Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1821 - 798: Strike the Snake at Its Weakest Point—Finish Off the British! (Part 3)
Old man Friedrich's eyelids drooped slightly. He thought for a moment, and then nodded to continue speaking.
"Complete everything before Christmas."
"We need to clear our ranks before next spring's 'European Monarchist Conference'. Mikhail, Simeon, and Henry have verbally agreed to support our 'European Federation' plan, under the condition that they receive corresponding 'King' titles once it's done."
!!
Restoration, huh?
Ivan couldn't help but interject: "Sir, with all due respect, assassinating members of the Royal Family—even those in exile—would trigger comprehensive investigations by the International Criminal Police Organization and intelligence agencies worldwide. We should be low-key now."
"Low-key?"
Friedrich laughed, "Ivan, do you know why one European Royal Family after another has toppled? It's not because of the people's awakening, it's because they were too low-key! Too docile! Kings should be revered, they should be feared, not be seen by people on TV changing their child's diapers!"
He stood up and walked to the window, gazing at the pastoral view of Provence outside: "In Queen Victoria's era, when a European monarch spoke, the cabinet trembled, and armies mobilized. And now? When the Queen of England delivers a televised speech, half the people online mock her; they've lost their reverence for royal authority! This is decay! What we want to restore is not the throne, but authority!"
He suddenly turned his head, his face wearing an unidentifiable expression, "I want to be Emperor! Damn it, I fucking want to be Emperor!"
No one spoke in the room.
Only the ticking of the old-fashioned clock.
…
Scotland, Highlands, some abandoned farm in Loharsh Parish
Angus MacTavish twisted open the whiskey bottle cap with freezing fingers and took a big swig. The liquid scorched his throat, bringing brief warmth.
Three camping lights lit the warehouse, casting a dim glow.
About twenty men sat around a stove made from a modified diesel barrel, with a pot of thick soup of indiscernible ingredients simmering atop.
On the wall hung the Scottish Saltire and a hand-drawn map marked with a dozen red crosses.
"Those parasites in London."
The speaker was Duncan, a former Royal Engineer missing his left ear, a reminder of an explosive disposal incident in Northern Ireland, "They drain us to feed those bankers and the Royal Family. Diana died? I don't give a damn! The money for one of her dresses could sustain my whole family for a year!"
Some echoed his sentiment, while others remained silent.
MacTavish took another gulp of his drink. Stocky build, a nose red with rosacea, and deep wrinkles marked his face. He glanced at the young man in the corner—his son, Callum, 22, who should be at university but was here holding a newly issued AK-74, both fear and excitement in his eyes.
"Have the weapons been checked?" MacTavish asked.
"Checked," Duncan nodded, "AKs are new, RPG rockets are well sealed. The Russian who delivered the gear said he can provide anti-tank land mines next time."
"What price?"
"Didn't say. Only mentioned 'revolutionary sponsorship doesn't need money'." Duncan whispered, "Angus, I feel something's off. There's no free lunch, let alone for arms."
MacTavish already knew.
He'd seen Argentines sink the Sheffield with French missiles in the Falkland Islands, knew how costly modern weapons were. That batch of gear was worth at least thirty thousand British Pounds on the black market. Who was so generous?
But the day the distillery was shut down,
the smile on that fat tax officer's face, he wouldn't forget. His wife cried over the phone about failing mortgage payments, he wouldn't forget. When he picked Callum up from the police station, the bruises on his son's face, he wouldn't forget.
"They want Scotland in chaos."
MacTavish finally said, "Fine, then let there be chaos. But after the chaos, it's us Scots who decide our future—not London, not some mysterious 'sponsor'."
The warehouse door was pushed open, wind and snow poured in. The watchman Colly rushed in, covered in snow: "Someone's coming! A car, just one man!"
Everyone grabbed their weapons. MacTavish signaled them to stay calm, and he walked to the window, lifting a corner of the tarpaulin.
The snow outside was heavy, visibility less than fifty meters. An old Land Rover was parked at the farm gate, headlights off, a man disembarked, dressed in ordinary winter clothes, unarmed, carrying a suitcase.
"Only one man?" Duncan was skeptical, "Could be a lure."
"If he were police, we'd already be surrounded by helicopters." MacTavish set the tarp down, "Let him in. Callum, take two people through the back door to check for any ambush."
Five minutes later, the stranger was brought into the warehouse.
He was about forty, black hair, his face reddened by cold, speaking English with a hint of an Irish accent.
"I'm Shaun McCormack," he set down the suitcase, rubbing his hands, "'International Revolutionaries Alliance' representative. We've communicated via email."
MacTavish scrutinized him: "You said you spoke Gaelic."
Shaun smiled and spoke fluently.
The pronunciation was somewhat stiff but grammatically correct. It was Irish Gaelic, not Scottish, but enough to prove he wasn't from Military Intelligence Five.
The British wouldn't bother learning it.
Embarrassing...
"Sit," MacTavish pointed at an empty oil barrel, "You said you could provide assistance?"
Shaun opened the suitcase. Inside were no weapons, just documents: maps, building blueprints, security guard shift schedules, and photographs.
"Glasgow Tax Bureau Building, every Wednesday afternoon at four, an armored vehicle arrives to collect cash taxes." Shaun spread the map, "Typically, there are two guards armed with shotguns, but they're not particularly alert—they haven't had trouble in three years. The building's rear door leads to an underground garage, where surveillance cameras broke last month. The city council doesn't have the funds to fix them."
