Chapter 1383: Chapter 666: The Mole!

In the pile of rotting leaves in the Amazon Rainforest.

Captain John McTavish of the 141st Special Battalion of the Mexican Army used a tactical dagger to lift the camouflage net, revealing a half-buried diesel barrel underneath. Through the night vision goggles, the drug factory 300 meters away resembled a poisonous toad squatting in the mud, with dew forming on the tin roof and dripping down alongside rusty rivets.

“Are the Colombians in position?” He whispered into his throat mic, sweat trickling down his spine into his tactical pants under the bulletproof vest, “Tell that sniper called ‘Viper’, if he makes me wait any longer, I’ll shove his sniper rifle up his ass!”

A chuckle from a Colombian Special Combat Team member came through the headset: “Calm down, John McTavish. My crosshairs are already fixed on the machine gunner at the factory entrance.”

The voice of the man codenamed “Viper” came through, “What about the Brazilian guide? Where the hell is the tunnel entrance he talked about?”

John McTavish spat out spittle mixed with decayed leaves.

Three days ago, intelligence from the Brazilian Federal Police indicated a drainage system connecting to an underground laboratory here. However, the local guide who led them for five hours through the darkness was now cowering behind a tree trunk twenty meters away, emitting a pungent urine smell from his trousers.

“Bastard.”

John McTavish cursed in Spanish, “If you dare lie to us again, I’ll cut off your balls and feed them to the piranhas.”

He yanked the guide’s hair and shone a tactical flashlight in his face, “Where’s the damn tunnel?!”

The guide’s pupils shrank to pinpoints under the bright light, making a rattling sound in his throat: “Right… right next to the rubber tree behind the factory, there’s a disguised steel plate!”

John McTavish released him and signaled to his team behind him. Four Mexican soldiers hunched over and moved towards the designated location, the sound of boots crushing dry branches was especially jarring in the dead silent rainforest. Suddenly, rustling came from the bushes thirty meters to the left, and John McTavish immediately raised his M4A1. Through the night vision goggles, he only saw a startled sloth taking flight.

“Damn, false alarm.”

He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, “Brazilians, where are your men? Didn’t you say you’d cover the eastern riverbank?”

There was a two-second silence in the headset before the voice of the Brazilian Federal Police Commander Carlos came through: “We’ve been blocked, damn it. Drug traffickers set traps in the river bend, sinking two of our speedboats.”

His voice carried suppressed anger, “We’ll have to proceed on foot now, expect to arrive in twenty minutes.”

John McTavish cursed under his breath and checked his tactical watch.

The planned three o’clock dawn assault had already been delayed by forty minutes, and the humidity in the rainforest was slowly corroding their equipment.

Even worse, the factory’s searchlights suddenly switched on, their pale beams sweeping across the edge of the rainforest, startling a flock of screaming parrots.

“Damn! They’ve spotted us!” Viper’s voice suddenly tightened, “The rooftop gunners are moving, the target is—”

The sound of gunfire grazed past John McTavish’s scalp.

He instinctively dived into a mudhole, bullets splintering wood chips off the tree trunk. Through his night vision goggles, the factory rooftop’s two gunners were frantically spraying bullets, tracer rounds scurrying through the rainforest like red vipers.

“C4!” John McTavish roared as he rolled behind a tree, “Quick, blow the tunnel entrance!”

Two Mexican soldiers charged out with explosive packs but were mowed down by fire from a flanking bunker just five meters from their target.

John McTavish watched helplessly as one of the men’s bulletproof vests was ripped open by a 7.62mm round, intestines mixed with blood foam sprayed onto the rubber tree.

“Bastard!” He shouted, firing his M4A1 in a frenzy. As the magazine emptied, he suddenly heard the sound of metal scraping behind him.

The Brazilian guide was trembling as he raised a pistol, its dark muzzle aimed at the back of John McTavish’s head.

“I’m sorry…” the guide’s voice quivered with tears, “They said they would kill my family…”

John McTavish didn’t hesitate.

He backhanded a tactical dagger, the blade spinning and embedding into the guide’s throat.

As the body fell, he grabbed the dead man’s pistol, pulling the trigger on the drug traffickers suddenly rushing out twenty meters away.

As the bullet pierced the first drug trafficker’s forehead, he saw the snakehead emblem embroidered on the man’s bulletproof vest—exactly the emblem of the “Golden Snake” drug cartel mentioned in Mexican intelligence.

“You pieces of—?”

“John McTavish! The tunnel is to your rear left!” Viper’s sniper rifle fired, the factory rooftop gunner’s head exploding in a spray of blood, “I see someone moving boxes out of the tunnel!”

John McTavish rolled into the underbrush, sighting through his scope, he saw three drug traffickers carrying crates towards the riverbank. One suddenly turned, the tail flame of an RPG-7 tracing an orange-red line through the rainforest.

“Get down!” John McTavish yelled, diving towards the nearest pit just as the rocket exploded five meters away, the blast wave sent his helmet flying, ears ringing. When he got up, he found a shrapnel had cut a deep, bone-exposing gash in his right leg, blood dripping down into his combat boots.

“Damn, I’m hit!” He tore off his tactical belt, tightened it around his thigh, “Carlos, where the hell are you?!”

The sound of the Brazilian commander panting came through the headset: “Three more minutes! Hold on!”

John McTavish ripped off his shattered tactical glove, digging out a morphine syringe from the first aid kit and plunging it into his thigh. The pain subsided slightly, he grabbed his M4A1 to continue shooting, only to find the magazine empty.