Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 639 The British Troublemaker!
The heavy conference room doors were pushed open, and a wave of noise rushed in.

A dozen or so ambassadors stood up almost simultaneously, their gazes fixed intently on Viktor as he entered. Some wore expressions of respect, some of calm, and others were visibly agitated.

Colombian Ambassador Ulysses Mendoza had bloodshot eyes and was breathing heavily, looking like a bull ready to pounce at any moment.

“Your Excellency!” Ambassador Mendoza’s voice was hoarse and shrill as he launched the first attack. “Medellín! The entire city! Where did it all go overnight? You must give us an explanation immediately! This is a complete humanitarian disaster! It is… it is state terrorism!” He leaned forward so agitatedly that he almost crossed the long table.

Viktor walked to the head seat with a blank expression and sat down, with Presidents Casare and Lunacharsky sitting on either side.

He frowned deeply. "Where did Medellin go? Isn't Medellin in Columbia City? Where could he go? Can I make him disappear?"

Ambassador Mendoza nearly coughed up blood upon hearing this, knowing that the other party was simply being unreasonable.

"sit down!"

"Shouting at me like that, don't you have any manners?" he snapped, his eyes flashing fiercely. Ambassador Mendoza shuddered, instantly sobering up, only then realizing that this guy in front of him...

He's not a good person!
But Mendoza hardened up.

His face was pale, his lips were trembling violently, and tears were actually welling up in his eyes.
Casare's heart skipped a beat; this guy...

He's fucking acting!!!

“An entire city! Millions of our compatriots! They may all be gone!! What else could this be but a disaster? Führer Victor! Is this some kind of genocide you have orchestrated?!” His voice was filled with despair.

"Fuck you!" Casare slammed his hand on the table, the loud noise making the files on the desktop jump.

He abruptly stood up, pointed at Mendoza, and began to curse: "What are you slandering?! Who told you Medellín is gone? Show me the evidence! If you can't, I'll make sure your mouth stays right here today!"

"Have you forgotten whose aid helped stabilize the situation? Have you forgotten whose supplies saved your victims? If it weren't for the head of state, the Medellín drug cartel would have already reached Bogotá. Have you lost all your gratitude?!"

"All you know how to do is take, not give back!"

"You, you, you, if it weren't for us, would you still be ambassadors?"

Casare's combat strength is still quite good.

The entire conference room fell into a deathly silence.

Viktor's face darkened completely. His icy gaze swept across the room, finally settling on Mendoza. His voice was low and menacing. "Enough, Ambassador Mendoza. Stop with your act and just say it. What do you want?"

The oppressive silence was broken.

British Ambassador George Cavendish cleared his throat, his demeanor elegant yet undeniably firm: "Your Excellency, speculation is pointless. In order to clarify the truth and quell international concerns, we unanimously agree that it is imperative to immediately dispatch an independent advisory group composed of representatives from allied nations to conduct an on-site investigation at the Medellín site. This is the only way to understand the facts and avoid misjudgment."

Victor's gaze slowly shifted to his face. "Oh?"

"Independent advisory group? On-site investigation?" he repeated, a mocking smile playing on his lips, as he sized the other person up and down.

“Mr. Cavendish,” Victor’s voice was low but clearly drowned out any possible noise, “you, or rather, the only way you all agree to?” He leaned forward slightly, making no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his tone.

"Let me think, when was the last time you all agreed on this? Oh, right, it was on the beaches of Dunkirk, waiting for our American cousin's ship to come and rescue you bunch of burdens?"

George Cavendish's expression froze instantly!
Damn...

This is insulting someone, slapping them in the face!

"Survey?" Victor's voice suddenly rose. "Survey what? Surveillance whether Mexico has the ability to wipe out a city? Or survey just how rich your imaginations really are?"

He slammed his hand on the table, harder and louder than Casare's earlier slam, so loudly that even the heavy solid wood tabletop seemed to groan, and the documents and water glass on the table jumped up.

“Listen!” Victor’s sharp gaze swept across the room. He stood up abruptly, pointing at them. “No one! No one can threaten Mexico! No one can point fingers at Mexico and demand that we open our doors so you can survey the land we are fighting on like you’re visiting a zoo. That’s impossible!”

His voice was firm and resolute: "We are more concerned about what happened in Medellín than anyone else, but things need time to clarify, and the truth needs time to emerge! Your responsibility is to wait! To wait for our official, authoritative report, instead of here making baseless accusations and exerting pressure on me! On Mexico! based on your conjectures and so-called international concerns!"

The more he listened, the more something seemed off. It sounded like he was trying to smooth things over. The Englishman instinctively wanted to continue, but then he saw Victor lean back in his chair. "So, put away your independent advisory group tricks. Your demands have been rejected. Now, sit down, shut up, or I'll beat you up."

The words made the British man's face turn very ugly; it was basically an insult.

After Cavendish sat down, he glanced at the Colombian. Ambassador Mendoza's lips moved as if he wanted to squeeze out a few more accusations to save face or stir up some more emotions.

"Your Excellency, but... but the lives of millions of people..." His voice trembled with tears, as he tried to play the tragic role once again.

However, the moment the word "life" left his lips, Viktor's last shred of patience vanished completely!
Without any warning, Victor grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray beside him—the very arm he had used to smoke earlier—and swung it around!
A heavy, piercing sound!
"Bang Dang——!!!"

The ashtray slammed onto the table in front of Mendoza with astonishing force and precision! It came within ten centimeters of his fingertips!
The expensive mahogany tabletop was instantly smashed, leaving a noticeable dent. Shattered soot and water splashed everywhere, with a few drops even landing on Mendoza's terrified, contorted face.

The loud noise and sudden violence startled everyone.

Mendoza was terrified, letting out a short scream and jerking backward as if he had been burned, almost tipping over his chair.

"Shut up!!!" Viktor roared, his shouts seemingly shaking the entire conference room. "Dare to utter another useless fart in front of me! Next time, this ashtray won't just be smashing on the table!!!"

Ambassador Mendoza was utterly terrified. He scrambled to his feet, straightened his chair, and cowered in his seat, no longer daring to utter a sound. His eyes were filled with boundless fear.

The other ambassadors were even more terrified, barely breathing, for fear of becoming the next target.

Viktor's chest heaved a few times, the rage in his eyes slowly subsiding. He sat up straight, straightened his slightly disheveled clothes, and looked around at the still-shaken faces:
“48 hours,” he began. “Message from Medellín will arrive within 48 hours. Before then, anyone who dares to make a fuss will be subject to diplomatic protocol.”

That was said to the British ambassador, and it was meant for him.

Victor isn't an idiot; he can't see through their flirting.
Anyone with a brain knows the British want to do something in Latin America; they want to win over the Colombians.

Damn it, the war isn't even over yet, and they're already trying to pull stunts!

Those British guys are disgusting!

In the conference room, only heavy, suppressed breathing and the shocking dent on the table told the story of the tumultuous events that had just transpired.

"Meeting dismissed."

Without further ado, Victor, too lazy to waste words with them, stood up.

The chair legs made a screeching sound as they rubbed against the marble floor.

Presidents Casare and Lunacharski followed closely behind, the three of them striding out of the meeting room without looking to either side.

The moment the door closed, the conference room seemed to deflate like a punctured balloon. The stiff bodies of the dozen or so ambassadors relaxed slightly, but no one dared to speak loudly. There were only suppressed breaths and lingering fear in their eyes.

British Ambassador George Cavendish was ashen-faced. He straightened his impeccably tailored tie with a deliberate elegance, attempting to reclaim the dignity that had been ruthlessly trampled upon by Victor.

Commonly known as: wanting to show off, but getting fucked instead.

He was the first to stand up and walk out without saying a word, but his pace was a bit faster than when he came in.

The other ambassadors also seemed to wake up from a dream, and they left their seats one after another, their steps hurried, wanting only to escape this room filled with violence and humiliation as soon as possible.

Outside the National Palace, night was falling.

The ambassadors' vehicles were parked quietly in the designated area.

Colombian Ambassador Mendoza practically stumbled into his car, his face pale and his forehead still damp with cold sweat.

He said something to the driver in a hurry, and the car did not leave immediately, but stayed in place for a moment.

A few seconds later, Mendoza opened the car door, glanced around warily, and then strode quickly toward a black sedan with elegant lines and a Union Jack flag not far away.

He opened the car door and quickly climbed inside.

The car doors closed, shutting out the outside world. The interior was filled with the mixed scents of expensive leather and cigars.

George Cavendish was already seated in the back seat, having shed his diplomatic demeanor and giving Mendoza a hostile look.

“Useless!” Cavendish’s voice was low. “Can’t even handle a little pressure, tears? How could you even think of that! Everyone here is an actor, what did you get in return? A warning with an ashtray?”

Mendoza wiped his sweat, his lips still trembling: "Mr. Cavendish, Victor really dared to lay a hand on me! Didn't you see the look in his eyes..."

"Stop your cowardly act!" Cavendish interrupted him impatiently. "This is not the time for whine! Viktor's toughness has exceeded expectations; he's not buying into international pressure or moral blackmail. 48 hours... Hmph, what official statement can he give in 48 hours? A carefully crafted lie? Or... continue playing dumb?"

He took a deep drag on his cigar, the smoke swirling in the dim headlights, much like his thoughts at that moment.

"Mendoza, perhaps the disappearance of Medellín is an opportunity for all of us, a huge opportunity to reshape the landscape of Latin America!"

Cavendish's voice carried a seductive whisper, "Victor's Mexico is rising in a disturbing way, with unknown power and unpredictable methods. His new order is full of violence and tyranny, which is something the civilized world does not want to see."

He turned to the side, his gaze fixed intently on Mendoza: "The traditional interests and influence of the British Empire in Latin America must be maintained and strengthened! And Colombia, as a key country in South America, possesses a unique geographical location and potential."

“Think about it, Mendoza, think about a Colombia that has broken free from the shadow of drug cartels and gained strong external support! It could very well become a new cornerstone of stability and a new leader in South America.”

"The person in charge?" A glint of greed and desire flashed in Mendoza's cloudy eyes, temporarily suppressing his fear. The word was too tempting for him and for his country.

“That’s right!” Cavendish said firmly. “But the prerequisite is that we must break Victor’s oppressive control over Latin America, especially over your Colombia! The Medellín incident is the perfect opening to tear down his iron curtain! We can’t directly investigate, but… news will always get out, there will always be clues. We need you within Colombia to use every channel to gather any real information about the disappearance of Medellín! Photos, eyewitness accounts, unusual phenomena… anything that points to the truth! And…”

He leaned closer to Mendoza, lowering his voice even further, “In Bogotá, within the Organization of American States, we must continue to create public pressure! Firmly nail the labels of ‘humanitarian disaster’ and ‘state terrorism’ to Viktor! We must make the entire Americas feel uneasy and fearful! Isolate him! We must weaken his moral foundation! We must create conditions for our next move.”

Mendoza's heart pounded wildly.

Fear remained, but the allure of power and the promises from the British acted like a shot of adrenaline. He nodded vigorously, a renewed glint of ambition and calculation in his eyes: "I understand, Mr. Cavendish. For the future of Colombia… for the new order in South America, I know what to do. I will immediately contact the country and mobilize all available resources. Victor cannot hold absolute power forever!"

“Very good.” Cavendish leaned back in his chair with satisfaction, a smile playing on his lips. “Remember, time is of the essence. Victor has only given us 48 hours. We must find the truth before he finishes weaving his lies… or create a truth that is damaging enough. Go, and be quick and discreet.”

The door of the black sedan opened again, and Mendoza slipped out like a ghost and disappeared back into his own car.

The two cars started almost simultaneously, silently disappearing into the deep night outside the National Palace. Their headlights pierced the darkness, like two venomous snakes with ulterior motives, slithering in different directions, leaving behind a deeper conspiracy and an impending storm.

Inside the car, Cavendish gazed at the rapidly receding Mexico City nightscape outside the window, his eyes deep and thoughtful. Victor's intimidation had temporarily quelled the unrest, but it would only intensify the undercurrents beneath the surface. A silent war over the truth behind Medellín's disappearance and the question of Latin American dominance had only just begun. He picked up his encrypted satellite phone and started dialing.

"Our plans need to be accelerated!"

...

(End of this chapter)