Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 638 The world is wrong, I am not!

Medellín's "disappearance" is like a boulder thrown into a calm international lake, instantly creating ripples.

Initially, it was just a question raised by technicians, but the map service provider discovered that the data stream in the Medellín area was abnormally interrupted, and satellite image updates had stopped.

Then, the Colombian government was in an uproar. Their liaison station and safe house in Medellín were completely cut off, not even in the basic radio silence, but in a complete and chilling "blank".

Panic spread like a plague.

"What did the Mexicans do in Medellín?!"

The phone lines nearly overwhelmed the Mexican Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and emergency hotlines from major countries such as London, Paris, Berlin, and Moscow were activated, all with one target: Mexico City.

However, all they received in response was a busy signal.

He was so angry that he smashed several telephones.

Oh shit…

Does being at war mean you can't answer the phone?
People are so busy hooking up, they still have time!
The official phone lines of the Mexican Presidential Palace, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Ministry of National Defense, etc., were all busy or simply unanswered.

This is not a technical glitch; it is a deliberate and complete blockade.

This deliberate silence is more chilling than any statement.

Horrifying speculations are brewing wildly within intelligence agencies and diplomatic circles around the world: nuclear strike? Mass biological weapons? Ethnic cleansing? Medellin... has it been completely wiped off the map?

Fuck!
Victor, your grandma's legs!
The whole world is trying to dial that silent phone number, trying to pierce the fog that shrouds Medellín, a fog constructed by the silence of radio waves.

While the outside world was in chaos, Victor's convoy drove into a heavily guarded and secluded estate on the outskirts of Mexico City.

After sending his wife back to the National Palace, he and Casare came here.

On the surface, it's a high-class sanatorium, but in reality, it's a top-level place of confinement—the Xini District Manor!
Victor stopped in front of a heavy solid wood door, and Casare silently opened it for him.

The room was spacious and bright, with exquisite furnishings, but it exuded an air of seclusion.

Kuukmote sat in an armchair by the window, his back to the door, gazing at the meticulously manicured but lifeless garden outside.

He was dressed in casual clothes, still tall, but the aura of control he once possessed had vanished, leaving only a heavy sense of weariness.

Viktor entered the room, and the door closed gently behind him.

He didn't speak, but walked to the center of the room and stood quietly, his gaze fixed on Kuukmot's back. A suffocating heaviness filled the air.

Casare stood by the door like a shadow, eyes downcast, head bowed.

After an unknown amount of time, Kuukmot's dry voice rang out. Without turning around, he said, "Victor, what brings you here? Are you... here to see your old friend?" There was no fierce anger in his voice, only a bottomless weariness and calmness. He raised his head and said, "I feel like a little bird trapped here, deprived of its freedom."

That sounded a little uncomfortable.

Viktor's face remained expressionless, his voice equally calm, "Tatiana chose her path, a path to destruction. She thought she could shake the foundations by using your name. Naive!! Childish!!"

Kuukmote's body stiffened almost imperceptibly.

He slowly turned around, his once sharp, eagle-like eyes now bloodshot, staring intently at Viktor. His gaze held complex emotions, pain, and questioning, all of which ultimately boiled down to one sentence: "She... just wanted to help me..." he said in a low, hoarse voice.

Victor's voice suddenly rose, like a sharp blade drawn from its sheath, slashing fiercely at the deathly silence of the room: "Help you? Help you with rebellion?!"

He took a sudden step forward and pointed out the window:
"This is our Mexico! Our Mexico, which we shed blood and risked our lives to rebuild from the ruins, bit by bit!"

Viktor's chest heaved violently. "She's using your name to incite rebellion, divide the country, and shake its very foundations! Is that what she calls helping you?! What does Tatiana want to help you with? Help you get back to the presidency? You already are! Or is she trying to help you gain even more power?! You're already the number three person in this country! Above everyone else! What more could you possibly want?!"

What's going on in your head?!

He approached Kuukmot, his sharp eyes seeming to pierce through the weariness in the other's soul: "Is it that chair in the presidential palace? Or that highest balcony in the National Palace?! Tell me! Kuukmot! Just how big is your ambition? Is it so big that you can only be satisfied when you watch this country plunge into the flames of civil war again, when you watch everything we once fought for crumble?"

Victor's roar echoed through the luxurious room, making the air itself seem to tremble.

Kuukmot's face was grim. Viktor's blunt questioning was like a series of sharp knives, tearing his last pitiful excuses and self-deception to shreds.

His lips trembled, but he couldn't make a sound.

"Wake up!!!" Victor yelled, "It's just ambition!"

At this tense moment.

“Boss.” Casare’s steady voice suddenly broke the suffocating silence.

Viktor abruptly turned his head and glared at him.

Casare lowered his voice but spoke with exceptional clarity: "The Colombian government's emergency hotline, called directly from the president's office, went through a lot of trouble to get through to me, bypassing our shielding. They were very anxious and kept asking about Medellín's condition."

He paused, then added, "His tone sounded a bit anxious and flustered."

Viktor glanced at Quaukmoth, who seemed nailed to his chair and utterly dejected. There was no longer any anger in his eyes, but he looked like a walking corpse.

“Panic?” Viktor said as if he were talking about something trivial. “Tell them that Medellín is fine.”

"Okay." Casare didn't hesitate for a moment. He immediately whispered a few words to his secretary who was accompanying him outside, and after giving the instructions, he stood at the door.

Victor stopped looking at his former ally in the room.

He turned around, deftly opened the heavy solid wood door, and strode out.

Casare followed closely behind, glanced back at Kuukmote, opened his mouth, but there were things he wanted to say, yet he didn't know how to begin.

He closed the door.

Kuukmote's silhouette looked very lonely.

The convoy drove away from the Sinnier Estate in the night, heading towards the National Palace.

However, as the car was about to merge onto the main road leading to the center of power, Viktor leaned back in his seat, his gaze fixed on the glittering cityscape outside the window, and suddenly spoke:
"I'm not going back. I'll just wander around the city and see what the Day of the Dead is like."

A barely perceptible flicker of surprise crossed Casare's eyes, but he immediately adjusted the route via walkie-talkie. The luxury convoy discreetly blended into the bustling holiday traffic of Mexico City.

The car eventually stopped on a designated outer street.

Victor didn't get out of the car; he just rolled down the window.

Deafening music, laughter, and drumbeats instantly flooded in, drowning out the silence inside the car. On both sides of the street, huge skull-shaped lights shone brightly, and elaborately crafted altars were piled with marigolds, candles, and the deceased's favorite foods and photos.

The colorful procession moved slowly, with people wearing elaborate skull paintings on their faces, dressed in gorgeous traditional costumes, singing and dancing.

Victor's gaze swept over the noisy crowd, over the huge, festive decorations that also symbolized death.

His gaze finally settled on a little boy being carried on his father's shoulders. The child's face was painted with a small skull, and he held a glowing sugar skull in his hand, excitedly pointing at the huge float in the parade. His little mouth was wide open, and his eyes reflected the dazzling lights, pure and happy. His mother smiled beside him and gently patted her husband's back. The family was immersed in the pure joy of the festival.

On the other side of the street, several elderly people sat quietly in front of their shops, with small altars in front of them, candles flickering. They watched the lively parade with peaceful and even gratified smiles on their faces.

The entire city was immersed in a peculiar atmosphere, where the theme of death was enveloped by a vibrant life force and warm remembrance, and sorrow and revelry coexisted strangely, ultimately transforming into a profound and resilient tranquility.

Viktor watched all of this quietly, his eyes somewhat unfocused.

The hustle and bustle, the colors, and the pulse of life outside the car window washed away the gloom and rage he had just picked up at the manor like a silent torrent. He watched the child stuff the sugar skull into his father's mouth, watched the peaceful curve of the old man's lips, and watched the festive smiles on the faces of every ordinary Mexican on the street.

Casare remained silent, but keenly observed his surroundings.

Time passes little by little.

Victor's gaze shifted from the noisy parade to the windows of ordinary homes deep in the streets, where warm lights shone, and then to the city skyline outlined by festive lights in the distance.

His face was expressionless, but something settled deep within his sharp, eagle-like eyes, becoming harder and clearer.

Inside the carriage, only the sounds of revelry from outside could be heard.

correct!
He is not wrong!

He clenched his hands on his knees, as if trying to firmly grasp the peaceful and vibrant scene before him, a place he and his brothers had fought and rebuilt from the ruins.

"Let's go back," Victor's deep voice rang out as he closed the car window.

It isolated us from the noise of the outside world and sealed away the scene we had just witnessed.

The convoy turned around and headed back towards the center of power, carrying a ruler whose beliefs had been silently strengthened.

Viktor may have wavered at times, but at this moment, the lights and laughter outside the car window are his strongest armor and sharpest answer!
...

The following morning, Mexico City awoke exhausted from the revelry.

Sanitation workers silently swept the streets, pushing heavy garbage carts.

Colorful ribbons were tangled on the wet asphalt, and broken paper flowers, empty bottles, and food scraps were scattered everywhere, filling the air with a complex mix of smells.

Not everyone's character is as noble as the spirit of the festival.

Viktor, dressed in simple sportswear, jogged along a relatively secluded and heavily guarded route behind the National Palace.

After completing eight kilometers, he stopped at the edge of an open lawn and began stretching.

Just then, Rohus Misch, the Secret Service's deputy director and bodyguard, hurried across the lawn toward him.

“First Master.” Rohus stopped beside Viktor, his voice low.

Viktor didn't stop stretching; he simply tilted his head slightly, gesturing with his eyes for him to continue. The morning chill contrasted sharply with the steam rising from his body.

“More than a dozen ambassadors have arrived at the National Palace.” Rohus took a deep breath, seemingly organizing his thoughts. “Among Colombians, Americans, British, French, Germans, Russians… basically all the major countries are here, and they request to see you immediately.”

He paused, then added, his tone more strained: "They were extremely agitated. The Colombian ambassador was almost red-eyed as he led the charge, and the other ambassadors looked extremely grim. Although the media were kept on the perimeter by our people, they had already set up their cameras and microphones."

"The situation was getting a bit out of control," Rohus described as objectively as possible.

Victor finally stopped stretching.

He straightened up, took the towel Rohus handed him at the right moment, and wiped the sweat from his face and neck.

"For Medellín?"

“I think so,” Rohus replied confidently. “They demanded a ‘clear, immediate and convincing explanation.’ The Colombian ambassador even… used terms like humanitarian disaster and ‘state terrorism.’” Rohus repeated these words with a furrowed brow, clearly displeased with the term.

"We're helping them fight drug dealers, and they're not happy about it?"

“Make them wait,” Viktor said curtly. “Inform the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to prepare a large enough conference room. Tell the ambassadors that I will explain to them later.”

Rohus immediately straightened up: "Understood, sir!"

Viktor nodded and said nothing more.

He took one last look at the rising sun, then turned and walked toward the National Palace with a more steady, even poised, gait than when he arrived.
Outside the National Palace, dozens of reporters were gathered, but of course they dared not approach, as security personnel were watching them intently, their guns already loaded.

Outside the police cordon, they spoke loudly to the camera about their speculation that "Medellín" had disappeared from the map the previous night, doing whatever was meant to attract attention.

There were reporters speaking various languages, and you could even see female reporters wearing headscarves.

Surely Victor wouldn't just wipe them all out here, would he?
They probably wouldn't have that much courage!
Inside the door, Viktor remained remarkably calm, accompanied by Casare and President Anatoly Lunacharsky. Casare was merely a yes-man, a naive scholar, or perhaps a staunch supporter of Viktor.

"When we go in, no matter what they say, we just say three words: 'I don't know,' understand?"

Casare and his companion exchanged a glance and nodded vigorously.

I'll just play dead, what can you do about it!

……

(End of this chapter)