbian armored vehicles were destroyed, the rest fled. Eight of Cheku's rocket launcher operators were killed, leaving fewer than twenty rockets.

But he held Podujevo.

"General," the adjutant stood beside him, face covered in dust, "what's our next step?"

Cheku looked north. That way was Serbia's heartland, Belgrade, a place he had always wanted to go but never had.

"Wait."

"Wait for what?"

Cheku didn't answer.

He was waiting for the new batch of weapons.

Albania, near Durres Port, an abandoned farm.

"Scorpion" sat in a dilapidated house, watching the rain outside.