Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1827 - 799: The World Has Suffered England for Too Long! (Part 4)
The blueprint is correct.
Behind the security door is a narrow passage that connects two buildings. Duncan rushed over and pushed open the door at the other end—
He collided head-on with a man in a suit.
Not a cop.
The man moved quickly, sidestepping Duncan's lunge while chopping at the back of his neck with his right hand.
Duncan's vision went black, and he collapsed to the ground.
In the blur, he heard the man's voice, speaking English with a slight accent: "Target A captured. Group B, clear the scene traces, put the weapon on him."
Someone searched him and took away his AK-74, replacing it with a handgun—this wasn't his gun, his gun was still at his waist.
"Why..." Duncan struggled to ask.
The man squatted down, leaning close to his ear: "Sorry, Duncan Macalock. You're expendable. But don't worry, you won't die; you'll just be in prison for a few years. By the time you're out, Scotland might already be independent."
Duncan wanted to curse, but he was struck on the back of his neck again, completely losing consciousness.
...
At the same time, at the Edinburgh Royal Bank.
The operation here was unusually smooth.
At four-twenty in the afternoon, the bank vault alarm suddenly blared. Security personnel rushed into the surveillance room, only to find all the screens were static.
"Power failure!" someone shouted, "Backup power takes ninety seconds to start!"
Ninety seconds is enough for many things to happen.
The outer vault door was blown open with plastic explosives, while the inner door's combination lock was cracked with professional tools. Six masked men rushed in, stuffing bundles of cash and some bags of uncut diamonds into canvas bags.
The entire process only took forty-five seconds.
During the retreat, they encountered two security guards in the corridor. But the guards didn't fire; instead, they raised their hands: "The back door is secure, the car is waiting for you."
McTavish hesitated for a moment but didn't have time to think it over. He led the group to the back door, and sure enough, a van was waiting. The driver wore a mask, his face unclear.
"Get in!" the driver shouted.
The vehicle merged into Edinburgh's evening traffic. McTavish took deep breaths as he watched out the rear window—there were no police cars in pursuit.
"Glasgow over there..." he remembered Duncan and Callum.
"Failed," the driver said coldly, "There was an ambush, two dead, three captured. Police are now searching the whole city, but the focus is on Glasgow; Edinburgh's response will be thirty minutes late."
McTavish clenched his fist: "Who betrayed us?"
"I don't know. But the International Revolutionaries Alliance warned you that there might be a mole."
The driver glanced at him, "Where to now? Can't go back to the farm, police might already know the location."
"Go to the backup spot, the hunting lodge outside Inverness," McTavish said. It was a location only he knew, not even Duncan.
The driver nodded, changing direction and heading north.
McTavish checked the stolen goods: around five hundred thousand British Pounds in cash, diamonds estimated to be worth over two million. It's a fortune, enough to keep them hidden for a long time, even buy more weapons.
But he couldn't feel happy.
Callum was dead, Duncan's fate was uncertain, and three brothers were captured. The tax bureau operation was clearly a trap, indicating their plan had long been leaked.
Who leaked it? The bank operation went so smoothly, it felt like someone was secretly aiding.
Conflicting information made his head ache.
"Driver," he asked, "Are you from the 'Alliance'?"
The driver was silent for a few seconds: "I'm just paid to do the job. Someone paid me five thousand pounds to be here at this time to pick people up. I don't know who you are, and I don't want to know."
A typical mercenary answer.
McTavish relaxed his vigilance slightly, figuring if the other party were police or agents, they wouldn't be so direct.
The vehicle drove out of Edinburgh and onto the A9 Road.
The night deepened, and the headlights illuminated the road ahead.
What McTavish didn't know was that, two kilometers behind them, a gray sedan followed them leisurely. The person inside was reporting via an encrypted phone:
"Target heading towards Inverness, likely going to a backup hideout. Should we continue to track?"
On the other end of the call, the reply: "Follow until the location is confirmed, then you can withdraw. Send the location anonymously to Military Intelligence Five, remember, not the local police, send directly to London. Make them believe this is a 'concerned citizen' tip."
"Understood."
The gray sedan continued to follow, like a ghost in the night.
London, MI6 headquarters.
Acting Director Graham stared at the Scottish map on the wall, his eyes bloodshot. In the past twenty-four hours, he'd slept less than three hours.
"The Glasgow operation was successful, two killed, three captured, one of our people lightly injured," an assistant reported, "Edinburgh operation...completely failed. The bank was robbed of about three million British Pounds in cash and jewelry, the robbers all escaped. Local police arrived to find only a few empty canvas bags."
"Why was there an ambush in Glasgow, but Edinburgh seemed like no one cared?" Graham questioned.
"The intelligence for Glasgow came from an anonymous tip, directly delivered to my office," said the Deputy Director of the Counter-Terrorism Department, an ambitious young man, "Edinburgh police received no warning; their emergency response time is the standard seven minutes, but the robbers completed their heist and escape in three and a half minutes."
"Anonymous tip?" Graham narrowed his eyes, "What did it say?"
"A printed letter, slipped under the door. It simply said 'There will be a heist at the tax bureau building Wednesday afternoon at four.' No signature. I verified the handwriting and paper, couldn't trace the source. But it seemed credible, so I authorized the ambush."
"Why didn't you report it?"
