Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 651 I have my older brother Victor!
Briefing room, 10 Downing Street, London.

It was past midnight, and outside the window lay the silent city of London, but inside the Prime Minister's residence, an almost frozen sense of oppression permeated the air.

The clock on the screen ticked relentlessly.

A statement that had been carefully reviewed and revised by the Prime Minister, key cabinet members, and the Queen's private secretary was finally confirmed.

The Prime Minister's fingers trembled as he signed his name.

Of course, these British guys aren't that magnanimous; they'll definitely cause trouble.

Sure enough, they had a "trick" up their sleeve.

The official release time of the statement was carefully chosen to be 3 a.m. London time, a time when American media had basically finished work, Asian media had not yet fully woken up, and the European continent was at its most drowsy.

"Release it." The Prime Minister's voice was exhausted, with a resigned hoarseness.

A few minutes later, the text, titled "Statement from Downing Street on the Joint Operation with Colombia," appeared quietly in an inconspicuous spot on the UK government's website, without even a live press briefing.

In the release log, the operator's name is followed by a note: "Scheduled release (03:00 GMT)".

They thought the darkness would be the best cover, minimizing the immediate shockwaves from the statement.

However, they underestimated the keen sense of modern media and the immediacy of global news networks.

In the City of London, Bloomberg's 24-hour monitoring system was the first to detect the update notification on the government's official website.

A night shift editor, who had just finished making his third cup of coffee and was responsible for monitoring breaking political and economic news around the world, glanced at the headlines, his pupils dilated instantly, and he was wide awake.

“Holy shit!” he practically yelled, his fingers flying across the keyboard, and an emergency red alert immediately flashed on the Bloomberg terminal.

Almost simultaneously, the London night shift teams of Reuters, AFP, and AP were also like a swarm of bees that had been collectively awakened.

Don't underestimate the traffic that news can generate!

asshole!

This is directly related to their bonuses.

The office silence was instantly shattered by the piercing ring of the telephone, the frantic clatter of keyboards, and the suppressed shock of whispered conversations. Reporters scrambled to grab the text, translate key paragraphs, and add sensational headlines:

Breaking News: The British government issues an unprecedented apology to Mexico for the failed operation in Colombia.
"Humiliation: London admits intelligence failure, praises Mexican command in a stunning statement" (Reuters)
"The fall of an empire? Britain forced to humbly admit its mistakes and confess its military failures to Mexico?"—AFP put it even more sharply.

Although the sun never sets has long since become "always setting".

These news reports, like boulders thrown into a still pond, instantly stirred up a huge wave in the global media world.

Many editors and anchors, awakened by cell phone calls, immediately jumped out of bed and rushed to the studios of television and radio stations.

The core content of the apology statement, which was attempted to be released discreetly late at night, is as follows:

"The Government of the United Kingdom hereby issues this statement regarding the serious setbacks that have occurred in the recent Joint Operation Colombia."

Following a thorough and careful internal review, it has now been determined that the core reason for the significant difficulties encountered in the initial phase of the operation was that the intelligence assessments provided by the Allied forces were significantly flawed and severely delayed, failing to accurately reflect the true dynamics and threat levels of the targets. Simultaneously, the British frontline command structure demonstrated a lack of timely and effective coordination in responding to the rapidly changing battlefield environment. These factors directly led to an unplanned and dangerous period of chaos in the early stages of the operation.

At this critical juncture, the Government of the United Kingdom must clearly acknowledge and deeply appreciate the extraordinary professionalism, excellent on-the-spot judgment, and decisive crisis intervention demonstrated by the commander of the Mexican Federal Security Forces. It was the Mexican commander's proactive assumption of actual command responsibility for the joint operation at this crucial moment, and his calm, efficient, and highly adaptable command art, which enabled the rapid and successful adjustment of tactics, that turned the tide, ultimately ensuring the achievement of the core operational objectives and minimizing casualties on all sides.

The Government of the United Kingdom expresses its deepest regret and sincerest apologies for the additional risks and burdens incurred by our Mexican partners due to our intelligence and command failures. We fully understand the inconvenience this has caused Mexico and pledge to learn a profound lesson and conduct a comprehensive review of the relevant processes to ensure that such errors do not occur again.

The Government of the United Kingdom reaffirmed its firm commitment to deepening its partnership with the Federal Government of Mexico in the security field, and expressed its belief that through open communication and mutual respect, both sides can overcome the challenges posed by this incident and work together to maintain regional security and stability.

This statement maintains the "decency" of British diplomatic language, wrapped in words such as "major flaws," "serious delays," "insufficiency," and "regret." Most importantly, the first sentence asks: What does it mean for Allied intelligence to be delayed?

It seems... it's not my fault!

As the eastern sky began to lighten and London's morning descended in a damp, chilly fog, this statement, attempting to slip through the night, had already spread to every time zone in the world through countless newspaper front pages, hourly radio news, morning television programs, and every corner of the internet.

In front of Buckingham Palace, sanitation workers' powerful water guns were washing away the stains left from last night. The water flowed over the cold stone steps, carrying away the filth, but it could not dispel the humiliation that permeated the air.

Oh, it's poop.

Those protesters were really uncivilized; they were throwing their ass around everywhere.

You think that's a joke?

Meanwhile, in the National Palace in Mexico City, far away, Victor had just finished his breakfast and was looking at the newspaper in his hand.

Victor put down the British newspaper:
"Casare, did you see that? The whole thing is full of major flaws, serious delays, and regrets... typical British style. They package a disaster as a technical mistake, as if it were just a spilled cup of tea."

His voice was calm.

"Their inherent arrogance turns into hypocrisy when they swallow humiliation."

Victor's gaze swept over the statement. "Appreciating the outstanding example of the Mexican commander? That's worse than cursing them. Those troublemakers, they admit defeat on the surface, but they're harboring ill intentions and won't let it go. Once they recover, their underhanded tricks will only increase."

Casare leaned forward slightly: "Boss, since they still have the energy to play word games, why not help them find something more practical to worry about? Let them understand that the current rules are not written unilaterally by Downing Street."

Viktor looked up: "Be more specific."

Casare's voice was steady: "Ireland!"

"The Northern Ireland peace process is the most sensitive nerve in the UK. Sinn Féin's political funds are tight, and some of the more radical factions are even more strapped for cash."

He paused for a moment: “We have untraceable channels through which certain organizations in Dublin or Belfast can obtain funding through legitimate business investments or cultural sponsorships by charitable foundations. As for where that money ultimately goes and what cause it is for, that is beyond our control. Freedom fighters need to speak out, and speaking out is expensive.”

The meaning is clear: funding Irish republican forces and stirring up trouble in Britain's backyard.

! ! ! !
This is really going to provoke the British!
He looked at Casare and couldn't help but laugh, saying, "You're full of bad intentions."

"This isn't bad news, boss, it's loyalty to Mexico and to you!" Fatty patted his belly and said with a憨厚 smile.

"Since they like to stir up trouble, let's make this stick tainted with some trouble they can't shake off. Do it cleanly, Casare. Let the British understand that playing tricks with technical errors against Mexico comes at a price, and their regrets need real trouble to soothe them."

“Okay, boss!” Casare nodded. “They’ll receive a response that can’t be posted on the official website, which will definitely impress them more than their scheduled releases.”

Victor turned to the more pressing battlefield issues: "Now that they have apologized, the follow-up actions in Colombia will ostensibly be led and concluded by us, but military action is only one means; economic and social stability is also needed. Let Armando Benede make the announcement; it's time."

Casare nodded vigorously.

Colombia, Presidential Palace:
Almost simultaneously with Victor's order, the signal from Colombian national television was switched to the live broadcast from the presidential palace.

President Armando Benedetta sat behind his desk, a large Colombian flag in the background. His expression was serious, his eyes sharp, and without any opening pleasantries, he went straight to the point:

"The people of Colombia!"

“We are undergoing a joint surgical operation to target the cancer of our nation. The operation has been challenging, but the results have proven the value of our determination and ability. To consolidate this hard-won peace and to build a fairer and stronger Colombia, my government is announcing a major economic recovery plan today.”

“We have reached an agreement with our staunch partners, the Mexican Imperial Bank and the Confederation of Peoples, under which Colombia will receive a total of $1200 billion in interest-free loans.”

This huge sum of money will be used for:

"First, large-scale infrastructure construction: repairing conflict-damaged roads, bridges, schools and hospitals; building new transportation networks to connect remote areas; and upgrading our ports and energy facilities."

"Second, provide living allowances and job training directly to the poorest citizens to ensure that no one is left behind in this national transformation."

“However, the reconstruction of the country requires a fair share of the burden.” Armando’s voice suddenly turned cold, with an undeniable firmness. “This investment and future prosperity cannot be borne solely by ordinary people. Therefore, my government will immediately push for legislation to increase taxes on the wealthy and large farms.”

He leaned slightly forward, his gaze fixed directly at the camera, as if locking onto every potential opponent through the screen:
“I know that this policy will affect the interests of some people. I understand that some people are used to getting something for nothing and are used to extracting wealth from the suffering of this land and its people. I can even imagine that there are people plotting resistance right now.”

Armando's lips curled into a smile:
To this, I only have one thing to say:

"Come on, give it a try."

"My army, and the millions of Colombians who support change and yearn for justice, are ready to crush any force that attempts to obstruct the nation's revival or undermine social justice."

"The future of Colombia was won through our joint efforts, and it will surely be protected by us all. Reconstruction begins now!"

The image froze on Armando's resolute face before the signal was cut off.

Armando Benede's televised address was like another bombshell dropped on the scorched earth of Colombia, which had just been ravaged by war.

The news spread instantly throughout the country and quickly reached the world.

A media storm? Yes, there was.

Some mainstream Western media outlets and human rights organizations immediately issued sharp criticisms, with headlines such as "President Benede openly threatens dissidents," "Colombia slides into the abyss of dictatorship," and "The rich tax policy may trigger capital flight" dominating the pages.

The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights expressed deep concern over threatening rhetoric and potential human rights violations.

Then he was yelled at by Mexico's UN Commissioner for Mexico, Joachim Ribbentrop, who pointed his finger at him and said, "None of your business!"

In some European parliaments, members have called for a reassessment of relations with Colombia and expressed concern over allegations of a "systematic purge of the opposition." Domestically, several media outlets that were previously relatively independent or affiliated with opposition conglomerates have published cautiously worded editorials, subtly expressing concerns about the "radicality of the policies" or doubts that a "wealth tax" might stifle economic activity.

Some in the public have also accused Armando of being a "tyrant supported by Mexico," a "traitor," and "destroying the economic foundation of Colombia."

However, none of the imagined massive wave of protests, fierce resistance from the elite, or even signs of an internal military coup occurred.

Afraid of death!
Brother, are you really afraid of dying?
Before and during the joint operation, Armando conducted a highly efficient, thorough, and silent "surgical purge" of domestic political opponents, politicians with ties to drug lords, business leaders who openly disagreed with him, and stubborn right-wing local forces.

The prisons are already overcrowded, and many more have simply vanished without a trace.

The remaining potential opponents, whether in politics, business, or the military, were silenced by the empty meeting room seats and the list of colleagues who had suddenly "gone abroad for medical treatment" or "died unexpectedly."

Armando proved with his actions that his "crushing" was not just empty talk.

The top military leaders had already been purged, replaced, or subdued before the operation.

In addition to the Mexican soldiers...

For the impoverished masses suffering from war and poverty, the $1200 billion in interest-free loans, infrastructure projects, and aid for the poor represent tangible and real hope.

The main thing is that the pie is very big.

Armando's blueprint for "fairness," though stained with blood, struck at their most pressing needs. They may have been afraid, but more than that, they were numbly accepting of the order brought about by force, and hoping to "get a share of the pie."

Armando's threat to "crush" was, in their view, directed at "those who ride on our heads," not at themselves.

As for Washington, the troublemaker, its spokesperson, following procedure, issued a statement of "mild concern," reiterating the importance of "respect for human rights" and "inclusive dialogue," and calling for "all measures to be carried out within the framework of the rule of law."

"Military intervention?" This option wasn't even seriously discussed in the Pentagon's assessment report. The cost was too high, the benefits too slim, and they hadn't even figured things out domestically yet. Most importantly...

"Who cares about you?"

This rough street slang accurately depicts the current international reality.

The United States is no longer the world policeman who wields a big stick at the slightest provocation. At least when it comes to Mexico and its sphere of influence, it has become more cautious than ever before, and one could even say it is... powerless.

Armando Benede stood by the window of the presidential palace, looking at the relatively peaceful streets of the capital, Bogotá. He knew the criticisms existed, but he was even more aware of how weak and powerless they were.

A country cannot progress because there are too many voices!
He firmly believed this. Chaotic democracy, endless partisan strife, policies hijacked by interest groups, and public opinion swayed by Western values ​​had all mired Colombia in a quagmire.

Now, Mexico has given him the power, and he has used iron and blood to forcefully press the "mute button."

What he wanted was not a flourishing of diverse voices, but a single voice—his voice, a voice that could propel the state apparatus in the direction set by him (and his supporters), efficiently and ruthlessly.

Criticism? Let it be.

As long as the military is firmly in control and the money supply remains (from Mexican loans), a little incentive can be given to the lower classes to eliminate or silence potential opponents, and a former hegemon, preoccupied with its own problems, can further strengthen its position...

Armando Benede is determined to win this game.

"Thank you, Viktor."

He has even changed the tone of his thanks to Jesus.

……

Following Victor's orders and President Armando's unequivocal "crush" declaration in his televised address, the Mexican-Colombian coalition's offensive against Medellín escalated dramatically, like a flood unleashed, without any restraint.

The probing artillery fire of the previous attack turned into a devastating barrage.

The sky was torn apart, and the piercing screams overwhelmed any remaining will to resist in the city.

The heavy howitzers and multiple rocket launcher systems from the Mexican artillery forces took the "repressive policy" to the extreme.

The flames from the explosion stretched far and wide, and the shockwaves reverberated repeatedly through the narrow streets, easily flattening the carefully constructed fortifications like sandcastles. Thick smoke and dust shot into the sky, turning day into dusk.

After several hours of saturation bombardment, the artillery fire began to extend deeper into the area to clear the way for the infantry.

The Mexican-German coalition's mechanized and infantry units, which had been assembled and waiting outside the city, surged into the city like an iron torrent.

Tracks rolled over rubble, and armored vehicles crashed through the ruins.

This time, there were no complicated urban warfare tutorials, no cautious house-to-house clearing, only the simplest, most efficient, and also the most brutal method of advancement: using overwhelming firepower to pave the way and crushing all obstacles with an iron torrent.

The speed of their advance is astonishing.

Inside a three-story building in central Medellín, half of which was destroyed by a bomb.

This is a temporary command post for the remnants of the Medellín Group, and one of the last few strongholds that can still barely maintain communications.

The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder, dust, and a strong stench of blood.

The walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the ceiling was teetering on the verge of collapse.

A dozen or so remnants of the army huddled in a relatively intact corner, their faces a mixture of mud, sweat, and deep-seated fear.

Their weapons were either damaged or their ammunition was exhausted, and all that remained in their eyes was a numb despair.

A scarred gang leader nicknamed "Scorpion," once a fearsome figure in the neighborhood, was now futilely yelling into a crackling radio: "Repeat! We're surrounded!"

The only response he received was a deathly silence.

"Scorpion" slammed the radio to the ground, sending parts flying everywhere.

He was panting heavily, his bloodshot eyes sweeping over his dejected subordinates, and he cursed hoarsely, "Damn it!"

Just then, a loud crash came from outside, the sound of tracks crushing gravel and rubble.

“They’re here…they’re here…” A young drug dealer huddled in a corner, his teeth chattering, his body trembling uncontrollably.

"Scorpion" suddenly rushed to the hole in the window and cautiously peered out.

At the end of the street, a massive, dark green vehicle appeared.

That was the Mexican Army's iconic infantry fighting vehicle, its thick armor riddled with bullet holes and black marks from explosions. The machine gun turret on the roof slowly rotated, its dark muzzle like the eyes of death scanning the ruins on both sides of the street.

Behind the armored vehicles were squads of Mexican soldiers dressed in dark combat uniforms and wearing full-face helmets. Their movements were swift and precise, their tactical formations tight, and their guns always pointed at corners where danger might be hiding.

“It’s…it’s Mexicans! It’s Victor’s men!” Another drug dealer saw them too. He slumped to the ground as if his bones had been removed, his eyes instantly losing focus, filled only with pure, indescribable fear. He muttered incoherently, “It’s over…it’s all over…they’re here…they won’t leave any survivors…”

The pride he had gained from the British was immediately shattered.

The scorpion's heart almost stopped beating.

The terrifying impression left by Mexican soldiers in the previous battle—their precise sniping, ruthless mopping-up operations, and "efficient handling" of prisoners.

The thoughts that flooded his mind were far more suffocating than the roar of engines and tracks outside.

He had witnessed firsthand how his comrades, who had tried to resist or escape, fell like wheat under the guns of Mexican soldiers.

That declaration of "repressive policy" has now transformed into the silent, advancing torrent of steel outside the window, clearly conveying a message: surrender, or be completely wiped out.

"Scorpion" suddenly pulled his head back, panting heavily, his tattered vest instantly soaked with sweat.

He looked around, and the last trace of color had drained from the faces of his men. Some began to sob softly, some buried their heads in their knees, their bodies trembling like leaves in the wind, and others had unfocused eyes, as if their souls had left their bodies.

The last vestiges of resistance that had remained crumbled the moment they saw that dark green military uniform, leaving only a primal fear of death and a despairing realization of the Mexican soldiers' cold efficiency.

"Scorpion's" voice was dry, like sandpaper scraping, trembling with a resigned air, as if trying to convince himself, "Throw all the guns out... Raise your hands high... Let them see..."

Surrendering might mean death, but not surrendering now means certain death!

What do you choose?
Several old rifles and pistols were thrown shakily out of the window, landing on the rubble-strewn street with a few muffled thuds.

A dozen hands, filthy and filled with fear, were raised high above the broken window sills and gaps in the wall, exposed to the cold air and the aiming line of Mexican soldiers.

"People inside, come out slowly, and keep your hands where we can see you."

The sound, like a final judgment, caused the already collapsing drug dealers inside the room to completely break down their psychological defenses. Several of the weakest among them lost control of their bladders, and the pungent smell filled the air of despair.

This is hindering the British from Medellín…

Within 20 hours, it was back in the hands of the Mexican-Colombian coalition.

……

(End of this chapter)