Miss Beautiful C.E.O and her system-Chapter 673: Airport attack

Half an hour ago.

Somewhere inside a van, a man pried away the curtain for a moment and glimpsed at the outside world before putting it back into position.

He was anything but ordinary. He wore a military vest with magazines inside the pouches. In his right hand, he held the barrel of an AK-74, its buttstock planted on the floor.

He murmured a response into the handphone as if receiving instructions and took a deep breath.

He pulled his hood down, covering his entire face except for his eyes. His head turned toward the interior, where his teammates sat in silence.

Eight men awaited his words. They were similarly armed to the teeth. Nobody could discern their identities or races.

Even the portions of skin they showed seemed artificially obscured, as if their complexion had been altered to match the locals.

When their leader ended the call, they knew the action had begun. Their postures straightened, and their auras turned murderous.

"Listen up. Intel from upstairs has confirmed that our target has appeared at the airport, just as some of our experts predicted."

"Experts? More like common sense," one man joked, and everyone laughed.

The leader waited for the laughter to subside before continuing. "But it also proves that our target has some counter-surveillance skills to avoid detection."

"Boss, haven't we sent our operators ahead to scout and report back? They should have seen the target by now."

"Don't underestimate him. Otherwise, how on earth did he manage to evade our pursuit for so long? We can't afford to lose this man again. We know his name appeared on the airline's ticket purchase records. Now, it's confirmed that he has already cleared customs. He's there. Gentlemen, the moment his flight takes off, the mission is doomed. Time is working against us."

"Haven't our scouts already positioned themselves to kidnap and interrogate him?" one subordinate asked, voicing what everyone wanted to know.

"It's not as easy as you think. He bought a last-minute ticket and will be airborne in less than half an hour. Our undercover agents can't expose themselves. Although we look down on Country E's security, fewer than a handful of operatives won't stand a chance against dozens.

"Besides, I'm waiting for their call to confirm whether they successfully snatched the man. Don't get your hopes up. HQ has grown impatient and has ordered us to intervene directly. We still have ten minutes before we reach the airport."

"What's our mission this time?"

"HQ wants a false flag operation."

"A false flag operation?" All the members cried out in surprise, feeling a strong sense of foreboding.

"Yes. Since we can't quickly confirm the target's identity, we'll stage a terrorist attack and kill everyone. The blame will fall on those extremist insurgents."

"What the fuck?!"

"Boss, you can't be serious."

"Haha, you guys are such wimps. I'm getting more and more excited."

"Yeah, the blood rush of killing."

"Motherfuckers!!!" Those unwilling cursed at the lunatics.

"Quiet!" The boss silenced everyone. "That's not my call but HQ's. The Godfather sends his regards. Do you understand?!"

"Understood!" After a moment of silence, a collective agreement resounded—some voices filled with willingness, others with reluctance.

Although their group had committed enough crimes to cause public outrage, the prospect of a terrorist attack, massacring everyone, sent a chill through some of the members.

Before, despite their gruesome actions, the impact was minimal—only affecting the targets and those connected to them.

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However, this mission went beyond what some could accept, though the bloodthirsty demons among them reveled in it.

Of course, no one dared to oppose the order. They knew the consequences of refusal. Maybe nothing would happen immediately, but once they were alone later, misfortune would follow.

They were a black ops unit. Their missions were never meant to be revealed to the public.

In fact, they were no different from the white gloves of a political apparatus—disposable at will.

Tonight's cleanup job sent chills. Several sane ones understood they must not fail; otherwise, they would be sleeping six feet below the ground.

The boss observed their reactions and didn't say much. In his opinion, the only foes standing against him were a few airport elite guards and police officers.

The former could be eliminated with their skills, while the latter weren't in his consideration at all.

Furthermore, there were two additional teams accompanying them. He was tasked with leading his men in the frontal attack—eliminating anyone in sight while keeping an eye on the target's whereabouts if possible.

They had no idea where the sensitive information was stored, but that could be handled in the aftermath.

The others would encircle the airport and ensure no one escaped the net, especially the target.

To reinforce the image of a terrorist attack orchestrated by extremist insurgents, they would leave behind a few pieces of "evidence."

Among their teams, there were indeed a few locals. Their bodies would serve tonight's op well, though their owners had no idea about the impending danger.

Several minutes later, the van slowed down and came to a complete stop. The driver spoke into the communication channel:

"We're here. Team One has arrived."

"Team Two on standby."

"Team Three, one mike before position in."

The boss nodded at his men and cocked the AK. "Remember, no English. We're now extremist insurgents."

"Roge."

"Roger, Sir."

"Hablo español?" A nonsensical, comical phrase drew his attention, causing him to scold back.

"Just don't speak, son of a bitch."

"All teams, green light. You're on your own."

With the order, the boss slammed the van's sliding door open and stepped out. His men poured out behind him.

Outside, a guard in desert camouflage and a red beret, wielding an AK-47, noticed the parked van.

It had been idling too long in the terminal, an area meant only for pick-up and drop-off.

Walking toward it, he planned to berate the driver and passengers inside, perhaps even impose some arbitrary fines.

Suddenly, the door swished open, and hooded armed men poured out. His steps froze in shock.

Before he could shout or raise his rifle, a gunshot rang out. His head bloomed red as he collapsed onto the ground.

Immediately after, rapid automatic fire erupted. The terrorists fanned out in a coordinated formation.

One of them, carrying an RPG, aimed at the only armored vehicle nearby.

Boom!

The projectile streaked forward and obliterated the vehicle, blowing away the soldiers around it. The explosion sent a wave of heat and concussive force rippling through the entryway.

The shockwave hurled civilians to the ground, scattering luggage and debris in all directions. The responding guards were gunned down instantly.

In a matter of seconds, all threats outside the terminal were eliminated without resistance.

Screams erupted, and panic set in. A stampede began. Civilians bolted after shaking off their initial paralysis.

Some crawled, their legs heavy with fear. Others rushed forward, shoving obstacles aside.

Some trampled over the fallen, desperate to escape. Some cowered behind baggage and vehicles, seeking cover.

A terrorist wielding a PKM machine gun aimed at the fleeing crowd.

The muzzle roared as bullets tore through the defenseless mass. His teammates fired at any figure within their sight.

Despite their reckless carnage, a few men remained vigilant, scanning for threats and working as a unit to provide cover.

Their caution paid off. Across the terminal, two officers drew their pistols and took aim—they were killed instantly.

The coordinated attack, from its opening salvo to the seamless cooperation between team members, had already sealed the tragic fate of those inside the airport.

No matter how well they pretended to be terrorists, their rigorous training and years of experience betrayed their true skills.

Bodies piled up as rounds tore through the air, drowning out the groans and moans of the bleeding victims, who had only moments left to live.

The attackers ignored them and pressed forward. By now, most officers had abandoned their posts and fled in terror.

Unfortunately, no one can outrun a bullet.

The escapees were mowed down mercilessly, save for a few lucky ones. Those with quick thinking sought cover and managed to survive the initial slaughter.

Some security personnel, unarmed and defenseless, had no choice but to flee—and they could hardly be blamed. Without weapons, they were nothing more than sitting ducks.

In the face of gunfire, everyone was equal—officials, soldiers, civilians, elites, politicians, the wealthy. Status, power, and skin color meant nothing.

Bang—bang—bang—bang.

Click! Click!

Those who ran out of ammunition reloaded without breaking stride.

…

Inside the airport, a man growing impatient with a blatantly corrupt security officer shuddered at the thunderous explosions and rapid gunfire outside.

Though he couldn't see the terminal entrance from his position, his head instinctively turned toward the source of the chaos.

They were here.

As the screams escalated and a frantic tide of footsteps rushed in his direction, he snatched up his belongings—his camera, his bag—and bolted.

He didn't care about the reactions of the staff around him. He had only one goal—survival.

Yet, deep down, he knew the odds were slim.

The security officers who had been troubling him moments ago were now frozen in terror. The superior, the only one with a handgun, immediately took off after the man, shouting orders at his subordinates.

The other two collapsed against the table, their legs giving out beneath them. One, a black man, stood paralyzed—eyes wide, breath shallow, body trembling in response to the relentless gunfire.

The female officer covered her eyes, trembling as the chaos unfolded around her. Her body felt fused to the furniture, as if held in place by an invisible force.

Though their reactions seemed irrational, this was a common human response in extreme crises—the freeze response—just like the panicked civilians outside.

When bombarded with an overwhelming number of high-intensity stimuli in a short period, the brain needed time to process before deciding the next course of action.

It was the same instinct that caused a deer to freeze in the glare of headlights or a rabbit to flip onto its back and play dead when terrified.

This reaction was deeply ingrained in biological survival mechanisms.

The supervisor called out again, his voice edged with urgency, but seeing no response, he cursed under his breath and sprinted off helplessly.