Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 636 Let your nonsense and your cover fly together.

Casare's voice was filled with barely suppressed excitement, "Boss, Medellín! Our men have stormed Medellín!"

Viktor abruptly stopped, the weariness in his eyes instantly replaced by a sharp glint. He turned around and stared at Casare: "Explain yourself!"

“Carlos Rider, one of the three leaders in Medellín,” Casare spoke rapidly, “He’s scared! Pablo’s bodyguard chief, John Jero Villacques, isn’t truly surrendering. He wants to use the surrender ceremony as an opportunity to carry out a massacre, killing our people along with the traitors he dislikes and the Colombian government!”

"They can turn the tide and win then!"

Viktor narrowed his eyes: "Naive!"

“Carlos chickened out. He didn’t want to go crazy with Veracruz, and he didn’t want to die! He contacted our frontline command privately and provided detailed intelligence on John Jero Veracruz’s security arrangements, including the locations of heavy weapons, the positions of snipers, and the passageways to his own safe house… He had only one condition: save his life and that of his core family members, and guarantee that he would not be put on trial!”
Victor raised an eyebrow. "Tell him it's a deal, and have his men lead the way."

In any case, keeping one's word is a moral issue, not a legal one.

He has always lacked morality.

Colombia, Medellín.

Carlos's confidant, a pale-faced but fierce-looking man, led a team of elite Mexican Special Forces 141, like ghosts, silently infiltrating the heart of Medellín through a passage provided by Carlos.

Their target was Carlos's "safe house" on the top floor of what appeared to be an ordinary apartment building.

Carlos sat in the living room of the safe house, the expensive leather sofa now feeling like needles on his hands. He forced himself to remain calm and dialed Veraquis's encrypted line, trying to keep his voice in its usual tone: "John, it's me. The situation has changed a bit, and we need to talk in person. It's urgent. Come to my place, the safe house. You'll be alone. Something's not right."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone before Veracruz's deep voice came through, devoid of emotion: "Just me? Carlos."

"I'm sure! Come on!" Carlos's voice trembled slightly.

Time passed second by second, each second feeling like being fried in a pan of oil.

Finally, the heavy bulletproof door of the safe house emitted an electronic sound indicating it was unlocking.

The door slowly opened, and John Jero Veracruz's tall figure appeared in the doorway. He didn't enter immediately; his hawk-like gaze sharply swept across the living room.

Carlos sat stiffly on the sofa, his eyes flickering; the air was filled with an overly deliberate silence, and a faint... unfamiliar smell of sweat.

It's so clean, there isn't even a bodyguard?
Villacriston sensed something was wrong. His right hand, seemingly hanging casually at his side, was only inches away from the quickdraw holster at his waist.

“Carlos,” Veracruz’s voice was urgent, his brow furrowed, “what do you want to talk about? Why now of all times?”

Carlos stood up abruptly, trying to force a smile. "John, listen to me, I think your plan is a little lacking?"

"What do you mean?" Veraquis interrupted him, his gaze sharp as a knife, instantly locking onto a black shoe that didn't belong here, flashing through the crack of the tightly closed bedroom door on the side of the living room.

"Do it!!"

I don't know who called it out.

boom!boom!boom!boom!
The gunshots rang out almost instantly, right in the middle of the roar!

It didn't come from the bedroom, but from behind the bar on the other side of the living room!

Carlos's hired gunman was exposed prematurely! The bullet tore through the air and struck the spot where Villaques had just been standing, instantly shattering the expensive decorative vase.

As he drew his gun, Villacques dove to the side and rolled, displaying remarkable agility.

A bullet grazed his shoulder, leaving a trail of blood, and he roared back with his large-caliber pistol.

"Carlos! You traitor!" Veracruz roared like a beast as he rolled for cover behind a heavy wooden cabinet, bullets pounding against it and splinters flying everywhere.

Carlos was terrified and scrambled toward the bedroom, where his backup plan and the men of the 141st Special Forces Brigade were located.

"Stop him!" The bedroom door was kicked open, and several members of the 141st Special Forces, dressed in urban combat uniforms and with their faces painted, pounced out like tigers, their assault rifles spitting deadly flames, instantly suppressing the area where Veraquis was hiding.

Bullets rained down, instantly riddling the living room walls with bullet holes, and leaving the expensive furniture riddled with holes and shards flying everywhere.

Veraquim was pinned to his bunker by the fierce firepower, unable to raise his head.

A member of the 141st Special Forces Brigade attempted to flank the enemy from the side.

"what--!"

With a scream, the team member who was trying to flank was hit in the thigh by a precise shot from Veraques and rolled to the ground.

In the chaos, Veracruz saw Carlos cowering in terror at the corner of the hallway leading to the bedroom.

His anger instantly consumed all his reason.

He suddenly leaned half his body out from behind cover, completely ignoring the whistling bullets, and pointed the muzzle of his gun at Carlos!

"Fuck your mother!! Why!" Veracruz's voice was filled with violent disappointment and murderous intent as he pulled the trigger!

"Bang!" At the same time the gunshot rang out, a member of the 141st Special Forces Team next to Carlos tackled him to the ground. The bullet grazed Carlos's scalp and hit the wall, exploding a large hole.

Villacques tried to fire again, but the crossfire of the 141st Special Forces team finally caught him in the moment of exposure!
"Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!" Several bullets pierced his body, and the huge impact sent him crashing backward against the wall.

He groaned, and blood quickly stained his tactical vest, but he did not fall. His eyes burned with a mad flame as he still tried to raise his gun.

Just then, under the cover of the 141st Special Forces team, Carlos struggled to his feet, a small but powerful short-barreled shotgun in his hand!

His face was a mixture of extreme fear and hysterical madness as he roared incoherently at Veracruz, who was leaning against the wall a few meters away, covered in blood: "Die, John!"

BOOM!! ——!
The roar of the shotgun at close range was deafening!
At this close range, unless you're Iron Man.

The dense steel balls, like the scythe of death, instantly enveloped Veraquis's upper body! The enormous impact sent him flying backward, crashing heavily onto the messy floor, leaving a horrific radial pattern of blood and flesh on the wall.

Smoke filled the air, and the pungent smell of gunpowder mingled with the strong stench of blood.

Veracruz lay in a pool of blood, his body convulsing violently, his chest almost smashed open. His bloodshot eyes stared incredulously in Carlos's direction, a hissing sound escaping his throat, as if he still wanted to question him, but his life was rapidly slipping away.

Carlos, gripping the still-smoking shotgun, trembled violently. The sight of Veracruz's gruesome state sent a shiver down his spine. John McTavish, leader of the 141st Special Forces Unit, coldly approached Veracruz, confirmed he was no longer a threat, and then succinctly reported into the walkie-talkie: "Target cleared."

He glanced at the distraught Carlos, his eyes devoid of any warmth: "Mr. Carlos, the deal is done. Your head is safe for now."

He emphasized the word "temporarily".

Carlos's legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground, his shotgun falling to the ground in a pool of blood with a dull thud. Inside the safe house, only thick smoke, the stench of blood, and a deathly silence of devastation remained. Veracruz's unclosed eyes seemed to still be silently cursing the traitor.

Carlos slumped on the cold, blood-stained floor of the safe house, the unseeing eyes of Veracruz seemingly branded into the depths of his soul.

He was a little... a little scared!
The Medellín Cartel will not forgive a traitor. His only way out is to completely side with the Mexicans and exchange the "surrender of order" in Medellín for his own survival.

Under the watchful eyes of Mexican special forces members, almost like an escort, Carlos was led to a relatively intact room deep inside the safe house.

There was a device here that connected directly to the Medellín Group's internal emergency broadcast system. His hands were still trembling violently, barely able to hold the microphone, and cold sweat poured down his forehead. The huge bloody hole in Veracruz's chest kept flashing before his eyes.

He took a deep breath, using all his strength to suppress the urge to vomit, and leaned closer to the microphone. His voice, amplified, instantly resonated throughout the key areas, hideouts, and intercom networks controlled by the Medellín Cartel:
“All…all brothers of Medellín…I am Carlos Ryder!” His voice trembled uncontrollably, yet he forced a calm. “Listen! I, as the acting leader of Medellín, order you to lay down!”

A piercing electrical noise came from the radio, as if the entire city was gasping in shock.

“Resistance… is pointless!” Carlos practically roared, his voice hoarse with despair. “Put down your weapons! Put them down! The Mexican army has the situation under control! I… I guarantee with my honor, put down your weapons, come out of your shelters, and they will guarantee your safety! There will be no trial! We… we still have a chance to negotiate! Stop the bloodshed! For the sake of your families, put down your weapons!”

"Reputation?! Carlos Ryder! You filthy traitor! You pig! You still have a reputation?!"

Almost the instant the broadcast ended, another extremely furious voice blared on another channel of internal communications, drowning out the remnants of Carlos's voice.

That was "Black Panther" Estrada, a branch of the Medellín Cartel, who controlled several key drug production sites and armed strongholds in the west of the city.

"Brothers! Don't listen to this bullshit! He sold himself to the Mexicans! He betrayed all of us! Estrada's voice is full of frenzied hatred and incitement. Guarantee safety? Bullshit! Don't you know what kind of bastard Victor of Mexico is? Abandon illusions and prepare for battle!"

"Traitor Carlos! You want to trade the blood of our brothers for your dog's life?! Dream on!" Another fierce voice joined in, from the faction leader who controlled the transportation line in the north of the city.

"Grab your guns! Let's fight these Mexican bastards!"

"Kill that bastard Carlos!"

"Fight your way out! Medellín will never surrender!"

……

Carlos's broadcast was like a spark thrown into boiling oil, instantly igniting Medellín, a giant powder keg.

Carlos's public "persuasion to surrender" not only failed to quell the resistance, but instead provoked the fiercest resistance.

Dozens of factions and armed groups, large and small, those who were already dissatisfied with Carlos or were simply bloodthirsty and warlike outlaws, instantly found an outlet for their anger.

They no longer hid! The walkie-talkies were filled with shouts, curses, and battle mobilizations in various dialects.

Gunfire was no longer sporadic probing, but suddenly erupted in every corner of the city, especially in the industrial areas, slum fortresses, and transportation hubs controlled by the former Viraquis faction—becoming dense and violent!
"For Medellín! For freedom! Kill!" The fanatical roars rang out, accompanied by the sound of AK-47 fire.

"Kill those bastards in camouflage! And Carlos's lackeys!"

"Rocket launcher! Aim at that armored vehicle!"

The city instantly descended into chaos.

Carlos listened to the deafening gunfire and the most vicious curses directed at him over the communication channel, his face ashen.

He slumped into his chair, muttering to himself, "It's over...it's all over...these lunatics...they want to drag everyone down with them..."

Outside the city, a temporary artillery position.

Frederick von Paulus stood beside the command vehicle, listening expressionlessly to the chaotic battle reports coming from the front.

"Chief of Staff!" An artillery commander ran up with the latest coordinate map, speaking rapidly, "Fierce resistance has broken out in multiple areas of the city, with dense firing positions. Our infantry advance is being hampered, and casualties are increasing!"
Especially in the western industrial zone where 'Black Panther' Estrada is entrenched, and several transportation hubs in the north, they are putting up a very tenacious resistance, relying on sturdy buildings and pre-prepared fortifications! Frontline requests fire support! Coordinates confirmed!

Frederick von Paulus's gaze swept across the resistance zone marked in deep red on the map.

He had long anticipated that Carlos's naive broadcast would only escalate the conflict; what he needed was this chaos, an excuse for a complete purge!
Those who haven't surrendered yet are basically die-hards.

“Order,” Frederick von Paulus’s voice was as calm as if he were discussing the weather. “All artillery units, saturate fire according to the coordinates provided by the front. Air Force fighter-bombers, armed with high-explosive and incendiary bombs, conduct precision strikes on key fortified targets. Wipe out those rat holes, along with the rats inside.”

"Yes, sir!" The commander stood at attention, saluted, and quickly turned to relay the order.

Let your nonsense and your cover fly away.

A few seconds later, the ground began to tremble.

Boom! Boom!
The 155mm howitzer group deployed outside the city roared deafeningly!

The shells tore through the air, whistling with death, and rained down on the marked resistance zones in Medellín like a storm of steel.

Immediately afterwards, the roar of jet fighters filled the sky.

B-24 bombers swooped down, their wings precisely dropping high-explosive and napalm bombs on the buildings considered the most fortified strongholds: drug factories, sturdy warehouses, and command posts...

Boom boom boom——! ! !
An even louder explosion rang out within the city!
Flames shot into the sky! Where the 155mm shells landed, entire blocks were instantly razed to the ground! Bricks, concrete, furniture, human remains...

Everything was torn apart and thrown into the air by the violent shockwave! High-explosive bombs blasted solid buildings into huge fireballs and piles of rubble, while incendiary bombs dropped hellfire. The viscous flames clung to all flammable materials and burned fiercely, turning the streets into a fiery inferno!
"Ah—! My leg! Help!"

"Mommy! Mommy! Where are you?!"

"The building is collapsing! Run! Quick... Boom!"

"Fire! Fire everywhere! Help! I'm burning to death!"

The sounds of gunfire in the city were instantly drowned out by even more terrifying explosions and countless piercing, inhuman screams. Smoke, dust, thick smoke, and flames mingled together, obscuring the sky. Beneath the ruins, mangled corpses and wounded soldiers writhing and wailing in agony were everywhere.

In a slum affected by incendiary bombs, the fire spread extremely quickly, and desperate cries were heart-wrenching.

A location marked as a "suspected weapons depot" was directly hit by a heavy aerial bomb. The blast wave affected the makeshift hospital next door, and shattered toys and charred bodies were scattered around the edge of the ruins...

Ruins were everywhere, scorched earth filled the air, and the air was thick with the terrifying smells of gunpowder, blood, and burning flesh. The scene was one of utter despair, a living hell.

"Marching! Marching! Marching!!"

Frederick von Paulus gave the order, "Take Medellín! I will celebrate the Day of the Dead in Medellín!"

……

(End of this chapter)