The sun had just set in the west of the Caribbean Sea when the deck of the "Sake" cargo ship slowly opened to both sides, and an MH-60R special operations helicopter rose gently from below the ship's hold.
Dressed in a wetsuit, Wilson stepped out of the cabin door with his subordinates, taking long strides toward the helicopter whose rotors were slowly spinning.
"Watcher" was the CIA's Secret Action Departnt's top operational team. They weren't attached to any country's divisions, but were directly under the command of the Secret Action Departnt's director, Kelly.
Therefore, their operational budget was ample, and they had the highest level of authority—seeking to achieve the objective at all costs.
But for this very reason, their identities were also special; on the surface, they had no ties to the CIA. Their personal identities wouldn't leave a trace that could link to the CIA, and if anything went wrong, they were on their own to face the consequences.
A dozen minutes later, the helicopter took to the skies.
Inside the cabin, everyone was busy preparing small underwater propellers.
They had to enter the water 12 nautical miles from the boundary line and then use the propellers to subrge and infiltrate Margarita Island.
Currently, Venezuela had a Navy Land Battle Camp stationed on the island, equipped with a radar station and a mariti patrol team.
However, their patrol routes and timings were as transparent as an open map under the scrutiny of Old Arica's advanced spy satellites.
The MH-60R helicopter skimd the sea surface at less than thirty ters of height, and after less than half an hour, the pilot gave a thumbs up to Wilson and the others in the back of the cabin, and then shouted, "Ready to dive!"
Then, he slowly brought the helicopter down to about ten ters above the water surface and began to hover.
The mbers on board, including Wilson, quickly buckled on their diving goggles and fins, grabbed the mini underwater propellers, and equipnt bags, and tossed them into the sea.
The strong airflow from the rotors whipped the sea surface into ripples. In the dimming light, waves of white surf rose.
One after another, the "Watchers" hesitated not a mont before jumping down, with arms crossed over their chests and legs held together to minimize water resistance upon entry.
Thump—
Thump—
Thump—
The team mbers entered the water in succession.
Then, they skillfully located their equipnt bags and mini propellers, secured them together, and subrged into the water. At a depth of about six ters, they successfully completed orientation and positioning before pairing up and heading in the direction of Margarita Island.
After all the mbers had entered the water, the helicopter slowly climbed, then gently tilted its nose, turning back towards the cargo ship.
Forty minutes later, near a rocky beach on Margarita Island, several dark heads erged from the water.
Wilson scanned the surroundings, took out an IR identifier, and flashed it three tis toward the shore.
His signals were promptly t with a response.
From the darkness on shore, three small clusters of red light flickered.
"They're over there."
The group reactivated their propellers and quickly reached the shore.
Teammates on land ca forward, and with much effort, they lifted the equipnt and propellers onto the shore and entered a forest next to the beach.
Firearms, night vision gear, communication equipnt...
The team mbers skillfully assembled various pieces of equipnt in an orderly fashion, then changed into regular clothes. Niki, the lead role of the night, took out a crop top and a pair of short shorts from her equipnt bag and slipped into them with ease, casually tying her charming chestnut hair into a ponytail.
Then, she checked the contents of her shoulder bag—
Makeup case, lipstick, perfu.
None of these were ordinary items.
Take the makeup box, for example—it had two layers. On top were items like compact powder, but the bottom contained a communication headset and transmitter.
When you twisted open the lipstick, a miniature transmitter with a .22 caliber bullet was hidden inside, ready for use in killing soone in a critical situation.
The perfu was no ordinary fragrance.
It was an anesthetic agent; sprayed on soone's face, they would lose the ability to resist for a short while, instantly collapsing unconscious to the ground.
Everything was ready. Niki put on a pair of exaggeratedly large earrings—her concealed communication devices.
"Alright, you guys keep busy, I'm off to do the real work."
Having said that, she walked away from the grove, her casual sandals swaying with each step like a professional model, quickly disappearing into the distance.
At that mont, Song Heping was indeed at the "Beautiful Sumr Day" bar, drinking with White Bear and his compatriots.
The "Beautiful Sumr Day" bar was right on the beach—a typical beach bar constructed mainly from wood, with a roof made from dried coconut leaves that had been tied together. Outside, there were over thirty beach tables and chairs. The bar itself was quite large, with room for more than twenty tables. It had a typical South Arican vibe, complete with darts, pool, and a jukebox—things tourists were fond of; and a bell hung above the bar, which anyone could ring to buy a round for the whole place. Each ti a round was ordered, the bartender would ring the large bell and loudly announce who was buying drinks for everyone that night.
White Bear and Samir had gone to play pool.
Having soaked up British culture, Samir was far better at billiards than White Bear, who had always lingered around the military in Russia.
White Bear kept losing money, the Queen scowling at his side, nagging like a bossy mother-in-law from soone else's family. Curse words in Russian sounded like a PKM machine gun firing at full force—incessant, making people burst out laughing.
The bar was bustling, filled with the scents of alcohol and tobacco.
Song Heping, in fact, preferred quiet, but everyone insisted on going to the bar, and as the boss, he couldn't refuse.
After all, the company was paying. He couldn't be stingy.
So, Song Heping found a table to sit at, ordered a large beer and so snacks, and drank quietly.
Gradually, it reached ten o'clock in the evening.
Song Heping glanced at his watch, thinking about getting up to return to the guest house.
Just then, as he stood up, a whiff of fragrance assailed his nostrils, and soone bumped into him.
Next, Song Heping felt his elbow hit sothing soft, and a drink whooshed onto his crotch.
"Damn it!"
He instinctively stepped back, but it was too late.
His crotch was completely soaked.
"SORRY! SORRY!"
A red-faced woman hastily pulled out a handkerchief from her bag; perhaps she was drunk, as she started to wipe his crotch without any hesitation.
She apologized in a slurred speech while wiping.
She said it was an accident, then again that she shouldn't have drunk so much.
With her wiping like that, Song Heping felt sowhat embarrassed.
After all, his experience with the opposite sex had been limited; while with Angel, it was mostly her taking initiative and him being passive.
Thus, his face heated up at that mont.
Now he could see what his elbow had encountered.
And at that mont, the woman was bent over wiping for him, her pitifully loose and short t-shirt that didn't even cover her belly button totally failing to hide the splendid view as she displayed her proud assets in front of Song Heping, unobstructedly.
The most fatal part was that Song Heping realized she wasn't wearing any underwear; everything that could be seen, that he wanted and didn't want to see, was in full view...
He suddenly felt a fire ignite at his life-gate point, his little brother starting to stir with eagerness, becoming politely erect.
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