Chapter 2024 - 839: I’m the Chief Now!

Chapter 2024: Chapter 839: I’m the Chief Now!

Côte d’Ivoire, Abidjan, Presidential Palace.

Gunshots rang out at 4:20 a.m.

The "Black Mamba" stood on the steps of the Presidential Palace, looking at the corpse in a white military uniform under his feet.

Côte d’Ivoire President Bedie had been dead for less than ten minutes, the bullet entering through his forehead and blowing a bowl-sized hole in the back of his head.

Beside lay a dozen high-ranking government officials, including the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Minister of Internal Affairs, the Secretary-General of the Presidential Palace, and several women in pajamas—the President’s daughters and mistresses.

"Who’s in charge of the port?"

The interpreter translated it into French. Among those kneeling, one person looked up, in his forties, bald, trembling all over.

"I... I am."

The "Black Mamba" walked over, crouched down, and looked into his eyes.

"Who’s operating the port’s container scanner?"

The bald man opened his mouth but couldn’t speak.

"From today, you continue your job. Double the salary. But one thing—my goods, never scan them."

Hendrick walked in from outside, smelling of gunpowder.

"Boss, the airport is secured. Our men have already entered the television station."

The "Black Mamba" stood up, looked at the crowd kneeling at the steps.

"Make them stand up. Change their clothes, at eight o’clock sharp, speak on television. Just say the President is ill, the country is taken over by the ’National Revival Committee.’

He paused, pointing at the bald man.

"You—tell them everything remains the same. The port remains open, the airport continues operating. Foreigners need not be afraid, business goes on."

At eight o’clock sharp, Abidjan Television’s signal resumed.

On-screen, a middle-aged man in a suit, with a pale face, sat in the office of the Presidential Palace, reading a script.

The script was short, with just three core sentences: The President is temporarily unable to perform his duties due to health reasons, the country is temporarily taken over by the National Revival Committee, and foreign investors’ rights are fully protected.

After reading, the footage switched to scenic shots. Côte d’Ivoire’s beaches, palm trees, and five-star hotels, accompanied by light music.

No one mentioned the gunfire. No one mentioned the corpse. No one mentioned that African standing outside the shot, with those two hundred soldiers emerging from the jungle behind him.

When the news spread, Europeans were still asleep.

London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham looked at the intelligence freshly sent from Africa, his fingers resting on the table for a long time.

Côte d’Ivoire. Coup d’état. Africans. Drugs.

He put down the intelligence and picked up the phone.

"Get me Berlin. Find Wagner."

Berlin, Federal Criminal Police Office.

Dr. Wagner was awakened by the phone at three a.m.

He listened to Graham’s words and was silent for a few seconds.

"Do you mean that drug trafficker is now becoming the President?"

"Temporarily the ’Committee Chairman,’" Graham said, "but it won’t be long before he turns into the ’Acting President.’ Then it won’t be long before he becomes the ’President.’

Wagner didn’t say anything.

"The port of Côte d’Ivoire is one of West Africa’s largest container transshipment stations," Graham continued, "Every year, millions of containers pass through it, destined for Europe. Customs scanners, X-ray machines, drug-sniffing dogs—they’re all just for show now."

Wagner rubbed his temples.

"Out of the hundred tons, he only lost a third. The rest can now be shipped out of Abidjan openly."

"Yes," Graham said, "and tax-free."

Silence on both ends of the phone.

After a long time, Wagner spoke:

"Do the Americans know?"

Graham looked at another report on the table.

"They should know by now. They have a military base in Abidjan."

Mexico City, San Miguel.

Colonel Garcia stood at the interrogation room door, looking at the person inside.

The "Scorpion" had been sitting for three days. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten much, but his eyes remained bright.

"Did you find out anything?"

The adjutant opened a notebook.

"He said, ’Black Mamba’ has five processing plants in Africa. Two in Nigeria, one in Ghana, one in Côte d’Ivoire, one in Guinea-Bissau. Each plant has a monthly capacity of two tons. He said ’Black Mamba’ supports three thousand people, has AKs, RPGs, and anti-aircraft missiles. He said—"

"Wait." Garcia interrupted him, "Where’s the plant in Côte d’Ivoire located?"

"Near Abidjan. By the port."

Garcia was silent for a few seconds.

He recalled the intelligence he received in the morning.

Côte d’Ivoire. Coup d’état. Africans.

"Tell Mexico City," he turned around, "that ’Black Mamba’ is no longer just a drug trafficker."

Washington D.C., secure house on the outskirts.

Turner watched the news on TV.

The footage was from Abidjan Television, with that middle-aged man in a suit reading a script. After reading, the footage switched to scenic shots.

He turned off the TV.

"Sir." The assistant stood at the door, "There’s news from Côte d’Ivoire. Our contact in Abidjan says the group has already taken control of the port and airport. All customs personnel have been replaced, replaced with their own people."

Turner said nothing.

"Also, our military base there... it’s surrounded. Not attacked, surrounded. All entrances and exits are guarded by armed personnel, preventing entry and exit. The Commander called back to The Pentagon; they said they’re studying it."

Turner stood up and walked to the window.

Outside was Virginia’s winter woods, bare and gray.

"Where is ’Black Mamba’ now?"

The assistant shook his head.

"Don’t know. The people in Abidjan say he hasn’t shown up. The one speaking on TV is the puppet president."

Turner was silent for a long time.