Bosnia and Herzegovina, 5 kilometers east of Brcko, abandoned farm machinery station.

The rain had stopped, but the clouds hung low, and the air was thick with the sweet and cloying smell of diesel, gunpowder, and something scorched.

Lieutenant Leclerc's squad of the French Foreign Legion had temporarily retreated here to rest, resupply ammunition, and wait for helicopters from the rear to evacuate the wounded.

The main building of the machinery station had long lost half its roof to artillery fire, and the yard was littered with the rusted remains of tractors and seeders. Leclerc ordered the soldiers to spread out and maintain vigilance. He leaned against a combine harvester with its tracks fallen off, using the last bit of cold water from his canteen to swallow a mouthful of hardtack with difficulty.

"Lieutenant."

Sniper Durand came over, crouched low, his face looking grim, not just from exhaustion, "When we were retreating earlier, I saw something in the second-floor of the barn at three o'clock direction."

"Speak," Leclerc didn't look up.

"Not the Serbian Armed Forces, nor the 'advisors' we've seen before." Durand licked his chapped lips, "Four people, wearing a mix of civilian clothes and tactical vests from leftover U.S. Military supplies, but the armband was a skull and a twisted snake. They were dealing with bodies."

"Dealing with bodies?" Leclerc frowned. Bodies weren't unusual in battlefields, but specifically "dealing with"?

"Not collecting dog tags or finishing off."

Durand lowered his voice, "They were… cutting things. From the bodies. Movements were quick, using hunting knives. Then stuffing them into sealed bags. I saw… more than one bag."

Leclerc's stomach churned. Organ harvesting? In this godforsaken place? There were only rumors of such things in the most chaotic warzones before, but Bosnia...

"Which side's bodies?" he asked.

"All of them. Serbian Armed Forces, Croatian Ethnic Militia, and at least two bodies wearing uniforms we haven't seen before, possibly those 'advisors'.

Durand paused, "The stranger part is, they were driving a modified Toyota pickup, with a mounted machine gun frame in the bed welded shut, but instead of ammo boxes, there were… white plastic barrels. The chemical smell was strong, noticeable from two hundred meters away."

Drugs? Or ingredients for making explosives?

Several possibilities flashed quickly through Leclerc's mind, but none could fully explain it. The "skull and snake" armband didn't ring a bell.

It wasn't a known emblem of any formal or semi-formal armed group.

"Did you take any photos?" he asked.

"Too far, too dark. But my scope magnification was sufficient, and I noted the pickup's license plate… it didn't seem local or European. The alphanumeric combination was peculiar." Durand took out a sweat-soaked note, scribbled with waterproof pen: MEX-7H4-XXX.

MEX?

Mexico?

Leclerc's heart skipped a beat. The suspicion that Mexican "advisors" were helping the Serbian Armed Forces was something the intelligence agency highly suspected but couldn't confirm. However, these people seemed entirely different in style from the trained "advisors" assisting in battle. They were more like... vultures. Slipping in between battles, not to fight, but to profiteer, conducting the dirtiest business.

"Lieutenant!" the radio operator shouted from the temporary radio setup, "Urgent message from command! Order us to delay evacuation, redirect towards the 'Old Brick Factory' area southeast for reconnaissance! Intelligence suggests 'abnormal material transfer activities' that may involve ingredients for weapons of mass destruction!"

"Weapons of mass destruction?"

Leclerc cursed, that's quite an accusation. But orders were orders. "Everyone, check equipment, we leave in five minutes. Durand, take two people, head to that barn direction, see if those people are still there, no engagement, just observe. If you find any evidence of… 'dealing with bodies', take photos, as clear as possible."

"Yes." Durand grabbed his FR-F2 sniper rifle, pointing out two team members.

Leclerc approached the radio operator: "Acknowledge command, request aerial reconnaissance support, and clarify what 'abnormal materials' specifically means. Additionally, report the details of our previous ambush encounter, and… signs of possible non-combatants engaging in illegal activities, include the license plate details."

He had a nagging feeling that the situation on this battlefield was murkier, and deeper than what those generals imagined.

...

At the same time, England, Liverpool Dock Area, abandoned Warehouse A.

This place used to be filled with cotton and tobacco from colonies, now only cobwebs, dust, and a mix of urine and decay lingered. But tonight, dim lights shone from deep within the warehouse, faint voices could be heard.

Sarah Kent stood behind a makeshift platform of empty cargo boxes, facing about two hundred people. Not the familiar community representatives or volunteers, but dock workers, unemployed truck drivers, retired seamen whose pensions were cut, and a few men in cheap suits with shifty eyes, local Labour Party MPs and union leaders. The atmosphere was heavy, tinged with suspicion and a faint trace of hostility.

"So, the only way to bypass the County Council Nomination Committee is to prove we have a solid community support base."

Sarah's voice echoed in the empty warehouse, "A 5% voter signature means at least three thousand valid signatures in the Liverpool Central constituency. We need manpower, we need to go door to door to explain, to win support."

"Who's funding this?"

A grizzled old dockworker interrupted her, voice rough, "For transportation costs, the ink and paper for printing leaflets, and meals? Many of us are unemployed, Sarah. We can barely pay union dues."