Chapter 2057 - 846: Outlaws!!!_3

Inside were brand-new AK-47s, gleaming with oil, reeking of gun grease.

He picked one up and weighed it in his hand.

Good stuff.

Scorpion walked up beside him.

"General, this batch is free. Next batch, you pay."

Cheku looked at him.

"How much?"

Scorpion smiled.

"Mr. Black Mamba doesn't want money. He wants you to do him a favor."

Cheku's eyes narrowed.

"What kind of favor?"

Scorpion leaned in, lowered his voice.

"He heard there's an airport in Kosovo, called Priština. That airport is in NATO's hands now. But his people need to borrow that runway, put down a few planes."

Cheku was silent for a few seconds.

"What's on the planes?"

Scorpion didn't answer.

Cheku watched him.

"If you don't spell it out, I'm not doing it."

Scorpion was silent for a few seconds.

Then he spoke:

"People."

March 10, 1998, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

When Bramo pushed the door open, Victor was reading the latest report from Congo.

"Victor, news from Kosovo."

Victor looked up.

"Talk."

"Cheku has agreed to let Black Mamba's people use Priština Airport. On the condition that his men accompany them the whole time, no photos, no records."

Victor was silent for a few seconds.

"What does Black Mamba want to do?"

Bramo shook his head.

"No idea. But it's definitely not something good."

Victor stood up and walked to the map.

He looked at where Kosovo was, at where Priština Airport was, at where the Albanian coast was.

Those points connected into a line.

"He's moving people."

He muttered.

Bramo froze for a moment.

"Moving people? What kind of people?"

Victor didn't answer.

He stared at that line, silent for a long time.

Then he turned and said to Bramo:

"Tell Bennett to lock that airport down in surveillance. If Black Mamba's people land there, I want to know what they look like, what they say, what they do."

He paused.

"And inform Graham, the intel exchange can go on. But add one clause: the British lines in Kosovo, we get half."

Bramo froze for a moment.

"Will they agree?"

Victor looked at him.

"They need the name in Ivanov's mouth. They have no choice."

March 11, 1998, London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham looked at the new terms just transmitted from Mexico City, his fingers tapping on the desk.

"Split the Kosovo network fifty-fifty."

Ellis stood by his side.

"Their appetite is getting bigger and bigger."

Graham raised his head.

"They're holding what we want."

He was silent for a few seconds.

Then he spoke:

"Tell them, agreed. But one condition: intelligence from Kosovo has to be shared in real time. They can't wait till they've finished analyzing it to hand it over."

Ellis froze for a moment.

"Real-time sharing? That's basically—"

"Basically exposing our people to them," Graham cut him off. "I know. But this is not the time to talk about safety."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the surface of the Thames River was a dull grey, a few barges drifting on it.

"That Black Mamba, what is he trying to do?"

He muttered.

"Moving people… what kind of people?"

March 12, 1998, Priština Airport.

Night.

An unmarked transport plane sat on the runway.

The cabin door opened, a group of people came down.

More than thirty. Men, women, children. Wearing ordinary clothes, faces blank.

They lined up and were herded into several trucks that had been waiting there.

The trucks drove off.

Scorpion stood at the edge of the runway, watching the direction those trucks disappeared into.

Cheku walked up beside him.

"Who are those people?"

Scorpion didn't answer.

Cheku watched him.

"I'm asking you, who are those people?"

Scorpion turned his head.

"General, you don't need to know."

He paused.

"All you need to know is, the next batch of goods will be twice as much as this one."

Cheku was silent for a few seconds.

Then he turned and walked away.

He knew he was already in too deep. Too deep to pull himself out.

March 13, 1998, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

When Bennett pushed the door open, Victor was looking at satellite photos of Priština Airport.

"Mr. Victor, we've identified those people."

Victor looked up.

"What people?"

"That group who came off the plane at Priština Airport."

Bennett handed over a file.

"Thirty-seven people. All Chechens. Thirteen men, sixteen women, eight children."

Victor stared at the file, his fingers tapping the desk.

"Chechens…"

He muttered.

"They're at war, fighting Russia. Three years now, tens of thousands dead. The ones who survive have nowhere to go."

Bennett nodded.

"Now they've come to Kosovo. Delivered by Black Mamba."

Victor was silent for a long time.

Then he stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the Sky over Mexico City was very blue, the sunlight was bright.

"That Black Mamba is smarter than I thought."

Bramo froze for a moment.

"Smarter?"

"He's not staying in Africa anymore," Victor said. "Too far, too chaotic, too easy to get watched. He's sending people to Kosovo, right under the Europeans' noses."

He turned around.

"What are Europeans most afraid of right now? Refugees. KB members. People fleeing war zones. Now Black Mamba's delivering them right to their doorstep—this isn't delivering people, it's delivering explosives."

Bramo's face changed.

"You mean—"

Victor cut him off.

"Tell Graham, the intel exchange can continue. But add one clause: we stay out of whatever happens in Kosovo."

Bramo was stunned.

"Stay out?"

"Stay out," Victor said. "Let the Europeans deal with it themselves. It's their front yard."

He paused.

"We just watch."

London, Thames River Police Headquarters.

Graham looked at the latest message just sent from Mexico City, his hands trembling.

Chechens. Thirty-seven. Priština Airport.

He put the file down.

"Ellis."

Ellis walked in from the doorway.

"Here."

"Contact Military Intelligence Five and the Sixth Department, emergency meeting. Now."

Ellis froze for a moment.

"What's going on?"

Graham looked at him.

"Europe is about to blow."

March 14, 1998, night, Brussels, European Union Headquarters.

Emergency meeting.

The delegates of each country wore grim expressions.

The Italy delegate spoke first: "We're intercepting more and more refugee boats in the Mediterranean. Three thousand last week, five thousand this week. If those Chechens are mixed in there—"

The France delegate cut him off: "Not 'if', 'already'. Intelligence shows the first thirty-seven have already entered Kosovo. Where do they go next? Albania? Macedonia? Greece?"

The Germany delegate was silent for a few seconds.

Then he spoke:

"Who sent them here?"

No one answered.

But everyone knew the answer.

Before dawn, Albanian coast.

Another speedboat came in to shore.

Another batch of people came off the boat.

More than fifty. Men, women, children.

Scorpion stood on the beach, watching them.

Cheku stood beside him, face dark as iron.

"What the fuck batch is this already?"

Scorpion didn't answer.

Cheku grabbed him by the collar.

"I'm asking you, which batch is this?"

Scorpion looked at him, his eyes very calm.

"General, haven't you already guessed?"

Cheku let go.

He watched those figures slowly disappear into the night and suddenly felt he'd just done the thing he would regret most in his entire life.

But it was already too late.

...