Chapter 2056 - 846: Desperados!!! (Part 2)

Ivanov's hands were shaking more violently.

"You... you saved him?"

Bennett nodded.

"He's still alive. In the prison hospital. The doctors say he can survive, but his eyes won't come back."

Ivanov lowered his head.

He looked at the photo, staring at those two black holes, tears streaming down.

"I... I told everything..."

Bennett looked at him.

"I know."

"Then why..."

"Because you didn't tell everything."

Ivanov was stunned.

Bennett put the photo away, sliding it into the folder.

"Mr. Ivanov, you have one more chance. Tell everything you know. Every affair, every person, every penny. Once you've said it all, you and Andrei can live."

He stood up.

"If you don't..."

He didn't finish.

Ivanov understood.

March 5, 1998, Kosovo, Mitrovica.

General Cheku stood in the half-destroyed building, looking at the gray sky outside.

His troops had been fighting for three months, capturing more than twenty villages, killing over three hundred Serbs, while losing over two hundred themselves.

But the ammunition was running out.

Only five rocket launchers left. Each soldier had less than thirty rounds of rifle ammo. The mortars had long gone silent.

He needed a new backer.

The adjutant ran in.

"General, someone wants to see you."

Cheku turned around.

"Who?"

The adjutant shook his head.

"I don't know. But he said he came from Africa."

Cheku was silent for a few seconds.

"Let him in."

A tall, thin man with a scar on his face came in.

"Scorpion."

"General Cheku."

He spoke with a heavy accent in Spanish.

"I am called 'Scorpion', from Black Mamba's group."

Cheku narrowed his eyes.

"Black Mamba? The African?"

Scorpion nodded.

"He heard your troops need weapons."

Cheku looked at him.

"What can he offer?" 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

Scorpion reached into his pocket, taking out a photo, and handed it to him.

The photo showed a truck filled with long rectangular crates.

"Two hundred AK-47s, fifty rocket launchers, three hundred thousand rounds of ammunition. Three days from now, the Albanian coast."

Cheku looked at the photo, his heart skipped a beat.

"What are the conditions?"

Scorpion smiled.

"No conditions. Mr. Black Mamba just wants to make a friend."

March 6, 1998, Mexico City, top floor of the Feathered Serpent Temple.

Victor looked at the intelligence just sent from Kosovo.

Black Mamba's people made contact with Cheku. Two hundred guns, fifty rocket launchers, three hundred thousand rounds of ammo. Three days from now, on the Albanian coast.

He put the intelligence down.

"That 'Scorpion', still in Kosovo?"

Bramo nodded.

"Yes. Cheku kept him, said he wanted to 'cooperate'."

Victor remained silent for a few seconds.

"Tell Bennett, keep a close watch on him. But don't move."

Bramo was puzzled for a moment.

"Don't move?"

"Don't move," Victor said, "Let him help Cheku fight. The longer they fight, the more chaotic Europe becomes. The more chaotic Europe is, the more opportunities we have."

He stood up, walked to the map.

"The Americans have interests in Kosovo, the Europeans too, and so do the Russians. Now Black Mamba is involved as well. Let them fight it out themselves."

He turned around.

"We'll wait to catch the fish in the net."

March 7, 1998, London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham looked at the reply just sent from Mexico City.

"The name from Ivanov's mouth can be traded. The condition is: the United Kingdom must publicly acknowledge the connection between Turner and the Black Sea Wolf."

He put the reply down.

Ellis stood beside him.

"That condition... it's too harsh. Public acknowledgment is essentially a slap in the face."

Graham looked at him.

"So what do you suggest? Not trade? Let those names rot in the hands of the Mexicans?"

Ellis said nothing.

Graham stood up, walked to the window.

Outside, the surface of the Thames River was gray, with a few barges drifting by.

"Tell them, public acknowledgment is impossible. But we can share intelligence privately. The British network in Europe is denser than the Mexicans'. They need our connections."

He paused.

"This is a negotiation. Not a surrender."

March 8, 1998, Mexico City, National Palace.

Bramo placed Graham's reply on Victor's desk.

Victor read it through.

"Share intelligence privately."

He read those words aloud, smiled a bit.

"The British still can't let go of their dignity."

Casare smirked beside him.

"Let them hold on to it. Holding and holding, until it's gone."

Victor stood up, walked to the window.

Outside, the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma flowed steadily and orderly.

"Tell them, it's acceptable. But there's one condition: the shared intelligence must include all activities of Turner within the United Kingdom."

He turned around.

"If his people have ever trafficked drugs, taken money, or killed anyone in the UK— I want to know."

Bramo nodded.

"One more thing," Victor said, "Tell Graham, don't think about dragging it out. If they don't reply within three days, forget it."

He paused.

"We're not the ones begging."

March 9, 1998, Albanian coast.

Night.

No moon. The waves crashed against the rocks, making a dull sound.

Cheku stood behind a rock, watching the sea at a distance.

Three speedboats were approaching.

No lights, no sound, only the low rumble of engines, getting closer and closer.

"They're here."

Scorpion stood beside him, squinting at the three speedboats.

The first one reached the shore. A few men jumped off the boat and began unloading. Crates, one after another, piled up on the beach.

Cheku walked over, pried open one of the crates.