Had the captured man not been Tobin Frost—a legendary traitor who had been on the wanted list for nearly twenty years and had sold far too many classified secrets—the CIA might've actually shown some deference to the notoriously hardline General Ross.
But to avoid complications, a six-man CIA tactical squad escorted Tobin out of the consulate, en route to a secure safe house in Johannesburg.
Upon receiving the update, Ross was so furious he smashed the phone in his hand, cursed loudly, then turned and barked at his aide, "How long until Blonsky arrives in Johannesburg?"
The aide quickly checked his watch. "Roughly thirty minutes to the airport, sir."
Then, cautiously, he added, "General, we don't have operational authority in Africa. I'm worried Blonsky's team might not even make it past airport security."
That finally brought a smile to Ross's face. "Relax. I've already greased the wheels. Blonsky will be granted clearance the moment he lands.
The CIA, on the other hand, as a covert agency, will never be officially acknowledged by the South Africans. Tell Blonsky not to be afraid to confront them, and if it comes to a clash, so be it.
My only concern now is whether we can track the CIA's transport convoy."
"No problem at all, sir," the aide grinned confidently. "The military attaché inside the consulate didn't dare intercept Tobin directly, but he already had men posted outside.
The moment the vehicle left the grounds, it was locked onto by satellite surveillance."
Ross nodded in satisfaction and looked at the live feed on the command center's giant screen. "Excellent."
The convoy escorting Tobin took a winding route through several blocks of Johannesburg to ensure they weren't being followed before finally heading toward the safe house.
That delay was all Blonsky and his seven-man team needed to land at the airport.
After signing some documents, they boarded a Black Hawk helicopter and began pursuit.
Inside the safe house, Colin—who had been enjoying a full year of peace—stared blankly at the security monitor showing the convoy's arrival.
He'd thought that Johannesburg would be a quiet post—so what others considered a punishment assignment, Colin had seen as a golden opportunity to avoid promotion and enjoy the quiet.
But as fate would have it, people who want to avoid trouble often attract it the most.
Watching someone press the intercom and recite the correct entry code, Colin had no choice but to pick up the phone and verify it with HQ. Once confirmed, he unlocked the underground garage's elevator access.
The moment he saw who the detainee was—Tobin Frost, the CIA's most wanted traitor—he felt a creeping sense of dread.
Sure enough, the interrogation hadn't even gone on for five minutes when the power cut out. Emergency backup came online, but the monitor screens all filled with static.
"We're under attack!" Colin shouted.
The team leader immediately ordered, "Weapons ready! Prepare for combat!"
Meanwhile, on the rooftop of the five-story building, White Ghost stood inside his cloaked Kun-class fighter, suiting up and ranting at Sunday.
"Didn't you say it'd only take thirty minutes to get back to London? Then why the hell did the round trip take over two hours?!
If I hadn't been delayed, I could've taken care of this convoy myself!"
"Apologies. When we returned to England, Mr. Devonshire had just woken up. I had to brief him on the situation, then we spent time interrogating the traitor Eric, so…"
"So?" White Ghost sneered as he sheathed his twin titanium blades onto his back. "So when I call you the biggest bootlicker in the AI world, I'm not exaggerating.
You wag your tail for your master and leave me—the one risking my life on the front line—to fend for myself."
But Sunday ignored the complaint and calmly said, per William's orders, "There's one of our people inside the safe house. Should I alert him to coordinate with you?"
"What?"
White Ghost, who had been monitoring the safe house through the spider bots' feed, froze. His voice even trembled slightly as he asked, "You're not joking? Has the Devonshire Family's influence really grown to the point where they can plant agents inside the CIA?
If that's the case, what the hell do you even need me for?"
Before Sunday could answer, the sound of helicopter rotors came through the ship's external speakers.
"Damn it. More competition."
Through the cloaked glass, he saw a Black Hawk helicopter circle the rooftop before hovering seven to eight meters above the building.
The cabin doors opened and two rappelling ropes dropped. Eight heavily armed soldiers fast-roped onto the rooftop—
Unluckily for them, their landing point was only five to six meters away from the cloaked Kun-class fighter.
White Ghost tilted his head and smirked. He picked up his white, full-face combat helmet and slipped it on.
As the Black Hawk ascended again, he reached over his shoulder for four throwing knives and said to Sunday,
"Open the hatch."
Two American soldiers, crouched near the ropes with rifles aimed at the cloaked ship's direction, saw a hatch open mid-air out of nowhere.
Before they could even shout a warning, two throwing knives pierced their foreheads. They collapsed silently.
Thump. Thump.
Those two dull thuds alerted the rest of the soldiers, who turned around just in time to see a flash of blades.
Two were immediately decapitated by White Ghost at close range.
"Contact—!"
Ratatat! Ratatat!
The remaining soldiers opened fire on White Ghost.
But before they could aim, he flung two more throwing knives with his left hand. Then, with a swift motion, he drew his second blade.
With both titanium katanas in hand, he deflected most of the bullets, rolled to the side, and hurled both swords like spears—piercing the chests of the two who had opened fire.
Standing tall, White Ghost casually brushed off the deformed rounds stuck in his armor, the sound of ding ding ding ringing out.
He glanced curiously at one soldier who had been struck by a throwing knife but had miraculously survived.
The blade had grazed the soldier's forehead, leaving a deep gash. Clearly concussed, the man staggered as he tried to get up.
It was Emil Blonsky.
On his knees, hands braced on the floor, he shook his head to clear the dizziness and finally remembered the mission—and the ambush.
With his extensive combat experience, Blonsky instantly realized how bad the situation was.
Even at peak condition, he wouldn't last long against an armored close-quarters monster like this.
The only way to win would be to gain distance.
But now, with nothing but pain and confusion clouding his body, Blonsky knew there was only one option: run.
He looked up at White Ghost.
The moment White Ghost turned to retrieve his blades, Blonsky acted.
He yanked out two grenades, pulled the pins, and charged toward the balcony—
Diving off without hesitation.
______
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