Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 648 Viktor, Daddy, save me!!!
Casare practically shoved Ambassador Cavendish into a small communications room next door.

"We await your good news, Mr. Ambassador. You must understand that if we are even a minute late, Medellín will have killed many British prisoners of war."

Casare kindly reminded him, and then "thoughtfully" closed the door for him.

Ambassador Cavendish almost trembled as he grabbed his secure phone and clumsily dialed the private line to 10 Downing Street, the Prime Minister's residence in London.

After a long wait, the Prime Minister's slightly weary voice came through: "Cavendy? How's the situation in Bogotá? Did Victor agree?"

Cavendish took a deep breath, trying to maintain his diplomatic composure, but the anger, humiliation, and panic in his voice were impossible to suppress, and his words came out like a machine gun: "Your Excellency! Victor... that... that son of a bitch of a country warlord! He... he's blatant extortion! He doesn't care about humanitarianism at all! He just wants the price!"

He said this without noticing the red light flashing overhead in the room.

Maybe…

Furious?
He spoke very quickly, repeating Viktor's words almost without pausing, from the naked demands for a price, to the accusation that Britain supported Carlos's old forces, to the verdict of "either fight your way out or die in Colombia," and finally the terrible threat of public opinion—"Let the steps of the Houses of Parliament in London be piled with portraits of our soldiers and accusatory slogans!"

After repeating what he had said, Cavendish could no longer contain himself. He roared into the microphone, as if to unleash all the anger he had suppressed in Victor's office: "Prime Minister! Listen to this! Listen to the tone of this barbarian! He is utterly humiliating the British Empire! Treating us like lambs to the slaughter! We must not bow to this blatant intimidation and blackmail! This is simply... the behavior of bandits! We must respond forcefully!"

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone, broken only by a faint static.

When the Prime Minister’s voice rang out again, it carried a deliberately suppressed calm: “Cavendy, calm down. I understand your emotions, but insults won’t solve anything, Victor… He is indeed a pragmatist, or rather, a ruthlessly realistic one. He has figured out that we are now vulnerable.”

"What exactly are the conditions he proposed?" The Prime Minister's voice sounded as if he were carefully choosing his words, revealing a bureaucratic caution. "He mentioned costs and concessions; are there specific limits?"

"Perhaps we need to discuss this topic in parliament."

“Specifics??” Cavendish almost laughed in anger, his voice rising. “He didn’t give any specifics at all, he only said the price we’re satisfied with! Your Excellency, this is clearly waiting for us to make an offer, and for him to keep offering until he’s satisfied!”

"Heaven knows how big his appetite is! He wants us to bleed! How much he wants depends entirely on his whim! And he wants an immediate reply! We can't afford to delay in Medellín! Every minute of delay increases the danger to our trapped soldiers! Those drug dealers and guerrillas won't wait for the long cabinet meeting in London to finish!"

Cavendish waved his empty hand excitedly, as if the Prime Minister were right in front of him: "There's no more room for negotiation, Prime Minister! Victor's patience is zero! That rude fat Casare is watching right outside the door! If we don't come up with something to entice him now, he'll really stand by and do nothing, and then immediately unleash his damn propaganda machine! Think of the consequences! Think of the rage of the trapped soldiers' families! Think of how the opposition will tear us apart in Parliament!"

He practically roared his last words: "By the time Parliament finishes its review and assessment, the British corpses in Medellín will be rotting away! I need authorization! Immediately! Right now! Authorize me to negotiate with him! Whatever he wants, as long as it's not ceding Gibraltar, we have to keep him calm first! Get the people out of there first!"

There was silence again on the other end of the phone, this time for an even longer time.

Cavendish could picture the Prime Minister's furrowed brow and his pacing figure in his office.

Finally, the Prime Minister's voice came through, carrying a hint of compromise, but also full of bureaucratic evasion: "I understand your urgency, but such a significant concession cannot be decided unilaterally by you or me. This involves core national interests and requires urgent consultations with the Cabinet Security Committee, and may even require certain... diplomatic commitments approved by Her Majesty the Queen."

“I will immediately convene the core cabinet members. You… try to keep Victor calm and buy him some time. Tell him that London is urgently and very seriously considering his concerns, and that we are willing to show the utmost sincerity, but specific solutions will require some time to coordinate with all parties in the country… Be sure to emphasize our sincerity and the principle of humanitarian priority.”

“Sincerity?! Humanitarianism?!” Cavendish growled desperately into the microphone, veins throbbing on his forehead. “Prime Minister! Victor just said that these words are bullshit to him! He wants real money and tangible benefits! Trying to appease him with empty words? Do you think that cold-blooded butcher will fall for it? He'll only see it as stalling and weakness! This is simply gambling with our soldiers' lives to test his patience!”

“Cavani!” The Prime Minister’s voice suddenly turned stern, interrupting his outburst. “Watch your words! Follow orders! Delay as much as you can, while simultaneously probing their possible bottom line. The Cabinet will give you instructions as soon as possible. That’s all!”

With a click, the phone was hung up.

The shrill busy signal rang out.

Cavendish, as if all his strength had been drained, suddenly erupted in fury, yelling, "Fuck you, you son of a bitch Prime Minister!"

Let those British soldiers die in Medellín!

Time was relentlessly slipping away amidst the desperate gunfire in Medellín, in Viktor's countdown, and under Casare's mocking gaze.

Every second carries the possibility of a soldier's life being lost. And he, trapped in this cramped compartment, is powerless, only able to wait for the London gentlemen to devise a "sincere solution" that may never satisfy Viktor's tastes.

He slumped down into the cold metal chair in the communications room.

Time seemed to stretch out and freeze in this confined space, with every second accompanied by the possibility of bad news coming from the direction of Medellín.

The prime minister's promise of emergency consultations was, to him, the most vicious curse.

He knew all too well how things worked in London: cabinet meetings, departmental coordination, risk assessments, legal advice... every step could become an excuse for delays, and every official could offer a "more prudent" suggestion in order to absolve themselves of responsibility.

He sat there for more than two hours.

People outside aren't pressuring us.

He didn't want to go out; he just endured it all.

The only sounds in the communications room were his own heavy breathing and the regular, silent flashing of the red light above his head.

We can't wait any longer! The soldiers' lives are slipping away, measured in minutes!
He wasn't really worried about what would happen to the British army; he was worried about being dragged into the blame!

He grabbed the secure phone and dialed 10 Downing Street again.

This time, the call was answered faster, but the Prime Minister's voice carried a clear hint of impatience: "Cavendy? I told you, he's still gathering people, committee members..."

"Still gathering people?!" Cavendish's reason was completely consumed by rage. He roared into the microphone, his voice hoarse and distorted:
"Two fucking hours! Are you having a Wimbledon tennis tournament preparation meeting?! Those soldiers! Those soldiers waiting to die in Medellín! They're human beings! Not data in your file folders! Viktor is a cold-blooded hyena! He won't wait! Casare is right outside! He could come in any moment and tell me how many more have died in Medellín! Don't you fucking understand?!"

Completely disregarding diplomatic etiquette and the fact that the person on the other end of the phone was the British Prime Minister, he unleashed a torrent of profanities, mixed with the most vicious curses and threats: "Fuck you! You coward! You piece of trash! You and your bunch of damn advisors are all executioners who sit on piles of corpses and drink afternoon tea!"

“Listen! If my soldiers die because of your idiots’ delays—I mean, Her Majesty’s soldiers! I swear to God, when I get back to London, I’ll beat you to a pulp every time I see you! I don’t care if you’re the Prime Minister or not! I’ll smash your hypocritical bureaucratic face into the floor of Downing Street in front of the entire House of Commons!”

"Authorization! I want authorization right now! Anything! Gold! Weapons! Lift sanctions! Recognize some bullshit title he holds! Anything is fine! Get him out of here first! Do you bunch of idiots even understand?!"

There was a deathly silence on the other end of the phone, broken only by Cavendish's heavy breathing echoing in the cramped communications room. The Prime Minister was probably completely stunned by this sudden, hysterical, and personally threatening abuse.

A few seconds later, the Prime Minister's angry voice came through the phone, "Cavendy, watch your position and your words. Maintain communication silence until the meeting ends. That's an order."

Click, the call was disconnected again, the busy tone like a final death knell.

"Aaaaaah—!!!" Cavendish slammed his phone against the wall in a rage! The sturdy, secure phone bounced, landed on the floor, and shattered with a piercing sound. He clutched his head, his skin burning red with fury seeping through his fingers, his body trembling violently from extreme anger and helplessness.

It's over, everything is over. The gentlemen in London are still bickering over "procedural justice," while the soldiers in Medellín are probably already on their way to hell.

In the midst of this despairing silence, the door to the communications room was gently pushed open.

Casare's round face, always bearing a somewhat amiable and profitable smile, peeked in, seemingly oblivious to the shattered phone on the floor and Cavendish's near-collapse. His gaze even lingered on Cavendish's contorted face for a moment, his smile deepening slightly, carrying a knowing, condescending amusement.

“Mr. Ambassador?” Casare’s voice was as relaxed as if he were greeting an old friend. “You’ve been talking for so long, you must have exhausted yourself. Would you like some late-night snacks? Our tortillas with guacamole are absolutely delicious, or how about some hot chocolate? Negotiations take energy.”

Cavendish, like a puppet, was dazed and confused as Casare "invited" him out of the suffocating communications room.

The shattered remains of the phone still lay on the ground, and Casare's seemingly kind smile gave off a chilling feeling.

Casare, however, seemed remarkably relaxed, even with a touch of leisurely pleasure. He turned his head and, in an almost casual tone, casually uttered a sentence:

“Mr. Ambassador, just now in the communications room, you called our Führer Viktor a son of a bitch, a country warlord, a cold-blooded hyena, a barbarian. Oh dear, that was a bit too much.”

Boom!

These words were like a thunderclap in Cavendish's ears!
He froze on the spot, his blood seemingly freezing for a moment before rushing to his head.

Cavendish's face instantly drained of all color, turning ashen white, and even his lips trembled slightly uncontrollably.

A tremendous fear gripped him, far exceeding his previous anger and humiliation.

This wasn't just a matter of failed negotiations; it was a blatant humiliation of the head of state! To be exposed to his own ears by the enemy's intelligence chief on their own turf! He felt the death knell for his diplomatic career had been tolled, and even… leaving Mexico safely was now a distant dream. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out; only heavy, desperate gasps escaped his lips.

Casare seemed oblivious to his lapse in composure, still smiling, and even "considerately" patted Cavendish's cold, stiff shoulder—a light but firm touch that caused Cavendish to stumble.
"Don't be nervous, Mr. Ambassador. His Majesty the President is very magnanimous and won't hold a grudge against you for your momentary outburst. Come on, have something to eat to calm your nerves. Negotiations are all about keeping your temper in check." His smile deepened, carrying a teasing, cat-and-mouse vibe. "However, next time you express your opinion, you'd better choose... um, a more private place?"

I'll scare you to death, you little bastard!

Meanwhile, at 10 Downing Street, London.

The prime minister, in frustration, ripped off his tie and violently swept a stack of documents to the floor.
I just yelled at the empty office for a full five minutes, and my voice is a little hoarse.

What emergency consultations? What core cabinet security committee?

Today is that damn Sunday!
He dialed the numbers of key members one by one, like an ant on a hot pan:

The Defence Secretary was at his private hunting grounds in the Scottish Highlands. The signal was intermittent, and when he finally got through, he could hear the barking of hunting dogs and the sound of the wind in the background. The other party said he would set off immediately, but the Prime Minister knew very well that by the time he arrived in London, it would be too late.

The Foreign Secretary was in London, but he was receiving intravenous fluids at a private clinic due to severe food poisoning. His secretary answered the phone, her voice so weak it was almost inaudible.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer... that damned miser, is actually attending a "no disturbance" meditation retreat. His phone is off, and his assistant can't reach him either!

The Minister of Security's phone is completely unreachable!
"Useless! A bunch of useless people! You can't count on any of them when it matters!"

The prime minister slammed his fist on the heavy mahogany desk, making the teacups on it vibrate. He felt like a clown abandoned on a deserted island, holding the title of prime minister but unable to even gather a few people who could make immediate decisions. The bloated bureaucracy and its failures at crucial moments filled him with unprecedented frustration and anger.

He slumped into the chair, covering his face with his hands.

Cavendish's desperate roar still seemed to echo in his ears: "By the time Parliament finishes its investigation, the bodies of the British soldiers in Medellín will be rotting away!" And those vicious curses... Although they infuriated him, at this moment, a deeper sense of powerlessness engulfed him.

He seemed to see before his eyes the British soldiers' corpses lying in the streets of Medellín, the mountains of soldiers' portraits and angry slogans piled up in front of the Houses of Parliament, the opposition leader denouncing the government's incompetence on television, and the end of his own political career...

"Fuck!" He jumped up and growled like a wild beast at the empty conference room before slumping back down.

What else could he do at this moment but rage impotently?
Suddenly, an idea popped into his head: why don't I go visit Mexico myself?

Want to have a private talk with Viktor?

There was really no other way. Relying on the domestic situation couldn't solve anything. You have to understand that there weren't just dozens or hundreds of people trapped in Medellin, but thousands. Many prisoners had already been killed during this period alone. We couldn't hold on any longer.

I really can't take it anymore.

Viktor, Daddy, save me!!!
……

(End of this chapter)