Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1865: 805: If You Can't Win, Just Surrender! It's So

Capítulo 1865: Chapter 805: If You Can’t Win, Just Surrender! It’s So Simple!

McTavish lay in the shrubbery on the hillside, observing the airport through binoculars. The rain blurred his vision, but he could see the runway lights, the outline of the control tower, and the faint shadow of a transport plane landing in the distance.

“All groups, report your positions,” he whispered into the encrypted radio.

“Group A in position, below the control tower.”

“Group B in position, at the third cargo zone.”

“Group C in position, periter patrol route monitored.”

“Group D in position, clear view of the anti-aircraft position.”

Rory beside him, his young hands trembled but tightly gripped a silenced HK MP5 submachine gun. “Angus, are we really doing this? Hijacking a military transport plane…”

“We’re not doing it,” McTavish said. “They’re doing it. We’re just… spectators and extras.”

The plan was clear: Hydra’s professional team handled the core raid—controlling the tower, subduing the crew, and seizing the plane. McTavish’s n were responsible for the periter: creating chaos, blocking reinforcents, and most importantly—waving the Scotland flag for the caras.

“Rember,” McTavish made a final reminder to everyone, “Do not kill unard personnel. Try to keep them alive. We’re not terrorists, we’re freedom fighters. The distinction is important.”

The C-130 touched down, splashing water on the runway, and slowly glided towards the third cargo zone.

Inside the cabin, the co-pilot glanced at the instrunts: “Everything is normal. It’s so quiet today.”

“The Queen just cried, so everyone keeps a low profile.” The captain shrugged, “Unload quickly. I want to go ho and sleep.”

The plane ca to a stop, and the rear cabin door lowered slowly.

The lights in the cargo area suddenly went out completely.

“What’s going on?” the captain frowned.

Ian’s voice from the tower ca over the radio, but it was intermittent: “…power failure… troubleshooting… standby…”

Then, the radio went completely silent.

The captain sensed sothing was wrong. He looked out the window, and in the dark, several shadows moved quickly, not in airport ground crew uniforms.

“Start the engines! Prepare for ergency takeoff!” he shouted to the co-pilot.

But it was too late.

In the cargo hold, there was a burst of gunfire, the muffled sound of silenced weapons, followed by the thud of heavy objects hitting the ground.

The cockpit door was kicked open. Two hooded n in black tactical gear stord in, pointing guns at the captain and the co-pilot.

“Don’t move. Hands off the control panel.”

English, but with a strange accent, like soone from a German-speaking region.

The captain raised his hands: “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Your plane. Now, shut down the engines, and turn on all cargo lights.”

“You won’t get away with this—”

The gun butt smashed into the captain’s face, the sound of his nose breaking was clearly audible. He scread, blood gushing from his fingers.

“I said shut down the engines,” the hooded man’s voice was icy.

The co-pilot, trembling, complied.

anwhile, in the control tower, Ian McLeod was pinned to the console, his mouth taped shut. He saw two similarly dressed n operating the radar and communication equipnt, with a frightening expertise.

“Tower control. Runway control. Communication jamming complete,” one said into the headset.

On the airport periter, McTavish saw all the lights in the third cargo zone co back on, but this ti they were blinding spotlights, illuminating the C-130.

More crucially, at so point, a giant St. Andrew’s Flag of Scotland was spray-painted on the fuselage, the blue background and white cross vividly bright under the lights.

“Now’s the ti.” McTavish pressed the radio, “Group C, make so noise. Group D, prepare the smoke. Group A, Group B, follow —rember, wave the flag, shout the slogans, but don’t get too close!”

A sudden explosion on the hillside—it was preset explosives, severing an airport power line, creating larger chaos.

Smoke grenades exploded next to the runway, billowing thick smoke.

More than thirty people, dressed in various clothing but all wearing Scottish flag armbands, surged out from the darkness, waving flags, shouting “Scottish freedom!” “England, get out!”

The airport Guard Corps was stunned by the sudden multi-directional attack. Power outage, communication paralysis, smoke everywhere, gunfire and explosions, and protesters from seemingly nowhere.

By the ti they organized an effective response, ten minutes had passed.

And ten minutes was enough to complete a ticulously choreographed “live hijacking.”

At the C-130’s hatch, two hooded “rebels” escorted the captain and co-pilot, hands tied behind their backs, into the spotlight. Caras zood in for close-ups of the blood and fear on their faces.

A voice ca over the plane’s speaker system, voice altered but dramatically:

“Inverness Airport is now under the control of the Scottish Freedom Army! This transport plane of the English occupying forces is now a symbol of our struggle for freedom! We demand London announce a titable for the complete withdrawal from Scotland within 24 hours, or we will hand over the plane and crew to… the international dia!”

The last sentence was key. Not “execution,” but “dia handover.” Both exerting pressure and maintaining an image of “civilized resistance.”

The footage, transmitted through a satellite link set up by Hydra, was live-stread to several pre-arranged dia reception points.

Though the British governnt attempted a blackout, the video clips appeared on French television and Germany’s ZDF news programs two hours later, and began to spread virally through the early internet.

The headline was shocking: “Scottish Rebels Hijack Royal Air Force Transport Plane, Demand Independence!”

March 4, 1997, London Financial City

The British Pound to US Dollar exchange rate opened with a direct drop of 7%.