hunting
In Cassis, an unassuming fishing port town near the French Riviera in the south, a month has passed. A century-old stone villa, "The Cliffside Villa," its exterior weathered and worn by the sea, appears no different from the other holiday homes in town. However, behind the heavy wooden shelves of its wine cellar lies a meticulously disguised alloy door, behind which lies a high-tech combat intelligence center—a safe house codenamed "Echo." The air is thick with the faint smells of ozone, coffee, and printers.
Keegan—now using the alias Leo Moreau—holds his newly acquired documents: an EU biometric passport, a French ID card, a driver's license, and even a membership card for a local fishing port cooperative. The photo shows a middle-aged man with a steady gaze, slightly graying temples, and a striking resemblance to Keegan. Records indicate he is a cautious businessman involved in the import and export of Mediterranean seafood.
Elaine—now Lynn Moreau—stood beside him, picking up her own set of identification documents. She was Lynn, Leo's wife and business assistant, a quiet woman who helped her husband with paperwork and communications.
Merrick, Hesh, and Logan have each found new identities that have seamlessly integrated into the local community: a diving equipment shop instructor after retiring, a fishing boat mechanic, and even a stern vineyard guard.
Ghost and his team were truly integrated into the shadows; their identities were more low-level and dispersed, and they were responsible for external surveillance and the absolute security of intelligence channels.
“Leo,” Price’s voice came from the console, with an undeniable seriousness, “your background story: you used to run a seafood wholesale business in Marseille, but due to intense market competition, you turned to finding niche, high-quality seafood from the Mediterranean, and Cassis was one of your targets. Lynn, you are in charge of accounts and customer communication. The detailed documents are on the tablet, and you must memorize them within 48 hours.”
Adapting to their new identities is paramount. Leo needs to understand the seasonal catches and port auction rules, while Lynn must familiarize herself with trade documents and logistics. Every trip to buy ingredients, every brief chat with the bakery owner or fisherman, is a performance. They must completely forget that they are "ghosts," become the real Leo and Lynn, and hide their fighting instincts beneath a calm exterior.
The core of "Echo" lies in the underground intelligence room. On a massive curved screen, global data flows silently like an underground river. Lynn (Elaine) sits at the control panel, focused and absorbed. Based on fragmented information provided by Kruger—Makarov's preferred safe house types (near deep-water ports, with private small airports or high-speed vessel access, located in a legal gray area), several abandoned but related covert consumption patterns (specific brands of cigars, high-end medical equipment purchase records), and the characteristics of the large, stable, and covert energy and communication infrastructure required to maintain the "Night Watch" program—she has constructed a complex, multi-dimensional tracking algorithm.
Kruger was granted limited access to heavily filtered data under strict physical isolation and video surveillance. He sat in front of a separate terminal in the corner, coldly scanning the screen, occasionally pointing out key points in his hoarse, habitually sarcastic tone: "That arms dealer... 'Grey Wolf,' likes to use anonymous warehouses in Switzerland to check for any unusual rental records near Montenegro."
“Makarov trusted a forgery expert known as ‘Ghost Fingers’... to check for any unusual flow of high-precision passport printing materials in Eastern Europe recently.”
“He needs large quantities of unregistered antibiotics and plasma substitutes… Keep an eye on medical supply smuggling routes along the Black Sea coast.” Every word he uttered was like a viper’s hiss, precise and chilling, providing clues while constantly reminding everyone of his danger and his completely different way of thinking.
After several days of almost non-stop cross-referencing, Elaine pointed to a highlighted area on the screen—the Bay of Kotor in Montenegro and its surrounding winding and complex coastline. “Here, possibilities surge. The Bay of Kotor is deep and wide, with numerous private docks and hidden anchorages, relatively lax border control, and delicate relations with certain ‘sensitive’ countries, which fits his need for covert movement and access to specific resources. Moreover, recently, several offshore companies ostensibly investing in real estate have unusually injected funds into several abandoned docks and sanatorium projects in the area, and their energy consumption data doesn’t match civilian standards.”
Kruger's presence was an undeniable thorn in the team's side. He cooperated, but never concealed his coldness and sarcasm. His attitude towards Keegan was particularly complex, a mixture of the scrutiny of a sworn enemy, a twisted, almost absurd "contractual spirit" stemming from that identity card, and a deep-seated contempt. "Mr. Russ," he would say to him in that unpleasant, deliberately polite tone, "your girlfriend digging for data is indeed like a hound with a keen sense of smell. But don't forget, Makarov is the fox of foxes; he prefers to use the oldest and safest way to deliver core instructions—human messengers. You need to find that 'shadow'."
While Keegan and Hesh discussed the initial reconnaissance plan, Kruger would lean against the wall and coldly add, "Don't use those standard infiltration tactics from your North American or NATO textbooks. Makarov's men, including myself, can smell him from kilometers away. To get close to him, we'll have to use... more localized, more 'dirty' methods." His words were like poisoned daggers, both pointing out the crux of the matter and carrying a sense of humiliation. The team both relied on him and were extremely wary of him.
Hesh and Logan could hardly hide their loathing for him, while Konig remained a silent shadow, constantly watching his every move. This fragile alliance was like dancing on a knife's edge.
After weeks of repeated verification, risk elimination, and simulation, the target area was finally narrowed down to a private dock deep in Kotor Bay, nominally undergoing upgrades to a "luxury yacht club" and controlled by a mysterious Middle Eastern consortium, as well as an adjacent, long-abandoned Cold War-era sanatorium built into the mountainside. Satellite imagery consistently showed unusual heat signals (suspected to be from large server cooling systems) and a strict electronic silence zone in the area, with occasional camouflaged small high-speed boats entering and exiting at night.
"Based on all the data, this location meets all the criteria for Makarov's hiding place: easy to quickly evacuate to the high seas by sea, close to a poorly managed border, complex terrain that is easy to defend, and readily available, customizable underground facilities," Elaine concluded in her final briefing, her tone grave.
“We need close-range, non-military ground reconnaissance to confirm the target’s existence and identify its weak points.” Keegan looked at Price, his eyes sharp. Price stood before the overall situation map, his gaze sweeping across the detailed map of Kotor Bay like an eagle’s. “We absolutely cannot alert them. Makarov is like a frightened bird right now; any slight movement could make him disappear again.” He pondered for a moment, his gaze falling on Keegan and Elaine. “We need a perfectly plausible and verifiable reason to approach that area.” A meticulous plan began to take shape: using the identity of “Leo Moreau,” a seafood merchant, as a commercial pretext to investigate potential high-quality cold-water shellfish (such as specific oyster varieties) farms or fishing grounds along the Montenegrin coast, they would conduct close-range, inconspicuous observation of the target shipyard and surrounding coastline.
As night fell, Keegan and Elaine stood on the seaside terrace of the "Sea Cliff House," a gentle, humid Mediterranean breeze caressing them. The distant harbor lights merged with the starlight in the sky, seemingly tranquil, yet turbulent beneath the surface.
"This reconnaissance is like walking on a knife's edge," Keegan said in a low voice, tinged with barely perceptible worry. If Makarov was indeed there, it would surely be a den of dragons and tigers, heavily guarded.
Elaine leaned on his shoulder, the sea breeze ruffling her hair. Her hand unconsciously caressed the cold identity tag hanging around her neck, pressed against her skin.
“But we have no way out. We must find him and stop him before he finishes his ‘night watch.’” She paused, looked up at him, her eyes resolute. “This time, I must go with you. It’s the most natural and least suspicious combination for ‘Leo Moreau’ to inspect the aquatic products and for his wife ‘Lynn’ to accompany him to record and photograph the samples.”
Keegan was silent for a moment, but did not object. He knew that separation meant greater uncertainty and risk. He reached out and firmly grasped her hand holding the ID card; the metal plate between their clasped palms conveyed their body heat and resolve.
"Echo call to all travelers," Price's calm voice came through encrypted headsets, reaching all the standby squad members. "'Fisherman' Operation activated. Target: Kotor Bay, Montenegro. Keegan and Elaine will arrive by ferry in 48 hours. All support units, take your positions as planned. Remember our principles: we are shadows, observation is key, and if we miss, we vanish without a trace." The hunt in the shadows had officially begun.
The Adriatic sun, like molten gold, spills across the velvety blue surface of the Bay of Kotor. Steep mountains, like silent giants, embrace this eerily tranquil sea. A ferry from Italy sounds its horn and slowly docks at the ancient pier.
Leo Moreau gently put his arm around his wife Lynn's shoulder as they stepped ashore with the flow of people. He looked to be in his early forties, with slightly graying temples, and wore a well-fitting linen shirt—a typical French businessman seeking business opportunities in the Mediterranean. His wife, Lynn, nestled beside him, wore a wide-brimmed straw hat that obscured most of her face, revealing only her beautifully shaped jawline and a serene expression. They were seafood importers from Marseille, on a trip to find high-quality cold-water shellfish to expand their business.
“The weather is lovely, darling,” Keegan said in French, his voice gentle, but his grey-blue eyes subtly scanned every seemingly idle figure on the dock, assessing any potential threat. His arm was naturally around Elaine's, both a facade of intimacy and an instinctive act of protection.
Elaine looked up at him and gave him a gentle smile: "Yes, the seawater here looks very clean."
They checked into their pre-booked beachfront hotel. The room's balcony faced the bay, offering a superb view. Upon entering, Elaine removed her straw hat, her eyes instantly sharpening. She pulled a miniature detector from what appeared to be an ordinary makeup bag and quickly, silently, scanned every corner of the room. After confirming it was safe, she nodded slightly to Keegan.
Keegan stepped onto the balcony, lit a cigarette, and admired the scenery like any ordinary tourist. In the distance, deep within the bay, the private dock codenamed "Fortress" was faintly visible. High walls, electric fences, and the occasional high-speed patrol boat all highlighted its uniqueness. His binoculars were disguised as small binoculars, but the markings behind the lenses precisely recorded the positions of sentries and the angles of cameras.
“The defenses are tight,” he whispered, his voice almost carried away by the sea breeze. “Is Hesh in position?” Elaine, who was quickly setting up encrypted communication equipment, tapped her earpiece lightly to send a brief confirmation signal. In the distance, at the window of a guesthouse, Hesh, disguised as a Canadian photographer, was capturing every detail of the “fortress” and its surroundings with a telephoto lens. Further along the coastline, Logan, playing a geological surveyor, was “intensely focused” on rocks and water samples. Ajax, on the other hand, blended into the bustling crowd at the dock like a drop of water.
Over the next two days, the Moreaus' business trip proceeded smoothly. Keegan, fluent in French, chatted and laughed with local chamber of commerce representatives, subtly inquiring about fisheries regulations and shipping information in the dock area. Elaine dutifully acted as his assistant, recording data on her tablet and occasionally adding a few words. Her camera, besides photos of scenery and possible "shellfish samples," contained more meticulously calculated details of the "fortress's" outer structure.
Ajax brought news that several observers from the United Nations Environment Programme happened to be nearby conducting environmental monitoring and review. Everything seemed calm.
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