Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 652 You guys are connecting pretty well?

Medellín.

Infantry fighting vehicles rolled over the rubble of the slums, their tracks kicking up mud mixed with blood.

A six-man Mexican combat squad wedges into the half-collapsed shantytown, their guns sweeping cautiously across twisted sheet metal and concrete debris.

"B2 area cleared."

Sergeant Canizares, the team leader, suddenly raised his fist and stepped on an unusual protrusion on the ground with his tactical boot. He stopped and gestured that there was a problem. Two soldiers pried open the manhole cover, and a foul smell mixed with disinfectant wafted out.

"Underground structures, remain on alert."

The beam of the flashlight cut through the thick air, illuminating the dense bullet holes on the concrete tunnel walls. After walking thirty meters, gunfire suddenly erupted around the corner!
"Contact the enemy!" Canizares roared!
The team behind immediately returned fire, and the powerful firepower tore the five gunmen hiding behind sandbags into a bloody mist.

As you walk further in, you see several rooms separated by a wall. In one of the brightly lit rooms, you kick open the door.

Before me was a hospital room, and a man was lying on the bed.

"Vitality signs are weak." The medic, who was also a combatant, pressed his fingers against the man's neck.

Canizares tore off the blood-stained gauze.

The swollen, festering face made everyone gasp for breath, and it reeked of a stench.

The medic quickly scanned the surroundings, his gaze sweeping over the scattered medical equipment before finally settling on the man's bare arm.

There, beneath the swollen, purplish skin and congealed bloodstains, a dark green tattoo name stubbornly stood out—Joaquín Guzmán Loera.

"Damn it!!" The medic looked up abruptly and exclaimed excitedly, "It's Joaquin Guzman!"

These words were like a bombshell dropped into a closed operating room, and time seemed to freeze for a moment.

"What?!" The closest team member exclaimed first, his voice filled with disbelief, "Are you crazy?! Look at the state of this place, it's completely rotten!"

He pointed to the almost unrecognizable face on the operating table, a face radiating death.

You can recognize him even like that?

Another team member leaned closer, his eyes wide under his helmet, trying to find a familiar feature in the festering sores, but ultimately shook his head in vain: "Guzman? Impossible...wasn't he long dead? How could he be here? Are you sure you're looking?"

Even the usually composed Sergeant Canizares abruptly turned his head.

The entire squad's attention was focused on the medic; the air in the operating room was so heavy it felt like it was about to drip water.

The medics felt a chill run down their spines as they were met with a chorus of questioning gazes.

He himself wavered for a moment.

With looks like that, who knows who he is?

The body was indeed unrecognizable, swollen and festering like an abandoned rag doll.

He subconsciously glanced down at the arm again.

He had done intelligence briefings and seen countless photos of Guzman's tattoos; there was no mistake.

He took a deep breath and nodded with unusual firmness. "Captain, the tattoo is clear, and the features match perfectly. It's him."

Canizare abruptly pressed the communication button on the side of his helmet:
"Command, high-value target discovered underground in Sector B2! Repeat, high-value target discovered! Highly suspected to be the dwarf, target is critically injured and in critical condition. Requesting emergency medical assistance and evacuation for highest-level confirmation! Over!"

...

At the National Palace in Mexico City, the encrypted network light is flashing red.

Casare rushed into the office, clutching the newly deciphered telegram, shouting excitedly, "Boss! Guzman has been found in the Medellín underground operating room!!"

Viktor, who was watering the plants in his office, turned around abruptly upon hearing this, his eyes flashing.

Immediately afterwards, a loud, almost wild laugh burst from Victor's chest, instantly filling the entire solemn office.

"Hahaha! Guzman?! He's still alive?!" The laughter was filled with unbelievable elation and the excitement of finally capturing the legendary behemoth.

He strode up to Casare, snatched the telegram, and greedily scanned every word on it.

"Good! Excellent!" Victor slammed his hand on the heavy oak table, making the bronze eagle sculpture on it shake. "Immediately! Use the fastest transport planes, equipped with the best medical teams, and bring him back alive! I want the whole world to see the fate of this cancer!"

A bold plan took shape instantly.

“Casare,” Victor began, “notify all the media outlets we control, as well as international news agencies, and spread the word at the top of your lungs: Joaquín Guzmán Loera, ‘The Shorty,’ is not dead! He’s been captured, right in the hands of our Mexican government! He’s been brought to justice in my war on drugs! Let everyone know that no drug lord can escape justice, not even if he pretends to be dead!”

He waved his arms vigorously, as if to plant the message all over the world like a flag.

"Yes, boss!"

Casare was also very excited. Although they had previously announced the death of "Guzman" to the public in order to strike at some low-level drug dealers in Medellín, after all, there was no sign of him being alive or dead, and both Viktor and he felt uneasy about it.

The news spread like wildfire, instantly igniting public opinion in Mexico and around the world.

Viktor's name is closely associated with the feat of "capturing Guzman" and has been repeatedly celebrated.

His approval rating skyrocketed in the polls, which, while not very useful, still... drew widespread praise.

The war on drugs has reached unprecedented heights of prestige.

People talk about his decisiveness and his strength, as if he had personally dragged Guzman back from hell.

A few days later, Mexico City International Airport was surrounded by unprecedented noise.

The massive military transport plane, under the spotlight of countless cameras, glided heavily and came to a stop on the runway.

Before the hatch was even fully open, a deafening roar was already hitting us.

Outside the cordon, a dense crowd craned their necks, reporters scrambling for the best spots with their cameras and microphones, flashes creating a blinding sea of ​​light. Excited chatter, praise for Viktor, and shouts of pure spectatorship mingled together, forming a massive vortex of noise.

The hatch slowly lowered, and the first to appear were fully armed Mexican soldiers, who quickly set up a perimeter on both sides of the gangway.

Immediately afterwards, a stretcher was carefully lifted down. The body on the stretcher was wrapped tightly in bandages, with only some ulcerated and purplish skin and tubes inserted into it exposed. Several medical staff in white coats and masks followed beside the stretcher, nervously monitoring the instruments.

The crowd erupted in an even louder roar, a mixture of gasps and indescribable excitement.

"Guzman! Demon! Go to hell!"

A man with a flushed face and bulging veins on his neck roared hoarsely, his fists clenched as if he wanted to tear the person on the stretcher apart through the air.

"Look at your fate! The fate of a bastard drug lord!" several young men roared, their voices filled with hatred and gleeful satisfaction. "God... is he really still alive? In this state?" someone nearby whispered in response, "Shh... look at those bandages, look at those tubes... God knows what he went through... I heard Mexican soldiers are brutal, maybe they're the ones who did it!"

"Hey! Move aside! Let me take a picture!" A young man holding a camera jumped up and down excitedly, trying to get over the person in front of him. "A historic moment! This is a historic moment!" another companion shouted excitedly to his companion, the camera pointed at the stretcher, his face full of curiosity and excitement.

"Victor! Long live Victor!" A group of people, clearly supporters, waved Mexican flags and small portraits of Victor, chanting in unison, their voices drowning out other sounds.

"Justice will prevail! Long live the Führer!" Their faces were filled with pure worship and pride, as if Victor were a god who had personally captured the devil.

"Don't push! My shoes!"

"Damn it! Crouch down up ahead!"

"Damn it, I can't see anything!"

Complaints and curses surged beneath the waves of excitement.

People jostled and pushed each other like sardines, leaning forward and craning their necks, just to catch a glimpse of the face of this drug lord who shook the world through the gaps in the moving stretcher.

The camera greedily captured the remains of this body, a symbol of "victory".

Just as the stretcher was being gently placed on the airport ground and medical staff were preparing to transfer it to the waiting ambulance, a passage suddenly parted in front of the crowd.

Three solemn-looking figures dressed in black judges' robes strode to the stretcher under the escort of bailiffs.

The Supreme Court justices at the head of the panel ignored the frenzied crowd and the flashing cameras. They unfolded a document bearing the bright red imperial seal and read it aloud in a voice loud enough to penetrate the noise:

"By exercising the powers granted to him by the Constitution and laws of the Republic of Mexico, the Supreme Court of Mexico, after an emergency and secret trial, has now delivered its final verdict against Joaquín Guzmán Loera: He is found guilty of multiple crimes, including treason, murder, organized crime, drug trafficking, and crimes against humanity. The evidence is conclusive, the circumstances are extremely serious, and the social harm is immense!"

The judge paused, and the scene miraculously fell silent, with only the sound of the cameras and the wind remaining.

Everyone held their breath.

"Sentenced to death! Executed immediately! Deprived of political rights for life!" The final verdict fell like an icicle, carrying an undeniable sense of finality.

The crowd erupted in chaos!

The global live broadcast simultaneously transmitted this extremely shocking scene to every corner of the world: the "legendary drug lord" who had just been brought back had not even had time to leave the airport runway before the Supreme Court sentenced him to death!

Your connection seems to be working quite well?

After the reading was completed, the judge nodded to the firing squad commander who was waiting nearby.

A team of executioners dressed in black uniforms, wearing masks, and carrying special equipment quickly stepped forward, replacing the medical staff and taking over the stretcher.

Life support equipment was roughly removed, and the stretcher was directly loaded onto a black van without any markings.

They gave him adrenaline in the car to maintain his vital signs; they absolutely couldn't let him die so easily.

damn it…

Victor was planning to use him to generate some traffic.

The prison van, escorted by sirens and more armed vehicles, ignored the questions from the media and the chaos of the crowd, and sped out of the airport, heading straight for the execution ground that had been secretly prepared in the suburbs.

As if it were prepared, before viewers could even curse, the global live broadcast signal was forcibly switched to the inside of the execution ground.

A spacious, cold concrete space filled with high-intensity lighting.

The camera was focused on the execution platform in the center.

The humanoid figure, wrapped in bandages, was firmly fixed to a specially made metal frame, its head held in place by a brace, rendering it unable to move.

The other person seemed to understand something and began to struggle, but... they were powerless to do so.

The firing squad leader, holding a rapidly spinning trebuchet, placed it firmly on the center of Guzman's head, under the watchful eyes of the cameras and all the viewers.

"Ahhhhhh!!!!!!"

The piercing sound of drilling into bone was clearly transmitted through the microphone.

Soon, a precise hole was opened, exposing the tissue beneath.

Then, another firing squad member stepped forward carrying a sealed metal bucket.

He opened the valve, and a stream of silvery-white, heavy liquid—mercury—flowed out.

Under the bright light, it shimmered with an eerie glow, and was slowly poured into the newly drilled hole in the skull. The liquid flowed in silently, carrying a deadly weight and toxicity.

The live global broadcast was abruptly cut off by the Mexican official signal source as the body on the stretcher began to convulse and contort violently and inhumanly. The screen went completely black, leaving only the astonished gasps of countless viewers and their own pale faces reflected on the screen.

The moment the live stream signal was cut off was not the real end, but the beginning of another, even more frenzied storm.

The bone-piercing sound, the inhuman screams filled with extreme pain, and the eerie image of the silvery-white deadly liquid being poured out—these were like the most primal and terrifying viruses, instantly invading the nerve endings of billions of viewers worldwide.

In other words... damn it, he's thinking too much!
It's easy to overthink things without realizing it.

Immediately, studios, social networks, and streets around the world exploded like water droplets thrown into a pot of boiling oil!

"The Mexican authorities executed Guzman in an extremely...unconventional manner, the details of which raise serious concerns about procedural justice and humanitarian considerations." — (CNN)

"The methods of execution demonstrated by the Victor administration, in their cruelty and openness, challenged the common understanding and bottom line of modern civilization regarding the execution of the death penalty." — (The New York Times)
"The disturbing footage before the live broadcast was interrupted, and the subsequent lack of transparency in the handling of the situation, have exacerbated international concerns about the rule of law in Mexico." — (Reuters)
"No matter how heinous Guzman's crimes, this method of execution could constitute torture and violate international human rights conventions." — (Statement from Human Rights Watch)
Mexican domestic media:
"The most efficient final trial: Guzman's execution demonstrates the power of the state." — (Official mouthpiece newspaper, accompanied by a majestic portrait of Viktor Aziz)
However, there's far less regulation online, and many people start spouting nonsense:

"Mercury torture?! Is Victor a devil? This is more cruel than the Middle Ages!"

"Is this justice? This is public torture! Guzman deserves to die, but not like this!"

"See that? This is what happens when you betray Boss Viktor! The dwarf deserves it!"

"Mercury...slowly melting his brain...hiss...Victor is really...too ruthless..."

"Shut up! Do you want to be asked to drink mercury water?"

Viktor's eyes flashed when he saw this, but he simply typed a message quietly:

"Those who sympathize with drug dealers should also be treated this way!"

Suddenly, the world fell silent.

……

(End of this chapter)