Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1838 - 801: Happy New Year!!! (2)
Capítulo 1838: Chapter 801: Happy New Year!!! (2)
“What if we fail?”
“Then you will become martyrs, inspiring more people to resist. For us, the outcome is the same.”
Cold calculations, undisguised.
McTavish looked at the others in the room.
Robbie nodded, Ian grinned, Calum MacDonald adjusted his glasses: “From a historical perspective, all revolutions have external forces involved. The United States had France’s support, the IRA had Libya’s support… what matters is who ultimately wins.”
“What can you provide?” McTavish asked the person on the phone, “Besides weapons.”
“Intelligence. We will tell you the army’s deployment, patrol routes, supply convoy timings. Communication support—we have ways to jam military radios. Escape route planning, safe house network. Even… if you catch a big fish, we can help arrange international exposure.”
“The price?”
“When you act, you must call yourselves the ‘True Scottish Freedom Army’. We will help you produce and disseminate videos and statements. Additionally, if you capture senior military officers or government officials, you need to share the interrogation content with us.”
McTavish sneered, “You want intelligence.”
“Each takes what they need. You want independence, we want to weaken the United Kingdom. In the face of a common enemy, we can be temporary allies.”
The call ended.
McTavish put down the satellite phone, looking at the people in the room: “They said we are the ‘heirs of the Highland Freedom Army’. Do you know what that means? It means Duncan, Calum, and all the captured brothers, they are the first generation. We are the second generation, either let the spark extinguish, or turn it into a wildfire.”
Robbie grabbed an AK-74, pulling the bolt: “I choose wildfire.”
“Me too,” Ian said.
Calum MacDonald took out a notebook and map from his backpack: “We need to make a plan. The army just arrived, they are most chaotic and arrogant. They think we are just The Mob and will underestimate us. This is our advantage.”
McTavish walked to the window, wiping away the fog on the glass. Outside, it was a pitch-black Scottish winter night, the wind and snow howling.
He thought of his father, the old miner who lost a leg, and what he said on his deathbed: “Angus, I learned only one thing in my life—when you kneel down, you’ll never stand up again.”
“Then let’s do it.” He turned around, his eyes rekindled with the flame from the organization’s first protest, “But we have to do it our way. They want us to call ourselves the ‘True Scottish Freedom Army’, fine. They want intelligence, fine. But we won’t be puppets for anyone, not for London, nor for these mysterious ‘friends’. We fight for Scotland.”
He pointed at the map: “The first strike must be fierce, quick, and hit where no one expects. Not in Edinburgh, not in Glasgow—it’s here.”
His finger landed in the central Scottish highlands, in Perth County.
“A9 Road,” Calum MacDonald responded immediately, “the main artery connecting the highland and lowland, essential for military supplies.”
“A platoon-sized patrol, every three days, transporting ammunition and supplies to the northern outposts.”
On the A9 Road, northern section of Perth County.
The snow that fell all night stopped, the sky washed into a lead-gray.
A convoy of three Land Rover “Saracen” armored vehicles moved at a speed of forty miles per hour on the snow-covered road. The lead vehicle had an L7A2 general-purpose machine gun mounted on top, with the gunman wearing a cold-weather mask, vigilantly scanning the slopes on both sides.
The vehicle bodies were painted in white with the words “Highland Operation-Royal Anglian Regiment”.
In the passenger seat of the middle vehicle, Lieutenant Martin Crawford was trying to stay awake. At 23, he graduated from Sandhurst Royal Military Academy just a year ago, this was his first real deployment—if “assisting the police in maintaining stability” counts as real combat.
“Boring as hell,” the driver, a Second Class Soldier named Davis, grumbled, “I thought coming to Scotland meant fighting terrorists, but all we’ve done is drive around. Haven’t even seen someone throwing rocks.”
“Stay alert,” Captain Crawford said, though even he felt he was overthinking it.
In the past two days, they had set up three checkpoints around Inverness, searched over twenty vehicles, confiscating nothing but a few hunting knives and a lot of illegal whiskey. The locals greeted them with silence and cold stares, hostility more unsettling than bullets.
The radio crackled, it was the leader in the lead vehicle: “There’s a curve ahead about a mile up, the slopes on both sides are steep, keep an eye out.”
“Got it.” Crawford replied, picking up his binoculars to peer ahead.
Here the road curved sharply, the left side was a pine-covered slope, the right was an icy creek valley. A typical ambush terrain, something he learned at military academy.
But this was Scotland, not Northern Ireland. The so-called “Highland Freedom Army” were just robbers, no way they’d dare to ambush the Regular Army.
He put down the binoculars.
Just then, on the left slope, a snow-covered pine suddenly moved.
Not a tree.
A person, wearing a white camouflage suit, with a long tube on their shoulder.
“RPG!” Crawford only had time to shout the word.
The rocket dragged a gray-white tail trail, diving down at 300 meters per second.
The first shot.
It accurately hit the lead vehicle’s side armor. The Saracen was designed to resist rifle bullets and shrapnel, but was almost defenseless against a shaped charge warhead.
The metal jet sliced through 8mm of steel like a hot knife through butter, bouncing crazily within the cramped interior. The fuel tank ignited, the ammunition began to sympathetically explode.
