"The body has been found, but the fingerprints have been corroded by acid, making identification difficult. The police will treat it as an ordinary gang murder, unable to trace it back to us, nor to Diego Ramirez—if he has competent lawyers and ’friends’," said MacLaine. "The key is that warehouse. We’ve been monitoring it for two days; there are nighttime activities, and vehicles going in and out are covered tightly with canvas. I plan to take a team in tonight to check things out."

"What’s the risk?"

"The risk is, we might encounter Ramirez’s men, or... there are things in the warehouse we don’t want to see," MacLaine said straightforwardly. "But we must know what they are transporting; besides drug precursors, what else is there? That Diego Ramirez, former ’Zetas’ bomb expert, won’t be content with just selling powder."

McTavish pondered. The Scottish Self-Defense Army was just forming, and the public police system was still in handover struggles with London, with a weak intelligence force. MacLaine was the only person he had who could handle these dark side matters.

"Go ahead," he finally said. "But keep it clean. If you encounter resistance, you can eliminate it, but don’t leave bodies on the scene. If you find hazardous materials... evaluate and report immediately, don’t handle them on your own. Also," he paused, "watch for any... other ’traces’ from the Mexican side. I mean apart from these drug traffickers."

MacLaine understood. Mexico was officially assisting in Scottish development, but the drug traffickers also came from Mexico. Is there a connection between them? Is it uncontrolled drug flow or some kind of deliberate "double act"? He nodded, "Understood."

That night, at Glasgow East District Old Port, the sea breeze carried a salty, metallic smell.

The target warehouse stood isolated among abandoned dock facilities, far from residential areas. Power had long been cut off, with only a faint glow from the port’s distant navigation lights.

MacLaine, with his four most trusted subordinates, dressed in dark operational suits, silently dispatched the warehouse’s two drowsy guards—also with Latin American faces, but seemingly just common thugs—using night vision goggles and silenced equipment.

The warehouse door was a heavy roller shutter, but a small cargo door on the side was rusted shut. They easily overcame it with hydraulic cutters.

Inside was pitch black, filled with the smell of fish and mold, mixed with a faintly sweet, chemical scent. Through night vision, the warehouse was cluttered with dusty broken fishing nets, wooden boxes, and rusty machinery. But deeper inside, an area had been cleared, surrounded by canvas.

MacLaine signaled for the team to spread out and guard, while he carefully lifted a corner of the canvas.

Inside wasn’t drug precursors.

It was boxes of neatly packaged electronic components, circuit boards, industrial control modules, and some unfamiliar yet seemingly high-precision sensors and mechanical parts. Labels had been carefully torn off, though some packaging retained logistical codes.

Further inside, there were several sealed metal boxes.

MacLaine indicated for the bomb expert to inspect.

The expert gingerly opened a crack with tools, scanned it with a detector, and his face changed instantly.

"Boss... it’s not explosives," he whispered, voice very low. "There’s a faint reaction indicating radioactive material. Inside might be a radiation source or something using radioactive material as a trigger."

MacLaine’s heart sank suddenly.

Industrial control equipment, precision sensors, possible radiation source... This wasn’t a drug workshop; this damn thing looked like a rudimentary, cobbled-together dirty bomb or radioactive dispersion device workspace! What does Ramirez want to do? Conduct a terrorist attack in Glasgow? Or use this to threaten something?

"Take photos, gather samples, be wary of radiation, and then we retreat," MacLaine decided immediately. The items here exceeded his handling capabilities.

Just as they were quickly taking photos and using a Geiger counter to confirm radiation levels, car engine noises came from outside, approaching quickly, more than one vehicle.

"Have we been discovered? Or is it a routine patrol?" a subordinate asked nervously.

MacLaine quickly surveyed the surroundings, "Up to the second floor! Hide!"

The team swiftly climbed the warehouse’s rusty iron ladder, hiding among shadows of the second-floor clutter.

Almost simultaneously, the side door of the warehouse opened, and several flashlight beams pierced in.

Five or six men entered, led by none other than the man in the photo, Diego Ramirez, thin, eyes like cold knives. Beside him was a burly man with a face full of muscles, likely "Carlos."

Ramirez scanned the warehouse with his flashlight, pausing particularly at the canvas enclosure area. He walked to the electronic components boxes and kicked them, speaking to Carlos in Spanish, "The second batch of parts arrived, prompt the logistics, the Eastern Europe line is too slow. We’re short on time."

Carlos grumbled, "Boss, the situation is a bit tense. The waste in the river, though dealt with, but the police and... maybe others are investigating. Is this place safe?"

"The most dangerous place is the safest place," Ramirez said coldly. "The Scots are busy founding a nation, the Mexicans are busy building, and the Londoners are busy waiting to die. Who would care about a broken fish depot?" He went to the sealed metal box and touched it, "Key items haven’t arrived yet. Once complete, we’ll give Glasgow’s new landmark a... memorable ’grand opening gift.’"

Above, MacLaine held his breath, memorizing every word. Grand opening gift? Is the target a new landmark like "Phoenix Nest" or the "Rebirth District" smart city project? Is the purpose to incite panic, undermine stability, or is there another political agenda?