Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 640 There Are Always Those Who Are Not Afraid of Death

Global media headlines were like a powder keg that had been lit:

The New York Times: "Medellingin Vanishes: The Disappearance of the Colombian City Sparks Global Panic, Mexico Remains Deafeningly Silent!"

BBC: "Millions of lives in limbo, Medellín vanishes, Victor's 'New Order' casts a shadow over Latin America!"

Le Figaro: "Humanitarian disaster? State crime? The Medellin mystery tests international conscience!"

Al Jazeera: "Ghost Towns in Satellite Images: Medellín Deserted, Mexico Faces Unprecedented Pressure!"

On the television screen, alarming headlines scrolled by, accompanied by blurry old footage of so-called "abnormal images around Medellín" or empty streets.

Experts argued heatedly in the studio, and panic spread across the globe via radio waves.

The involvement of social celebrities and opinion leaders further fueled public opinion, pushing it to a boiling point.

A Nobel laureate in literature posted a lengthy statement on social media, denouncing: "Medellín, the soul of Colombia, has been ruthlessly erased! Victor must answer! This is a trampling of civilization!"

The accompanying image is a broken heart, a symbol of Colombia.

The president of a prominent international human rights organization issued a strongly worded statement in Geneva: "No matter the reason, the disappearance of a city and its inhabitants is an unforgivable crime against humanity! The Viktor regime must be completely isolated and sanctioned!"

Diplomatic pressure is like a landslide and a tsunami.

The Mexican Ministry of Foreign Affairs building remained brightly lit throughout the night as protest notices piled up like snowflakes.

Protesters held up placards in front of the embassies of various countries in Mexico, while journalists aimed their cameras and microphones at the closed gates.

The world seemed to be reduced to a single voice: Victor, you must explain!

Of course, no one would believe it if no one pushed for it.

But in his familiar office at the National Palace, Viktor remained calm. He'd seen it all; a few words were all it took.

"Beep—beep—beep—" The red telephone on the desk, which connects directly to the core command chain, rang, its ringing sound particularly abrupt in the silence.

Viktor looked up, his gaze falling on the receiver.

He didn't answer immediately, letting the phone ring twice more before reaching out, steadily picking up the receiver, and holding it to his ear.

"it's me."

Casare's voice came from the other end of the phone, "Boss, the troops at the Medellin front have sent back a message: the initial verification of the area is complete."

Viktor's gaze remained fixed straight ahead, but the fingers gripping the receiver tightened slightly.

Casare continued, "We are identifying individuals with substantial ties to the Medellín Cartel, including core members, militants, drug manufacturers, money launderers, protectors and their family cores, and young adults deeply involved in drug trafficking activities. However, 48 hours is not enough time."

"Boss, this time... we're really going to be 'besieged'!"

Victor fell silent for a moment, then calmly said, "What kind of good people would advocate for drug dealers?"

That's fucking extreme!

"How much clean stuff is left in Medellín?" Victor asked.

“Rarely, Pablo had a great many loyal followers in the area, and he often did favors for these poor people, so much so that many people had connections with him.”

Casare paused as he spoke, his voice trembling slightly, "Boss, I feel like we're going to be on history books now."

Viktor frowned and remained silent.

Meanwhile, in Medellín.

The surrounding area, an unnamed canyon,
The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder, dirt, and an overwhelming stench of blood.

Just days ago, this was one of the secret passages controlled by the Medellín drug cartel, but now it has become an execution ground.

The jagged rocks on both sides of the canyon cast long shadows under the dim light of the sky.

Squads of expressionless soldiers in Mexican uniforms were herding groups of ragged people with their hands tied behind their backs toward the bottom of the valley, like herding livestock.

These people include fierce-looking armed men, drug manufacturers with lifeless eyes, well-dressed but covered in mud “treasurers”, and many who look like ordinary young men, but their files or kinship have been marked as having “substantial ties” to drug trafficking groups.

Cries, curses, and desperate prayers echoed through the narrow valley, bounced off the cold rocks, creating a suffocating reverberation.

"Please! I was forced! I don't know anything!" A young man cried, his legs so weak he could barely stand, as he was roughly dragged along by two soldiers.

“Mexicans! You’ll all die a horrible death! Victor is a devil!” a burly man with a scar on his face roared, trying to resist, but was immediately smashed hard in the face with the butt of a gun, blood spurting out and teeth falling out.

Fear spread among the people like a plague.

People lost control of their bladders, the stench of blood mingling with the stench of urine; some had vacant stares, as if their souls had already left their bodies; others struggled hysterically, only to be met with even more brutal beatings.

The soldiers silently carried out the orders.

They pushed these "associated personnel" to a relatively open depression at the bottom of the canyon, ordered them to kneel down, facing the rock wall. Rows of dark gun barrels were raised behind them.

"preparation--"

The command was cold and devoid of any emotion.

"Do not--!!!"

"mom!"

The pleas for mercy and the final cries were drowned out.

"put!"

boom!boom!boom!boom!boom!
A barrage of gunfire exploded through the canyon, deafeningly loud.
The dull thuds of bullets tearing flesh echoed incessantly, and a mist of blood instantly rose, staining the gray-brown rock walls red. A thick, dark red stream quickly gathered on the ground.

One by one, bodies fell to the ground like felled wheat, twitched a few times, and then lay still.

As the gunfire subsided, soldiers began to examine the bodies, firing finishing shots at those still convulsing or groaning. The sounds of bayonets piercing flesh and short bursts of gunfire filled the air. Meanwhile, bulldozers, which had been waiting, pushed the corpses into the prepared pit.

They seem quite skilled at it.

On a gentle slope with slightly denser vegetation near the edge of the canyon, which also served as an execution ground, a "corpse" suddenly convulsed violently.

His name is Juan, and he used to be a driver and henchman for a minor gang leader.

During the volley of bullets, one bullet grazed his scalp, while another miraculously pierced only the muscle below his left scapula, without damaging any vital organs.

The immense impact knocked him unconscious instantly, causing him to collapse beneath several real corpses. Warm blood soaked his back, making him appear lifeless.

The footsteps of the soldiers coming to finish off the enemy soldiers drew near.

The sound of boots stepping on blood and mud was like the drumbeat of death.

Juan's heart nearly leaped out of his chest; extreme fear overwhelmed the tearing pain in his shoulder blades. He bit his lip hard, held his breath, and buried his face deep in the cold, foul-smelling soil, letting the thick blood smear over his mouth and nose.

The sound of boots lingered near him for a moment, as if the barrel of a gun had been used to poke at the corpse beside him. Juan could feel the soldier's gaze sweeping over him. Time seemed to freeze. Finally, the sound of boots moved on to the next spot.

Juan didn't know how much time had passed until the sounds in the canyon completely disappeared, leaving only the sound of the wind and the faint chirping of birds in the distance.

The soldiers seemed to have retreated. His survival instinct overwhelmed everything. He used all his strength, enduring the excruciating pain in his left shoulder, and struggled to crawl out of the pile of corpses.

Every movement aggravated his wounds, causing blood to gush out again. He dared not look back at the hellish scene, nor did he care about direction; he had only one thought: run! Get out of this hell!

He stumbled and rushed into the woods at the edge of the canyon, like a frightened wild beast, instinctively fleeing in the direction he thought was far away from Medellín.

Branches whipped his face, thorns tore his clothes and skin, and each fall nearly knocked him unconscious. The wound on his left shoulder burned fiercely, and every breath was filled with the taste of blood and the searing pain in his lungs. He didn't know how far he had run or where he was going; he only felt the stench of blood and the sound of gunfire following him relentlessly.

The sky grew darker.

Juan was completely exhausted. Blood loss and excruciating pain blurred his vision and made him dizzy. He staggered out of a stream, the icy water making him shiver, but then his legs gave way and he fell heavily onto the pebbly shallows by the stream, splashing water everywhere.

He tried to get up, but he had no strength left and could only groan in pain. His blood stained the stream and stones beneath him.

Just then, a deliberately hushed conversation and rustling footsteps came from the other side of the woods.

This immediately made him nervous.

"The signal eventually disappeared in this area, and satellite imagery shows a small path that may lead to the east."

"God, this tastes like rust and rot? Colombia is disgusting!"

“Be careful, Raphael. Get the cameras ready, but don’t turn on the lights! We don’t know what we’re going to run into…”

Several beams of flashlight cautiously swept across the edge of the woods, and soon focused on the writhing, blood-covered figure by the stream.

“Holy shit! Someone’s here!” a low exclamation rang out, spoken with a thick British accent.

The beam of light stung Juan's eyes, making it impossible for him to open them.

Several figures quickly surrounded them, moving swiftly and warily.

They were wearing windbreakers and carrying heavy backpacks. One of them carried a professional camera, another carried a voice recorder and a high-powered flashlight, and the third carried a satellite phone and positioning equipment.

It was that group of "fearless" international journalists who defied the ban and tried to sneak into Medellin to find out what was going on—Maya from the BBC, Raphael from Reuters, Jean-Pierre from AFP, and their guide and security advisor.

They're really going all out for traffic!!
"Oh my God, he's been shot! He's been shot!" BBC's Maya crouched down, shining a powerful flashlight carefully on Juan's wound and terrified, desperate face. Her professional instincts allowed her to quickly assess the injury: "Penetrating wound to the shoulder, severe blood loss! Quick, first aid kit!"

Raphael quickly put down the camera and rummaged through his backpack for a tourniquet and dressings.

Reuters' Jean-Pierre warily observed the dark woods around him.

"Who are you? What happened? What's going on in Medellín?" Mayas asked rapidly in Spanish, while gesturing for Raphael to help bandage the wound.

Juan's consciousness briefly cleared amidst the excruciating pain and his intense will to survive.

He recognized the unfamiliar, concerned, and shocked faces in front of him; they were not Mexican soldiers!
He grasped at Maya's arm with all his might, his hands, stained with blood and mud, gripping her arm tightly, making hoarse, frothy sounds from his throat.

“Killed…killed them all…killed them all…waaaaaah—” he cried at the end.

The reporters' hearts sank, and a chill instantly crept up their spines.

"Who killed them all? The soldiers? Victor's army?" Jean-Pierre pressed, his voice trembling slightly.

Juan nodded with difficulty, his eyes filled with endless fear and hatred. He spoke haltingly, each word like a clot of blood coughed up from his lungs:
“They…captured people in the woods and canyons…in the city…volleyed shots…finishing shots…like slaughtering pigs…I played dead…and ran out dead…Medelllin…empty…Victor…the devil…” His voice trembled and became somewhat indistinct, perhaps due to excessive blood loss.

The reporters gasped.

Reuters reporter Rafael's hand froze in mid-air; the camera lens cap had somehow slipped off, but he had forgotten to turn it on.

Maya looked at the gruesome, penetrating wound on Juan's shoulder blade, then at his blood-soaked, near-death appearance, and at the faint smell of blood in the air and the desolate silhouette of the city in the distance. A tremendous fear gripped them all.

With his last ounce of strength, Juan raised his hand and pointed toward the city of Medellín, where, in the twilight, there was only a chilling, unlit darkness.

“That place…is not a city…it’s…a cemetery…fire…burned…all…burned…” His voice grew softer and softer, his eyes began to glaze over, and finally his head lolled to the side, and he completely lost consciousness.

The babbling brook washed away the blood and grime beneath him, but it couldn't wash away the pervasive stench of death in the air or the tumultuous emotions surging within the reporters. They exchanged glances, each seeing unprecedented shock and a profound sense of mission—the weight of an impending unveiling of hell—in each other's eyes.

It makes Viktor seem like a villain.

Raphael trembled as he finally turned on the camera. The red recording light shone in the dim light, like the eye of hell.

Maya took a deep breath and spoke into the recorder, her voice trembling slightly with excitement and fear:
"Log: Coordinates XXX, by a stream on the outskirts of Medellín, a severely wounded survivor was found. He claims to be a resident of Medellín who was subjected to a mass execution by the Mexican army. He claims that Victor's army is systematically massacring people 'linked' to drug cartels, and the entire city... has become a ghost town."

The truth about Medellín, through the dying drug dealer's narration and the trembling lenses of the journalists, is about to tear apart the "silence" that Victor is trying to maintain, and be revealed to the world in the bloodiest and most shocking way.

Viktor's cold comment, "What good people can be those who advocate for drug dealers?" sounds chillingly extreme at this moment.

……

(End of this chapter)