In the departure hall of Bucharest International Airport, the orderly flow of passengers was suddenly interrupted by a few dull thuds of people collapsing.
Four n in casual clothing fell to the ground almost simultaneously, their bodies convulsing violently, their faces swiftly turning from red to white, and finally to a horrifying bluish-purple. The surrounding passengers were montarily stunned, then erupted in terrified screams.
"Soone's fainted!"
"Call a doctor!"
The crowd quickly dispersed, forming an irregular circle. A few brave passengers approached to take a closer look, but no one dared to touch the fallen strangers—their symptoms were too strange, like acute poisoning or sudden heart attacks.
The airport dical team reacted with comndable speed.
Three minutes later, four dical staff in reflective vests rushed into the hall, pushing a stretcher. Leading them was a male doctor in his forties, with a badge on his chest reading "Dr. Popescu".
"Move aside! Move aside!"
Dr. Popescu shouted loudly as he crouched down to check the nearest fallen person. He skillfully lifted the patient's eyelid—the pupils were already dilated, the pulse was so weak it was almost indistinguishable.
"Adrenaline! Quick!" he called to the nurse as he started CPR.
However, just as the nurse was about to inject, Dr. Popescu's hand suddenly stopped at the patient's waist—there was a strange bulge there.
He lifted the patient's shirt, his face instantly changing.
Concealed communicator, miniature handgun, spare magazine.
"This..." Dr. Popescu's voice caught in his throat, "These people are not ordinary passengers."
"We should call the police imdiately!"
A young female nurse's voice trembled, "These people have weapons!"
"But they're dying!"
Another senior paradic retorted, "Save them first, consider the rest later!"
"Are you crazy? What if they're terrorists?"
"Would terrorists collapse first themselves?"
The dical staff argued back and forth, and the surrounding passengers began murmuring, so taking out their phones to film, others quietly moving back, ready to flee from this place of trouble.
Dr. Popescu took a deep breath and made a decision.
"Listen up!" He raised his voice over the argunt, "Maria, continue CPR; Ion, go get the defibrillator; Elena, contact the airport special police imdiately, tell them there are ard individuals here, but emphasize that they're in a coma, no imdiate threat."
Elena nodded, grabbed the walkie-talkie, and quickly reported the situation. The airport broadcast promptly sounded:
"Please all passengers remain calm, orderly exit the departure hall area B..."
Dr. Popescu continued compressing the patient's chest, but his thoughts had drifted away—these people's symptoms were too strange, no external injuries, no signs of seizures, more like... so kind of nerve toxin.
And just then, hurried footsteps sounded from afar—the airport special police arrived, their rifles already cocked, the police badge on their bulletproof vests gleaming under the lights.
Dr. Popescu slowly stood up, raising his hands.
"We're just dical staff," he said, "but I think... you may need to call soone higher up to handle this."
Ten minutes later, the arrival hall of Bucharest International Airport was brightly lit, noisy with voices, filled with a chaotic mix of police, dical staff, and curious onlookers, the alert line stretched out, crowds wanting to see what had happened.
In the corridor, Song Heping adjusted the gold-rimd glasses on his nose, naturally clasping his passport between his fingers.
Today, his outfit perfectly blended into the image of a business traveler: a dark grey tailored suit, Italian handmade shoes, a low-profile Patek Philippe watch on his left wrist—all identity props ticulously prepared by Henry.
"Maintain a natural breathing rate."
"Keep heart rate under 75, the biotric system at the security checkpoint will monitor physiological indicators."
He kept chanting these little tips in his mind to evade detection.
These days, security at Bucharest Airport had clearly increased.
And he also knew that several agents were watching the exit in the departure hall.
As soon as he appeared, he would quickly be fild by their concealed caras and transmitted to the command system of the safe house, connected to Langley Headquarters' databases for various identification and screening.
But he was well-prepared.
Avanti provided him with all fake identities and disguises.
Even all ten fingers were covered with invisible disguising fingerprint films, impossible to trace his true fingerprints.
If his plan didn't encounter any accidents, if the Russian agents arranged by the chef didn't fail.
Now those poor guys should be each collapsing, being treated as sudden heart attacks and carried off for dical attention.
Song Heping maintained the perfect pace, neither too fast to draw attention nor too slow to appear suspicious.
Turning the last corner of the corridor, he could already see the exit ahead and vaguely saw the clarity in the departure hall.
His gaze swiftly scanned the entire hall.
It seed very chaotic inside.
Many people were gathered, appearing to be witnessing so unforeseen event.
That's just right.
He walked towards the exit with a smile.
"Body temperature 36.5, pupil reflex normal."
The customs officer stared at the biotric screen, asking routinely without lifting his head, "Business purpose?"
"Attending the Southeast European Energy Summit."
Song Heping handed over the counterfeit German Siens corporate ID card, the electronic chip gave a clear "beep" sound on the scanner.
His German accent carried just the right Bavarian tone—a benefit from years of learning German.
Everything was going smoothly.
Song Heping stepped towards the baggage claim area, casually removing his glasses, and took out his phone.
There was a new ssage on the phone—the bear is in position, waiting for the salmon to fall into the net.
Song Heping put on a pair of sunglasses again, blending into the crowd of newly arrived passengers, leisurely exiting the airport.
His gaze swept over the surroundings, the corner of his mouth slightly raised, revealing a faint smile.
The plan was successfully underway.
The next act would begin soon.
Suburbs of Bucharest, 2:10 PM.
The pine forests on both sides of the highway rustled in the night wind, the moonlight obscured by thick clouds, only sporadic streetlights provided weak illumination.
Group C convoy—three black rcedes GLE armored SUVs—sped along the backup route to Lithuania at 120 km/h.
Inside the leading car, CIA agent leader McCarthy stared intently at the night vision display, his fingers absently tapping the armrest.
In the backseat, Ferrari's hands were bound by high-strength polyr straps, his face pale, but his eyes still sharp.
"Stay alert," McCarthy spoke into the communicator, "Twenty minutes to the rendezvous point."
Just as he finished speaking, the road 500 ters ahead suddenly lit up with blinding red lights—two heavy trucks blocked the middle of the road entirely.
"Brake! Brake!" McCarthy yelled.
The tires screeched on the asphalt, the convoy barely stopping fifty ters from the roadblock.
The next second, a series of crisp tal clanging sounded from the pine forests—the sound of RPG-7 rocket launchers' safety pins being removed.
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