Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 654 Two idiots almost got into a fight!

Gilbert's surrender broadcast was like pulling the last thread of resistance from the Cali Group.

Allied forces!

Under the orders of Italian Commander Colonel Rossi, who was suppressing his elation, the core stronghold of Cali was taken over cautiously and swiftly.

Initially, the surrender was conducted in an orderly manner.

The Cali members walked out of their bunkers expressionlessly, piled up their weapons into a small mountain, and then crouched down with their heads in their hands.

Italian soldiers maintained order with an air of superiority, while Colombian government troops were responsible for counting and guarding the prisoners, their faces bearing complex expressions. The mission was accomplished, but the greatest glory seemed to have been snatched away by the Italians.

However, once the core area was confirmed to be safe, the real "battlefield cleanup" began.

The target was no longer the remaining resistance fighters, but the staggering wealth accumulated by the Cali Cartel.

The hiding places were pried open one by one.

Bundles of US dollars and British pounds exuded the scent of ink and desire.

Piles of gold jewelry and uncut gemstones gleamed with an alluring yet cold luster under the dim light. Deep inside the villa, a hidden safe was violently blasted open with explosives, revealing neatly stacked gold bars that reflected a suffocating light.

The scent of greed instantly overwhelmed the discipline of victory.

"Holy Mary! Look at this!" An Italian soldier dragged a heavy canvas bag from a hidden compartment in the fireplace of a villa, unzipped it, and found it full of gold bars and several large diamonds.

Almost simultaneously, a squad of French Foreign Legion soldiers kicked open the door on the other side of the same villa and rushed into what was apparently the master bedroom.

The wardrobe was pushed open, revealing a safe embedded in the wall behind it. The door had been blown open, and inside, besides stacks of US dollars, were several gold pistols studded with gemstones and a velvet box filled with emerald necklaces.

"Put it down! We found it first!"

The Italian soldier pointed at the bag by the fireplace and shouted. Several men immediately surrounded it, instinctively raising their guns.

“Bullshit! This house is our area of ​​responsibility!” The French soldiers were not to be outdone. The burly man in the lead grabbed the necklace from the velvet box, stuffed it into his tactical vest pocket, and blocked the safe opening with his body.

"We keep everything inside! You can take all the junk outside!"

"Trash? Are you blind? Those are gold bars!" The Italian squad leader's eyes turned red, and he stepped forward to grab the handle of the canvas bag.

"Get out of my way!" The burly Frenchman shoved him violently.

This push became the spark that ignited the powder keg.

The Italian squad leader staggered backward, cursing as he instinctively raised his gun.

Almost simultaneously, a soldier next to him, his eyes bloodshot, saw the other man make a move and his finger involuntarily pulled the trigger!
"boom!"

The gunshots rang out in the luxurious but empty living room of the villa, sounding particularly jarring.

The bullet missed the man, grazing his scalp and shattering an expensive crystal chandelier behind him, sending shards of glass clattering down.

"Damn it! They've opened fire!" The French soldiers erupted in chaos, instinctively pulling back their bolts and seeking cover.

"Fuck! Kill them!"

The Italians had gone completely mad; their previous restraint had been swallowed up by greed and rage. They quickly spread out and opened fire, using the living room sofas and marble pillars as cover.

"Da da da!"

"Bang! Bang!"

The sounds of automatic rifles and pistols clashed instantly, bullets flying through the luxurious living room.

Expensive oil paintings were smashed, luxury sofas were torn apart, and velvet curtains were splattered with wall dust and wood chips. The space that had just symbolized the extravagant lifestyle of the Cali Group was instantly transformed into a bloody battlefield.

An Italian soldier had just leaned out to fire when a Frenchman's precise burst of fire ripped his skull open, splattering blood and semen onto the gleaming floor. On the other side, a French soldier was struck in the abdomen by a hail of bullets from the Italians, falling with a scream, his gold necklace rolling to the ground, stained with blood.

"Cease fire! Cease fire, you son of a bitch!" came furious shouts from other Allied officers outside, along with angry curses in Italian and French.

But the soldiers, blinded by rage, wouldn't listen to any of that.

The target of the struggle has long since shifted from gold bars and jewelry to "revenge".

When one party dies, the other party must pay with their life, creating a vicious cycle.

The chaos lasted for more than ten minutes until higher-ranking Italian officers and French commanders rushed in with a large number of reinforcements, forcibly suppressing the situation with more powerful firepower and roars.

The living room was a complete mess.

The smoke of gunpowder mingled with the stench of blood. Several corpses dressed in non-Allied uniforms lay beside priceless treasures, gold bars, dollars, and jewels scattered among pools of blood and fragments, a scene of utter irony.

A Colombian government army captain in charge of supervision stood at the door, staring in disbelief at the scene. He then excitedly wrote it down and ran to the side to make a loud phone call.

The news spread like wildfire within the Allied forces.

The Italian commanders, who had just been basking in the glory of taking over Cali without bloodshed, instantly turned ashen-faced.

The French commander roared angrily, demanding an explanation. The brief joy of victory vanished, leaving only the shame and mutual accusations stemming from greed.

The others nearby looked on with amusement.

"Rossi! You greedy Italian donkey! Look what your men have done!" Major Deville, commander of the French Foreign Legion, a burly man with a fierce face, charged in like an enraged bull.

His bloodshot eyes were fixed on Colonel Rossi, the Italian commander who had just arrived after hearing the news, and his spittle almost landed on the other man's face.

“My soldiers! My lads! Shot dead in the back by your bastards! For a few damn pieces of gold! Are you soldiers or bandits?!” Colonel Rossi’s face was ashen; his carefully planned “moment of glory” was completely ruined. Facing Deville’s roar, he retorted without flinching, his Italian burning with the fiery intensity of a volcano: “Fuck you!! Bandits? Merda! (Shit!) Open your eyes and look, Deville! Whose men started the looting?! Whose men shoved my officers?! You French mercenaries, you forget discipline when you smell money! You attacked first! Your men pounced on treasure that didn’t belong to you like hyenas, causing this disaster! My soldiers were acting in self-defense!”

He pointed to the Italian soldier on the ground whose skull had been ripped open, "Look! This is what you French have done!"

"Self-defense?! Shooting unarmed comrades is self-defense? What can you Italians do besides rob?!"

"So what can you do besides surrender? You'd practically offer your asses to the Germans. With your attitude, how dare you criticize others?"

The German standing nearby: ? ? ? ? What's it to me!
"Come on! You Venetian thief who only knows how to steal gold bars!" Major Deville angrily unfastened the snap of his holster, puffed out his chest, and clenched his huge fists so hard they almost touched Rossi's nose.

The French Foreign Legion soldiers behind him also raised their guns again with a clatter and aimed at the Italians.

Incited by their respective commanders, the soldiers on both sides were once again on the verge of battle, their hateful gazes clashing in the air, their fingers trembling on the triggers, ready to fight at the first order!
The other Allied forces around them—the British, the Germans, and even more Colombian government troops—seemed to be enjoying the spectacle.

They stood a little distance away, their faces showing mockery, amusement, and a hint of barely perceptible schadenfreude.

"Go ahead and hit him! Rossi, teach him a lesson!" A Danish paratrooper officer, arms crossed, shouted in moderately loud English.

"Go, Deville! Let the Italians know who's in charge!" A German special forces sergeant chewed gum and whistled.

"Kmpfen! Kmpfen! (Fight! Fight!)" Several German soldiers even chanted in German.

"Peleen! Peleen como hombres! (Fight! Fight like men!)" Even some Colombian soldiers couldn't help but join in the jeering.

The scene was extremely chaotic. Damn it, how could this possibly end?
The two commanders, their faces red and necks bulging, pressed their foreheads together like two fighting cocks, spitting as they cursed each other in their own languages, their hands gripping their gun handles, their bodies tense, as if a hand-to-hand combat between commanders was about to erupt at any moment, possibly even triggering another large-scale shootout.

The fragile and mutually despising "unity" of the Allied forces on the Western Front was laid bare at this moment.

At this critical moment, just as the soldiers on both sides were about to pull the trigger again—

"ALTO! (Stop!)"

A thunderous roar, spoken in fluent Spanish, carried an undeniable penetrating power, drowning out all the noise and insults.

Everyone instinctively looked in the direction of the voice. They saw a Colombian government army lieutenant, the subordinate of the captain who had been excitedly making the phone call, standing slightly forward between the two groups of people.

He wasn't tall, but he stood ramrod straight like a javelin, his young face showing no fear, only anger and a dignity that transcended his rank.

"Colonels! You, and your gold-blinded fools, have you all forgotten who you are?! Forgotten that this is Colombia?! Forgotten who's watching us?!"

He suddenly raised his hand and pointed to the sky, as if pointing to existence:

"Don't you all want to go to the Mexican military camp and, in front of the entire Allied Supreme Command, explain your heroic deeds today?! Explain how you killed each other like bandits for a few pieces of blood-stained gold?! Explain how your soldiers died at the hands of their comrades, not from the bullets of drug dealers?!"

Mexican!

It instantly extinguished the raging flames in Rossi and Deville's eyes, and also made their hands, which were on their holsters, freeze.

The faces of all the Allied soldiers who had been cheering and watching the spectacle froze instantly, replaced by a mixture of fear.

The two men still glared at each other, their chests heaving, but the fierce, mortal-death aura they had displayed moments before had vanished.

“Listen, Frenchman,” Rossi’s voice was low and hoarse, “we Italians will remember this! For gold? Bah! For the lives of my men! This isn’t over! See you in a military court! If you’re still alive to see that day!”

"court?"

Deville took a deep breath. "Don't be too cowardly to show up!"

The French Foreign Legion soldiers, filled with humiliation and anger, silently put away their weapons and began to collect their fallen and wounded.

The Italian soldiers remained silent, and at Rossi's signal, began to clean up their own mess.

None of them dared to touch the gold bars, dollars, and jewels scattered on the ground, stained with the blood of their comrades and enemies.
The surrounding "spectators," whether British, German, or Colombian, consciously stepped back and made way, their expressions showing only solemnity and a hint of lingering fear, as if the earlier commotion had never happened.

In the midst of this oppressive and suffocating atmosphere, Colonel Rossi's satellite phone rang shrilly in his pocket.

Rossi pulled out his phone in frustration and saw the number. He took a deep breath, tried to calm his voice, and pressed the answer button: "General? It's me, Rossi."

The voice of his direct superior, General Baretti, commander of the Italian task force, came from the other end of the phone. His tone was urgent and carried an unquestionable command: "Rossi! Immediately! Hand over Gilbert to the Mexican army! Their men are already on their way!"

"What?!" Rossi could hardly believe his ears, instantly forgetting the humiliation and anger he had just felt, leaving only immense shock and resentment!

Gilbert was their most important prize in this operation, and he practically roared, "General! Why?! He's the one we captured! He's the result of our Italian operation! This…"

"Shut up, Rossi!" General Baretti's voice suddenly rose, sternly interrupting him. "No why! This is an order! A supreme order! Casare personally called me to request it! You just need to execute it! Immediately! Right now! Do you understand? It's Casare!"

Casare!
Viktor's lackey?!
The name is so captivating; it completely stunned him.

"Yes, General." Rossi had no choice but to accept it, even if he was unwilling.

"They're already on their way! Keep your men in line! Don't let them cause any more trouble!" General Baretti said before hanging up the phone.

Colonel Rossi slowly put down the phone and stood there, as if all her strength had been drained away.

He looked around at the desolate, luxurious hell, at his soldiers carrying away the bodies of his comrades, at the blood-soaked wealth that no one dared to touch, and at Gilbert, who was about to be taken away by the Mexicans. A huge sense of exhaustion, mixed with frustration, shame and deep powerlessness, swept over him.

He waved his hand, his voice weary, and said to his adjutant, "Go...bring Gilbert out and hand him over to the Mexicans!"

The Italian soldiers looked at each other…

But I dare not say it.

Who can blame them when Mexicans are so assertive?
Fuck you, Victor!
……

(End of this chapter)