Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1822 - 798: Hit the Snake at Its Weak Spot—Take Down the British! (Part 4)

He pulled out another document: "The Edinburgh Royal Bank, Scotland headquarters, the vault is on the second basement level. But their alarm system control room is on the first floor, the guards change shifts every night at eight, leaving a seven-minute gap. If the main power is cut during this time, the backup power takes ninety seconds to kick in—enough to blast open the outer vault door."

The warehouse was silent. Only the crackling of the fire could be heard.

"How did you get this information?" Duncan asked suspiciously.

"We have 'friends' in the United Kingdom," Sean replied vaguely, "civil servants, former military personnel, people disillusioned with the system. They provide intelligence, we analyze it, then hand it over to those in need."

McTavish picked up the bank's floor plan, scrutinizing it carefully. It was too detailed, detailed enough that it didn't seem fabricated.

"What's the price?" he asked.

"No price," Sean said, "Once successful, issue a statement mentioning 'international solidarity' and 'resisting global capitalist tyranny', the world is not capitalist!!!!!!"

"Are you going to promote socialism!?!?" someone exclaimed.

Sean laughed, "To survive, I would even believe in Satan."

"Is that all?" McTavish asked with a frown.

"That's all." Sean looked at him, "Angus, we know your story. We know about the distillery, your son, we know that fatso at the tax office later got promoted, transferred to London, with a 30% pay raise. The world is unfair, but we believe change can start with an explosion."

These words struck a chord with McTavish.

He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.

"What if we want to target something bigger?" he ventured, "Like a military target?"

Sean's expression turned serious, "That depends on how 'big.' Attacking barracks or military police could result in full-scale repression, your movement might be directly labeled as terrorism, losing public sympathy. We recommend symbolic targets. For instance, a military truck transporting documents, or an unguarded communications base."

"I've heard a military train is passing through Scotland."

"We've checked that line."

Sean shook his head, "It's not transporting armored vehicles, it's outdated equipment sent for dismantling. Blowing it up would only make headlines without any practical significance. Plus, it's heavily guarded, two platoons of soldiers, helicopter patrols. Your twenty-plus people would be sent to their deaths."

McTavish stared at him, trying to gauge if it was a warning or intimidation. Sean's gaze was candid.

"We need to consider." McTavish ultimately said.

"Of course." Sean stood up, leaving behind the documents and a business card with only an email address, "Get back to me within three days. Remember, we suggest the operation date between December 22nd and 24th, during that time security is most lax, everyone is thinking about the holidays."

He walked towards the door, then turned back: "Also, beware of those 'friends' who give you weapons without asking for money. Historically, many revolutions finally discovered that their patrons were the same type of people they wanted to overthrow—just more cunning."

"All… for world peace!"

After Sean left, the warehouse was filled with arguments all night.

Duncan insisted it was a trap.

Callum and the young man were fired up, feeling the opportunity had come. McTavish didn't speak, just repeatedly examined those documents.

At three in the morning, the snow stopped.

He walked out of the warehouse, smoking in the snow. In the distance were dark mountains, further away was supposed to be the lights of Glasgow, but they were obscured by clouds.

He recalled his father's words, an old miner whose leg was broken during the 1984 miners' strike: "Angus, there are two kinds of people in this country: those who eat steak at the table, and those who pick up bone scraps under the table. If you're content to pick scraps, then don't complain. If you're not content…"

His father didn't finish, but McTavish understood.

He extinguished his cigarette in the snow.

"Notify everyone."

He walked back into the warehouse, his voice hoarse but determined, "Prepare according to the plan. Target: the tax office and the bank."

"What about the military train?" Callum asked.

"Not now." McTavish looked at his son's excited eyes, his heart aching, "Wait until we have a solid foothold."

Paris, France, Apartment in the 16th District

December 15, 1996.

Count Eduardo de Bourbon-Parma put down the Figaro Newspaper, rubbed his temples. The article criticizing the Phoenix Society had been published for a week, he had received three threat letters, two anonymous phone calls, but the police only made a perfunctory record.

"A bunch of madmen living in the 19th century."

He said to his wife, "The Habsburg family? They even sold their ancestral residence in Vienna to the Americans as a hotel!"

His wife was arranging flowers: "Darling, maybe you should keep a low profile. I heard that Friedrich has connections with the Eastern European gangs."

"Gangs?" Eduardo scoffed, "At most, they're bodyguards that some out-of-date aristocrats pooled money to hire. The real danger is the government, not these cosplayers."

He stood up and walked to the wine cabinet, he was having dinner with a few old friends tonight, needed to bring a good bottle of wine. He chose a 1990 Mouton, was bending over to check the label when the phone rang.

"Eduardo?" The voice on the phone was hurried, it was his cousin, a distant relative of the Spanish Royal Family, "Did you see the news? Carl von Württemberg died!"

"What?"

"Last night in Berlin. He was robbed outside a café, hit by three bullets. The police said it might be an Eastern European immigrant gang, but…the timing is so coincidental, you know he was recently in contact with the German government, right?"

Eduardo felt a chill.

He walked to the window, lifted a corner of the curtain. The street outside was empty, only a garbage truck collecting trash.

"Could be a coincidence." He forced himself to stay calm, "Public safety in Berlin has always been bad."