Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1839 - 801: Happy New Year!!!
Capítulo 1839: Chapter 801: Happy New Year!!!
The entire vehicle turned into a burning iron coffin with a loud bang, and the gunner was blown out, landing motionless in the snow.
“Enemy attack! Reverse! Reverse!” Crawford screamed into the intercom, but the only response was static – communication interference.
The second RPG followed quickly, hitting the hood of the last vehicle. The engine compartment burst into flames, black smoke billowing up.
Now only the middle vehicle where Crawford was remained.
“Get out! Establish a defensive line!” He kicked open the car door and rolled into the roadside ditch. The other five soldiers in the vehicle also hurriedly jumped out, using the vehicle as cover to return fire with their rifles.
But where was the enemy?
The white camouflaged suits on the hillside blended seamlessly with the snow, only the occasional muzzle flashes could be seen. The sound of automatic weapon fire echoed through the valley, bullets clanging against the armored vehicle.
Crawford crouched behind a tire, firing two short bursts from his L85A1 rifle in the general direction. The recoil jolted his shoulder to numbness, but he wasn’t sure if he hit anyone.
“How many are there?” Davis crawled up next to him, his face pale.
“Don’t know! Ten? Twenty?” Crawford peeked out, trying to observe.
A bullet whizzed past his helmet, hitting the rocks behind him, splattering his face with fragments.
“They have a sniper!” someone shouted.
Crawford’s heart sank. An ambush, RPGs, automatic weapons, a sniper, communication interference… This wasn’t ragtag militia; it was a professional military operation.
“Davis! Use a smoke grenade! We need to retreat to the creek below!” he ordered.
Davis, trembling, pulled out a smoke grenade from his gear, pulled the pin, and threw it.
White smoke began to spread.
At that moment, Crawford saw it.
On the hillside, about two hundred meters away, a white figure stood up, and it wasn’t an RPG on his shoulder; it was a thicker tube—
“AT4!” he shouted hoarsely.
A Swedish-made anti-tank rocket, priced at five thousand US dollars on the black market, theoretically shouldn’t be in the hands of Scottish terrorists.
But theory didn’t matter today.
The rocket hissed over, hitting the roof of the middle Saracen vehicle. The thinnest part of the armor was penetrated, igniting the remaining ammunition inside.
A massive fireball erupted, blasting Crawford and Davis away.
The world slowed to a crawl.
Crawford spun in mid-air, seeing the burning vehicle debris scatter like fireworks, seeing Davis slam into a rock, his neck twisted at an impossible angle, seeing the snow stained dark red, seeing those white figures on the hillside start charging down.
He crashed into the snow, a sharp pain shooting from his left leg—it was broken.
The gunfire stopped.
An eerie silence, broken only by the crackling of flames and the groans of the wounded.
The sound of boots crunching in the snow came closer.
Crawford lifted his head to see several figures closing in. They were all dressed in white camouflaged suits, faces painted with oil, the muzzles of their AK-74s still smoking.
The leader removed his snow goggles, revealing a middle-aged face, with a bulbous nose, deep-set wrinkles, eyes as cold and hard as Highland rocks in winter.
“Rank?” the man asked in English, his Scottish accent thick.
“Lie…Lieutenant.” Crawford gritted out a response, “According to the Geneva Conventions, you must—”
“Geneva Conventions?”
The man laughed, but the smile was devoid of warmth, “In 1972, in Northern Ireland, my cousin was captured by your paratroopers. They said he ‘tried to escape’ and emptied two magazines. Did you talk about the Geneva Conventions then?”
He squatted down, yanking the ID tags from Crawford’s chest, looking at the name: “Lieutenant Martin Crawford, Royal Anglian Regiment. A good unit, historically suppressed the Indian Mutiny, crushed the Irish Rebellion, now here to suppress Scotland.”
“We were just following orders…”
“Orders.” The man repeated the word, standing up and telling his comrade, “Record this.”
Another person took out a video camera from a backpack, starting to film the burning convoy, the bodies on the ground, the wounded soldiers.
Crawford realized what they were doing—creating propaganda material.
“Who are you people?” he asked.
The man turned back, staring directly into the camera lens: “We are the True Scottish Freedom Army. Today, in Perth County, we ambushed a patrol of the British occupying forces. Destroyed three vehicles, killed nine enemy soldiers, and captured four. This is a legitimate response to London’s military occupation.”
He stepped up to Crawford, pushing the gun barrel against his forehead: “Tell London that every inch of Scotland will become a graveyard for England’s soldiers. Tell Charles that next time he comes to Scotland, we’ll have an even better welcome ready.”
The camera’s red light was blinking.
Crawford closed his eyes, bracing for the gunshot.
But the shot never came.
The man holstered his weapon, nodding to the cameraman: “That’s enough. Tie the prisoners up, leave two to guard them. The rest, clear the battlefield, take any usable weapons and ammo, we’ll withdraw in ten minutes.”
“Not killing him?” the cameraman asked.
“Dead soldiers are martyrs, living captives are burdens,” the man said. “Let London worry about rescuing them, explaining things to the public. It’s more useful than corpses.”
He gave Crawford one last look, “You’re lucky, Lieutenant. Today, I don’t want to get my hands dirty.”
The white figures swiftly moved into action. They dragged out usable weapons from the burning wreckage: two L7A2 machine guns, five L85A1 rifles, ammunition, radio equipment. They took ID tags, weapons, body armor from the dead.
Their efficiency was terrifying, like a real military unit.
