Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 643 Pretending to be sick is the best way to get rid of it.

Inside a heavily guarded facility in northern Colombia.

The atmosphere was completely different from the chaos in London and the smoke of battle in Medellín.

Around a large conference table sat former Colombian President Armando Benede, Mexican Defense Minister General Erich Manstein, and Brazilian Defense Minister João Ribeiro. On the table were elegant coffee cups and thick draft documents, and the air was filled with a serious yet harmonious atmosphere.

The satellite phone fell silent in the adjutant's hand in the corner, all irrelevant interference blocked out.

"Minister Ribeiro, thank you and the Brazilian government for your willingness to cooperate at this critical moment." President Benede's voice was steady and powerful, carrying a sense of relief at surviving a disaster and confidence in the future. "I think the framework of the Colombia-Brazil Security Alliance is very pragmatic and has grasped the core of our common threat—transnational organized crime."

Brazilian Defense Minister Ribeiro, a burly man with a resolute face, nodded slightly: "President Benedetta, Brazil's Amazon rainforest and long border are also channels and havens for drug traffickers, and we suffer greatly from them. Mexico's achievements in combating drug cartels are evident to all, and its experience and strength are worth learning from."

He opened the document in front of him. “Specifically: First, Mexico will deploy a standing combined arms brigade combat team of about 5000 people in key areas of Colombia, especially in strategic areas bordering Panama, Venezuela and Brazil. The brigade will be equipped with corresponding air and intelligence support. Its core mission is to assist the Colombian government forces in clearing out the remaining armed drug traffickers, cutting off transnational trafficking routes, and providing a foothold for subsequent ‘Colombia-Columbia Alliance’ operations.”

“Second,” Ribeiro continued, tracing the clause with his finger, “the garrison will directly participate in and lead joint operations against drug trafficking organizations in Colombia that threaten Brazil’s security. Intelligence on these operations will be shared in real time by the intelligence agencies of the three countries, and a joint intelligence analysis center will be established.”

"Third, and this is what Brazil is most concerned about, the Brazilian Federal Police Special Operations Force (BOPE) and the Army Jungle Operations Force hope that the Mexican army will provide anti-drug operations training, a tactical advisory group, and, as appropriate, conduct short-term, high-intensity joint special operations in high-threat areas within Brazil (such as the Amazon border or the favela of Rio de Janeiro)."

“In exchange,” Minister Ribeiro looked up, “the Brazilian government will grant priority procurement rights to the Mexican defense industry, particularly for orders involving armored vehicles (wheeled), short-range air defense systems, drones, and communications encryption equipment. At the same time, once the situation in Colombia stabilizes, Brazil will firmly support the reconstruction and anti-drug efforts of the legitimate Colombian government under President Armando Benede in international forums such as the United Nations.”

These words struck a chord with the Colombian president.

I have two older brothers carrying me, I want to see who the hell can say I'm guilty!
"Thank you very much. I also guarantee that during my term, Mexico and Brazil will always be good friends of Colombia. I will absolutely not allow the Western world to interfere here. Latin America belongs to us Latin Americans!"

"Come on, let's drink to our future!"

Ministers Manstein and Ribeiro also raised their glasses, and the three glasses clinked gently, the crisp sound echoing in the room, symbolizing the official launch of a powerful military-political alliance among the three countries based on realistic interests and common threats.

After the meeting, the three stood in front of a huge electronic map, with a satellite hotspot map of the Medellín region displayed in one corner of the screen, which was still a glaring red.

"It's a tragic farce."

General Manstein frowned as he looked at the map, which marked the areas of intense fighting. “To send elite air assault forces in a parade formation along the enemy’s most familiar main roads, without any effective battlefield cover or clearing, and to broadcast it live to the world… This is simply violating every taboo emphasized on the first page of the Infantry Operations Manual. Have the London staff directly applied their colonial counterinsurgency experience to high-intensity urban warfare in the 21st century? Arrogance and ignorance are the most deadly combination on the battlefield.”

He turned to Benede, “Mr. President, the chaos in Medellín proves the correctness of our initial decision. Dealing with these drug traffickers requires swift and decisive action; there can be no relaxation whatsoever!”

President Benedetto took a deep breath and nodded vigorously: "Thank you, General, and thank you for Mexico's unwavering support. Colombia will not forget true friends."

Medellín.

Inside a dilapidated apartment building near Liberators Avenue.

Time seemed to freeze in the bloodshed and smoke.

More than 30 hours have passed since that ambush that shocked the world.

The air was filled with a nauseating mixture of smells: strong gunpowder smoke, the burnt smell of things, and the pervasive, increasingly strong, sweet stench of rotting corpses.

On the streets, the once-present "olive branch of peace" flags have long been torn down, reduced to shreds of cloth stained with mud and blood.

As far as the eye could see, there was wreckage everywhere: twisted and burning armored vehicle shells, scattered weapon parts, broken bricks and rubble, and... corpses lying haphazardly in various positions.

Some were wearing British military uniforms, but most were armed men in mismatched clothing.

Swarms of flies buzzed around, making an annoying buzzing sound.

BBC chief correspondent Sarah Jones huddled in a corner of a relatively intact room on the second floor, her expensive business suit covered in dust and dried dark red bloodstains, its original color long since unrecognizable.

Her face was deathly pale, her eyes vacant, and her once meticulously styled hair clung haphazardly to her sweat-drenched forehead. Beside her were two equally disheveled soldiers and a cameraman, wounded in the shoulder and barely breathing; their water was long gone, and their ammunition was nearly exhausted. Communication equipment had been damaged in the initial chaos, cutting them completely off from the outside world.

An atmosphere of despair was spreading.

The sounds of hurried footsteps and rough shouts came from the street downstairs, spoken in Spanish with a heavy Medellín accent.

A soldier who was observing through a crack in the window suddenly pulled his head back, his face ashen, and gestured for the others to be quiet and to lower their bodies.

Sarah Jones couldn't resist and secretly climbed to another hole in the wall to peek out.

A dozen or so armed men, dressed in a motley collection of clothes, some even just in vests, were leading three British soldiers, whose hands were tied behind their backs, down a street littered with rubble. The three soldiers' uniforms were tattered, their faces bruised and bloodied, and their eyes were filled with fear and humiliation; they had clearly been captured in the earlier chaos.

The armed men escorting the prisoners wore expressions of cruel mockery and an almost manic excitement.

The frustration caused by the Mexican soldiers can now be released.

They shoved and shoved the prisoners, cursing under their breath. Behind the windows of the ruins on both sides of the street, there seemed to be other armed men moving about.

Suddenly, the bald, burly man leading the group stopped, said a few words to the prisoners, and then abruptly waved his hand. Without hesitation, the armed men beside him raised their AK rifles and pulled the triggers on the backs of the three prisoners!
"Ta-ta-ta! Ta-ta-ta!"

The crisp, deadly gunshots pierced the deathly silent street with a particularly jarring sound!
Three British soldiers convulsed violently and collapsed to the ground, blood quickly seeping out beneath them. But that wasn't the end of it; the drug traffickers brutally severed their heads and brandished them triumphantly.

Sarah Jones suddenly covered her mouth, her stomach churning and bile burning her throat.

The soldiers beside her gritted their teeth, their cheeks bulging, their eyes bloodshot.

The room was filled with a suffocating silence and the thick, palpable aura of death outside the window. The BBC's live broadcast had long been cut off; they had become an isolated island forgotten by the world.

“No…no…this can’t go on…” A trembling male voice, thick with sobs, rang out. It was the photographer’s assistant, a young man, who was now curled up in a corner, his eyes unfocused, tears streaming down his face. The brutal execution scene had completely shattered his taut nerves. “They…they would do that to us…they would…God…kill me! Please, kill me now!”

He grabbed the trouser leg of the nearest soldier, his voice hoarse and desperate, "Give me a bullet! Please! Don't let them catch me! Don't let them..."

The soldier was startled by his sudden action and instinctively tried to break free, his face filled with pain and struggle. Who could guarantee he wouldn't be the next one dragged out?

"Shut up!" Sarah Jones practically lunged forward, slapping her assistant twice with all her might. The sharp, resounding slaps were particularly jarring in the deathly silent room. "Slap! Slap!" The assistant was stunned, her crying abruptly ceasing, staring at Sarah in terror.

Sarah, panting heavily, her face streaked with dust and tears, stared intently at her assistant, then glanced at the two other soldiers whose eyes were dim: "Listen! Calm down! Suicide? Cowardly! We are the BBC! We represent Great Britain! The Ministry of Defence knows we're here! They know! They will never abandon us! Reinforcements... reinforcements will come! Hold on! Understand? Hold on!"

Although she was also afraid, she was no ordinary woman who had worked on the front lines and in sparsely populated areas for a long time. She took a deep breath to calm herself down. In this situation, the more nervous you are, the faster you will die.

The assistant covered his face, his body still trembling, but the madness in his eyes had faded somewhat, leaving only empty fear.

The soldiers exchanged glances, their grips on their guns tightening, but the despair in their eyes did not dissipate. Sarah's words were like a fragile straw, barely supporting their faltering spirits in the storm.

London, the command center of the UK Ministry of Defence.

The air was as heavy as lead.

British Defense Secretary Malcolm Rifkind rubbed his throbbing temples, feeling his blood pressure soaring. The disastrous defeat at Medellín was already global headlines, and the Allied retreat on the southern front was adding insult to injury. Casualty figures, equipment loss lists, and angry inquiries rained down like hail. The most pressing issue was that some men from Medellín were still trapped!
"What about reinforcements? Do we have any rapid response troops in the Caribbean?" he asked the chief of staff in a hoarse voice.

The chief of staff shook his head, his face grim: "Sir, the fastest available reserve force is still preparing on the mainland, and it will take at least 48 hours to move it to South America. The strength of the Caribbean base... is insufficient to cope with urban warfare of the intensity of Medellín. We... we currently do not have any mobile forces that can effectively intervene in the city of Medellín and carry out rescue missions in a short period of time. Moreover, the pressure on the southern front has already drawn away all available air power."

There was dead silence in the command room.

This means that the soldiers and journalists trapped in Medellín, at least for the foreseeable future, will have to rely on themselves, or... leave it to fate.

Just then, a slightly hesitant voice broke the silence. It was a young officer from the intelligence analysis department. He adjusted his glasses, seemingly gathering his courage before speaking: "Sir... perhaps... perhaps we could consider another... unconventional approach?"

Everyone's eyes were on him.

"By what means?" the defense minister asked wearily.

The young man swallowed hard, his voice low but like a bomb dropped into the command room: "Contact...contact the main drug cartel in Medellín? Negotiate?"

Instantly, a suppressed gasp and gasps of surprise filled the command room. The chief of staff's eyes widened in disbelief, as if he had heard something out of a fantasy.

"Negotiation? Negotiate with those beasts who slaughter our soldiers and cut off our heads?!" A senior officer couldn't help but growl, his voice filled with unbelievable rage.

The young official's face flushed red, but he spoke rapidly, trying to explain his "brilliant" idea: "It's contact, unofficial, secret contact! Not for cooperation, but for...for exchange! We have people they might want, or intelligence? Or...or simply to ensure the temporary safety of our trapped personnel, to buy us time to mobilize our forces? They've been entrenched here for years, they know the city inside and out. If we can get them to temporarily refrain from harming our trapped personnel..."

He didn't finish his sentence, but the meaning was clear enough.

Defense Secretary Alcom Rifkind leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

A wave of exhaustion washed over me. Negotiating with drug dealers?
This is nothing short of political suicide and a desecration of the fallen soldiers!

If leaked, the entire government will be torn apart by the angry public.

But if we don't negotiate...

Then go talk to the Mexicans!
Fuck!
This is making him take the blame!
Malcolm Rifkind remained silent, his entire spirit seemingly drained. He now doubted whether his decision to go to Latin America was the right one. The general direction was certainly correct, but the steps taken were too ambitious.

The staff officers were all staring at him, and their gazes made him wish he could disappear into nowhere.

"Fuck you!" he suddenly closed his eyes, fell backward in the horrified gazes of the crowd, and began to convulse.

Everyone was stunned...

Chaos erupted instantly, with chickens flying and dogs barking, creating utter chaos!
……

(End of this chapter)