In a vacation cabin at a small seaside pier, Demona packed cash, documents, a phone, and weapons she had prepared in a bag. She slung it over her shoulder, retrieved a few keys, checked her watch, and considered making a call but held back.
The cabin wasn't far from the entertainment street, where faint sounds of gunshots could be heard.
Ronan attracted a helicopter, enabling her to escape.
Faced with the helicopter and snipers, what were Ronan's chances of survival? Demona didn't know, but she was willing to wait, at least until the first light appeared on the horizon.
Knock, knock, knock—
A knocking sound came, and Demona pulled out a handgun, hiding behind the wall next to the door. She lowered her voice, "Who is it?"
A familiar voice came through, "It's me!"
Demona opened the door and saw Ronan was unharmed. She sighed with relief and got straight to the point, "Good to see you're okay, come with me!"
Ronan was panting heavily. He took a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, took a small sip, and said, "You go first. Help me secure a way to retreat."
"What do you plan to do?" Demona asked.
Ronan took a few more sips of water, "Deal with the trouble!"
From the information extracted from the soul fragments, it wasn't hard to deduce that the person named Matt Grave was the one in charge of the CIA in Tijuana and even the entire US-Mexico border region. If they didn't take care of him, even if they temporarily left Tijuana, new pursuers would come after them soon.
Matt Grave set a trap, and if Ronan had a chance to kill him, he definitely would! Rather than passively getting beaten up, he preferred to take the initiative and remove this threat. With the main head of the CIA here gone, they could buy some time to escape Mexico.
Ronan had no time to waste. He asked directly, "Do you have weapons?"
Demona lifted a tarp, revealing a box inside. Ronan opened it to find only a handgun and a dagger. He pulled out a dagger and secured it to his belt, then took two Glock pistols and as many magazines as he could carry.
Next up, they were going to engage in indoor combat.
Ronan nodded, "That's enough."
"I've arranged a boat. It's out at sea, and there's a speedboat at the pier. I've saved one for you." Demona pointed toward the pier, then took off her electronic watch and put it on Ronan's left wrist. "You can return here, take the boat out to sea. I've arranged a ship. Wait until dawn."
Ronan quickly got ready, "Six o'clock. If I'm not here, go."
Demona nodded, "Alright, six o'clock!"
Ronan left, driving the same car he arrived in, heading north along the coastal road.
Demona slung the bag over her shoulder and watched the car vanish into the night. Then, she turned and walked toward the pier, started the speedboat, and left the coast of Tijuana.
...
Tijuana's northwestern commercial district, close to the Pacific Ocean, housed a three-story building with the sign of Winte Trade Company displayed.
At a little past 2 a.m., the lights were on in the building, and the atmosphere was exceptionally tense.
Despite the strict discipline, news of the failed operation had spread internally.
As Matt Grave entered the building, all conversation immediately ceased.
Inside the building, aside from a small number of security personnel, most were administrative and technical staff.
They couldn't help but steal glances at Matt Grave. The five operatives who went out with him hadn't returned.
Had they all perished?
Matt Grave went up to the second floor and entered a large office that was now empty.
On the desk, a report written by Judy awaited his review.
It was a report that placed Ronan on the list of terrorists, something they had thought wouldn't be necessary.
Hence, it hadn't been submitted yet.
Matt sat down in a chair. Judy's laptop was left on a nearby desk.
After the meeting, they hadn't tidied up much before setting off. When he left, Monroe and Judy were still discussing where to grab a late-night snack after the operation.
He stood up, closed the office door, sat back down, and dialed Churchill's number.
"It's me. The operation failed. Bāndāo, Ménluó, Zhūdì, Jiāohān, and Āndéliè, all dead." Matt didn't shirk responsibility. "It's my fault. I severely underestimated the target's strength."
Without waiting for Churchill's response, Matt continued, "Tomorrow morning, I'll take the report about Ronan to Langley. I'll explain the whole situation and accept full responsibility."
Churchill said, "I'll return to Langley right away." He was Matt's long-time partner. "Your plan was sound; it's just that unforeseen events occurred..."
Outside the building's perimeter wall, a car approached with its lights turned off from a distance.
The car stopped by the wall. Ronan put on a hood, easily scaled the wall using the roof of the car for assistance, and after a brief observation, jumped down and headed toward the back door of the building.
It was quiet here, not a soul in sight.
The back door was locked, but Ronan didn't exert much effort to open the lock. He slipped inside the building.
Drip, drip.
An alarm suddenly sounded, followed by shouts from within the building, "Intruder! Intruder at the back door!"
Being discovered wasn't unexpected for Ronan; after all, this was a secret CIA base.
Footsteps were running this way. Ronan pulled out a handgun and concealed himself in a corner.
Four security guards appeared, armed with handguns.
Ronan stayed hidden in the shadows and without hesitation, he fired. In the bang-bang of gunfire, all four of them were hit in the head before they could react.
"Get heavy firepower!" someone shouted.
Ronan dashed out, quicker and more responsive than anyone else. Hot bullets flew from his Glock pistol, and everyone with a weapon was brought down without exception.
The building wasn't large. Ronan entered the lobby where many administrative staff were located.
He aimed his gun at them, "Drop your weapons and get out!"
Some tossed their guns, others raised their hands and quickly moved toward the main entrance.
Some remained defiant, quietly lifting their guns.
Ronan's hand flicked, and two shots blew off their heads!
The blood and brain matter made these people sober up quickly.
Someone quietly opened a side door. Ronan used his left hand to draw his gun, and a shot pierced the wooden door, hitting the person in the chest.
The person fell, and the gun dropped out through the gap in the door.
"Get lost!" Ronan said, "I'll count to three!"
"One! Two..."
One by one, guns were thrown out. The remaining ten or so people frantically ran outside.
The nearby wooden door opened, and someone stepped out with their hands raised.
Ronan aimed his gun at him, "Matt Grave!"
The person didn't answer. They took a step into the blind spot, avoiding the surveillance, and raised one finger, then two.
Ronan understood, "Get out!"
These were all ordinary employees, usually discussing operations with laughter, but when it came to life and death decisions, most chose to survive.
As for the upper echelons...
How much salary did they make in a year, compared to how much they made?
The truly capable operatives were all dispatched tonight. Most of those remaining were involved in administrative or technical roles.
Several security personnel were already dead before they could fire.
Ronan held the guns in both hands, sprinted up the stairs to the second floor, frequently changing directions.
Without the expected resistance, there seemed to be few people on the second floor.
As Ronan reached the corner leading to the second floor, he suddenly stopped.
He immediately toppled backward and rushed out. One guard hiding around the corner didn't have time to lower his gun before Ronan raised his gun, shooting upward and piercing through the guard's head.
On the first floor, people were running out in a rush. Seeing the security personnel's blown-off heads on the ground, nobody dared to resist by picking up weapons.
The air of confidence and superiority that had been present when they acted recklessly in other countries disappeared completely.
Someone had dared to come into the heart of the American CIA's territory to kill people!
Even Matt Grave hadn't anticipated such an event.
Sitting in his office, he had only a standard M11 pistol.
All the other weapons were left in the car when he returned.
He really hadn't expected it. Even now, he felt it was unreal. Someone had attacked the CIA's base!
Footsteps echoed outside the office. Churchill was asking through the phone, "Matt, what's going on? I heard gunshots."
Matt Grave put the phone on the desk, "Churchill, if I can't make it back, take care of Mary and Pete for me, thanks."
He stood up, positioned himself behind the sturdy mahogany desk, aimed his gun at the entrance, and took a deep breath.
Suddenly, the office door opened from the outside. Without thinking, Matt fired two shots.
But the doorway was empty; there was no one there!
Maintaining his composure, Matt called out, "Ronan, is that you?"
No response.
He shouted again, "Come out! I'm Matt Grave, the Director of CIA Special Operations. I orchestrated all the operations against you! If you want to kill, come kill me!"
The office light flickered and went out.
As the light vanished, the human eye struggled to adapt to the darkness. Matt only saw a figure rush in from the doorway. He immediately fired shots, catching glimpses of blood spraying from the figure's body as their eyes adjusted to the dark!
Could it really be resolved this easily?
Just as Matt fired his shots, another figure darted out from the office entrance, and the sound of Glock 22 gunfire rang out. Matt quickly lowered his head, taking cover behind the office desk.
The robust hardwood desk could withstand close-range pistol fire.
Ronan held two guns, his left hand's gun hanging low on the side. He fired only with his right hand's gun, suppressing Matt as he quickly charged into the office.
Matt knew this person was a formidable shooter; he dared not expose any part of his body.
Counting the gunshots silently, he heard the sound of a magazine hitting the ground.
Matt darted out from the side of the desk, ready to fire shots.
His hand just appeared, coinciding with the sound of the Glock firing. Suddenly, his palm throbbed with intense pain. The gun and a broken finger were sent flying!
In a rapid succession of gunshots from Ronan's left hand, Matt had to retreat for self-preservation.
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