Working as a police officer in Mexico

In the woods about four or five kilometers away from the steel factory.

There was an old cabin, covered in dust and spider webs. A rat that had poked its head out looked at the person inside, who was bound hand and foot and blindfolded, with a look of utter confusion. After a couple of squeaks, it bravely climbed onto a man.

"Oh! Shit! Damn it! Damn it!" The man shuddered and twisted his body vigorously, making strange noises. This sound was so abrupt in the oppressive atmosphere that it gave everyone else quite a scare.

"Bogdan? Bogdan, what's wrong with you!"

"What are you yelling for! Shut up! Idiot, do you want the drug traffickers to kill us?"

These people were, remarkably, "kidnapped" journalists.

"There's... something's climbed into my crotch! Help... help me." The photographer named Bogdan's voice was tinged with a sob.

Men, well...

You can lose your face, your money, even your life, but not your manhood.

Hearing his screams, all the male journalists subconsciously tightened their sphincters.

"Just endure it... it'll pass!"

Bogdan cursed profusely, "Endure your mother! ###%*&*%@%", the rest was all in local slang, too dirty to repeat.

Colonel Ka even had to let out a "yo c", upon hearing it.

Pop pop pop...

A burst of gunfire suddenly erupted, and Bogdan's mouth instantly went quiet as if someone had hit his mute button.

The only thing that can make someone shut up is a weapon!

Reason?

The one holding the weapon gets to talk reason.

Just look inside that rundown house filled with hundreds of successful men in suits and neckties, and then, when those five people speak, even if it's nonsense, everyone else has to take a deep breath and say, "Brother is right!"

The rat inside Bogdan's crotch also heard the gunfire, tensed up, ran out from his trouser leg, and scurried away with its tail between its legs.

Bang!

The wooden door was kicked open from the outside, causing the blindfolded journalists to shrink back.

"Mexican DEA Anti-Terrorism Squad!"

The person who burst in shouted.

This is just like the FBI in movies; it actually serves to intimidate and alert the other party not to shoot.

Drug Enforcement Department?

"Quick, save us! We're journalists!" Bogdan sprang up again, lively, and after others removed his blindfold, he saw the fully armed anti-terrorism squad and couldn't help but grumble, "Oh, damn it! You finally came, f***! Why are there drug traffickers in the rear?"

"This world just isn't safe," Commander Marcus Phoenix shrugged and waved his hand, "Move out, move out, move out!"

"What about our stuff?" a journalist asked.

"We're the police force, not charity workers. We received information that there was a group of drug traffickers here, and it's our job to take them out."

Marcus Phoenix glanced at his watch, his gaze furrowing, "If you don't want to move out, then stay behind."

Hearing this, the journalists hustled to get in the cars and leave.

The camera?

Damn, I still have to ask the boss for mental damage compensation when I get back!

Shit!

Never coming back to this damn place in Mexico again.

Bogdan sat in the police car, glanced outside, and suddenly felt something was off. After the car drove away, it dawned on him.

Those drug traffickers... why were there no bodies on the ground?

Bogdan was smart; he sensed something was wrong. He glanced at the policeman sitting in front, and a bold thought circled in his head. Then, suddenly, he saw a pair of eyes staring at him in the rearview mirror.

Their eyes met in that moment.

Marcus Phoenix's gaze seemed as if it could devour a person.

Bogdan quickly lowered his head.

Mama mia! Scared the life out of me.

Those drug traffickers... showed up too oddly, this person looked even more like a drug trafficker than the drug traffickers themselves.

"What's wrong with you?" a colleague inquired, noticing his behavior.

"Nothing... just ball pain," Bogdan stammered out.

Marcus Phoenix sitting in front chuckled upon hearing this.

The world doesn't lack clever people.

Being a journalist is a sensitive job, but it's not like there haven't been any who died in Mexico. If you don't obey, you're going to get shot.

Victor was considered "merciful"; at least he didn't really kill them, just didn't want them meddling. In other hot spots, a thermobaric bomb would've taken everyone out in one go.

Just apologize afterward.

No organization is really going to start a war over civilians!

Meanwhile, in the capital, Hermosillo.

The drug traffickers who couldn't contact Alfredo were panicked!

No response from phones or pagers.

The people sent to the steel factory had vanished as though they had disappeared into thin air.

"Gone, all gone! Alfredo must have run off," said a drug trafficker with tattoos on his face in the city hall meeting room, his face grim.

His insignia read "Juarez".

"Impossible! Cut the crap, we Sinaloa don't run like cowards."

"Then tell me, where is he? Why can't we contact him?"

"Could he be... dead?" Someone coldly interjected, and suddenly everyone fell silent.

The Sinaloa drug traffickers turned their heads, glaring furiously at the speaker!

"What the hell are you talking about! Your motherf***er, it's your boss who's dead."

The insulted trafficker did not dare to talk back.

"There are more than 1,600 traffickers in the steel mill, and about 400 civilians who refuse to leave joined in, making up 2,000 people. With so many people, even pigs firing guns on the ground might not be able to kill them all. What can Victor rely on? Does he have a nuclear bomb? Have you been driven stupid by his attack? It must be a poor signal, that's why we can't get through."

That huge explosion yesterday...

You could say a nuclear bomb was dropped, and the traffickers would believe it!

Anyway, there must not be many survivors from the initial nuclear blast, right?

While the arguments inside were heating up, the door suddenly opened, and a Los Zetas member with "KY" tattooed on his neck walked in, his face grave.

"Mr. Alfredo... is dead!"

...

"Members of the Hermosillo resistance and traffickers, listen up. The steel mill has been taken by the Anti-Drug Force, and the head of the Sinaloa Drug Cartel, Alfredo Beltran Leiva, has been killed. Surrender immediately! Otherwise, you will be executed on sight!"

"Mexican Drug Enforcement Agency warns all armed individuals within the city, lay down your weapons and surrender. Continuing to side with the traffickers will only lead to a dead end."

"We also remind the civilians, stay at home and wait for Hermosillo's liberation!"

A Bell 212 helicopter flew over the city, the loudspeaker's voice blaring.

Below it hung a cage, displaying the head of Alfredo, clamped between two wooden planks to prevent it from swaying.

Hmm... his face has shrunk considerably.

The people below gazed up in shock, unable to make out the details, and some didn't even know who Alfredo was.

But what they did know was that the traffickers at the steel mill were finished!

Sonora State is close to Sinaloa State; hanging out with bad company can't lead to any good. Most adult males had some involvement with drugs, with over 700 DM plantations spread across its 180,000 square kilometers of land, not to mention numerous labs for new types of drugs.

If Victor didn't have to worry about criticism, he would have gone for humane destruction of the entire area.

Mexico will be unusable for at least the next three generations.

They've been ruined by the drugs. Even if Victor wanted to fix the place up, these people couldn't be used. Otherwise, all the effort would go to waste before long.

Therefore, in Baja California's political climate, anyone involved with drugs or trafficking is strictly barred from public service, with extremely rigorous political vetting.

"Any action that hinders the Drug Enforcement Department is illegal!"

"Shoot it down! Shoot it down!" the furious trafficker leaders cursed, aiming the anti-aircraft machine gun on the rooftop at the Bell 212 in mid-air and opening fire.

But the pilot, who had already sensed something was wrong, quickly increased his altitude, dropped a string of flares, and made a dash for it, as if he'd just defecated a huge pile, and a runny one at that, heading off into the distance.

Leaving a mess of feathers behind, and with internal discord starting to stir.

"Mr. Alfredo is dead, what do we do now? Who's going to lead us?"

"Where's Guzman? Where did Guzman go?"

"Why should we Juarez fight to the death for Sinaloa Group territory? I quit! I'm not doing this anymore!"

This is the weakness of "The Mob"; they cower at the first sign of trouble, and their anger even nearly sparked conflict!

"Hey, hey, hey, put down the gun!"

The Spanish intelligence personnel also heard the broadcast, looking at each other in confusion.

"Alfredo's dead? That's so sudden! I bet it's definitely related to those two explosions," Four Eyes shouted.

Marsellino yawned, "OK, OK, you go ask Victor about it. Better to capture and interrogate him, I've already submitted my leave of absence."

"Hey!" Four Eyes waved his hand in dissatisfaction, growing increasingly repulsed by his superior's attitude, "You're the head of the department, but you just let us sightsee here all day? If we let Victor clean up all the traffickers, a united and clean Mexico is not in our interests."n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

"We must continue to spread Spain's glory here!"

The statement was so awkward it was like cringing out a three-bedroom apartment.

"Spain's glory should be in the king's pants, not on us. Maybe we should manage his lower half, or else, when the time comes, we'll definitely end up embarrassed on the world stage," Marsellino said, spreading his hands.

What Spain's glory.

I'm from Catalonia, not a Spaniard, what do I care?

"You idiot!" Four Eyes was clearly a royalist, outraged by the comment and ready to stand up for a duel.

"I'm a three-time Spanish Free Fight champion, you sure you want to take me on?"

Four Eyes quietened down immediately upon hearing this, his face turning red, "This is your job!"

"For such little pay, I might as well go into adult films," Marsellino said, throwing up his hands, "Alright, from today on, you're the head of the department, you call the shots, just don't bother me."

If it weren't for a bank loan on the house, who the hell would work?

"I'm definitely going to report you to the boss!" Four Eyes pointed as he shouted.

"Thanks, and remember to remind him to deposit last year's bonus into my account."

Marsellino spread his hands indifferently.

It looks like it's time for a job change.

I wonder... if Victor's operation is hiring.

...