Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 655 Ancient Punishments!

Gilbert was held in solitary confinement in a fairly tidy room deep inside the stronghold; it wasn't even a prison cell, but more like a simply furnished guest room.

The Italians treated him quite well.

The food was hot, there was coffee, and even a good bottle of Italian red wine. The guard's words were not overly insulting.

This preferential treatment eased Gilbert's tense nerves a little.

Maybe…

Because Italians were also captured? So they felt a sense of shared suffering?
He sat on the edge of the bed, the humiliation of surrendering overshadowed by a sense of relief.

Perhaps the Italians value the exchange of benefits more? Or are they worried about the international repercussions? As long as they aren't immediately handed over to the Mexicans, to that mad dog Victor, there's still room for maneuver.

His mind raced, calculating possible bargaining chips.

A secret account? A hideout for other high-ranking Cali officials? He believed his worth was enough to save his life.

Just as he picked up his water glass, took a sip, and tried to calm his thoughts—

"boom!"

The door of the room was violently kicked open!

Four or five fully armed Italian soldiers rushed in like wolves.

Without the slightest hesitation or explanation, they pounced on Gilbert.

"What are you doing?!" Gilbert's water glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the ground. He tried to back away in shock, but was instantly grabbed by the shoulders by two strong soldiers. His arms were roughly twisted behind his back, and the plastic cable ties tightened around his wrists with a "click," making him gasp in pain.

The other two soldiers quickly pinned him to the ground, pressing their knees against his lower back and the back of his legs, rendering him unable to move.

“Let me go! You promised me! You guaranteed my safety!” Gilbert struggled on the ground, his face pressed against the cold floor, screaming hoarsely, his voice distorted with fear, “Rosie! Colonel Rossi! We made a promise! You can’t do this! I have value! I can give you…”

His words stopped abruptly.

A large hand shoved the sock into his mouth without any hesitation.

The nauseating smell assaulted his nostrils, causing him to emit a suffocating "whoosh" sound.

I almost threw up from the smell.

His eyes were wide and bloodshot with terror and suffocation as he stared in disbelief at the soldiers who had brought him food not long ago.

A bone-chilling cold instantly shot from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.

Something's not right! This is definitely not how things are handled internally by the Italians!
Even if the Italians wanted to execute him, they wouldn't do it in such a way, like escorting an extremely dangerous criminal! What were they afraid he would shout? What were they afraid he would reveal?
"Waaaaah! Waaaah—!"

Gilbert writhed violently like a fish out of water, letting out a desperate growl as he tried to spit out the sock from his mouth, but all he got in return was more forceful suppression and the soldiers' fists. He was roughly dragged off the ground and forced to stagger away.

As he passed the door, he saw Colonel Rossi.

Rossi stood in the shadows of the corridor, her face ashen, looking at him with a complicated expression.

There was anger, resentment, and even a hint of pity in his eyes, which Gilbert thought he was seeing things.

But there was no indication that they intended to stop it.

"Ugh! Ugh—!" Gilbert struggled with all his might toward Rossi, trying to question her with his eyes.

But Rossi simply avoided his gaze, waving her hand irritably as if shooing away an annoying fly.

"Hurry up! The Mexicans are waiting!" Rossi said, sounding annoyed.

Mexican!

The word struck Gilbert's mind like a bolt of lightning, instantly shattering all his hopes and illusions.

I see! I see!
That brief "preferential treatment" was just a lull! A delay! It was to wait for the person who would take him! In the end, they still sold him! Sold him to the person who wanted him most, but was also the least likely to give him a way out!
Fuck your mother!

Those damn Italians!!
"Waaaaah!!!" Gilbert's struggles instantly turned into wails. He struggled with all his might, but the soldiers' strength was overwhelming. His resistance was futile, only resulting in more brutal dragging and suppression.

He was half-dragged and half-lifted out of the stronghold and shoved into an unmarked armored personnel carrier with its windows painted black.

The car door slammed shut, shutting out the chaotic battlefield and all light outside.

The only lights inside the vehicle were a dim red one, and the guarded eyes of the escorting soldiers.

The engine roared, and the vehicle began to bump along.

Gilbert was heartbroken. Damn it, he shouldn't have trusted the Italians!
airport!

They're going to put him on a plane! Take him away directly!
The car was deathly silent, save for the noise of the engine and his own heavy, fearful breathing. His clothes were soaked with sweat, sticky and cold.

He couldn't think of any negotiation strategy; all that remained in his mind was Victor's sinister face and the infamous torture instruments awaiting him in the Mexican black jails.

Should he just commit suicide now?

It's over, completely over. Falling into Mexican hands means there's not a shred of hope left. The Italians' "preferential treatment" is nothing more than a last, sham meal before execution.

The armored vehicle rudely sped across the last stretch of dirt road, its tires screeching as they crushed the gravel. It came to a sudden stop, and the rear door was flung open with a bang, blinding searchlights piercing the air and causing Gilbert to instinctively close his eyes.

"Sáquenlo! (Get him out of here!)"

Several large hands wearing black gloves reached in and grabbed Gilbert's bound arms and collar without mercy, dragging him roughly out of the armored vehicle like a dead dog.

A cold wind instantly blew against my face, carrying the smell of aviation kerosene.

Gilbert barely managed to open his eyes, which were stung by the bright light.

Before us was the tarmac of a small military airfield, where a transport plane was parked.

A squad of soldiers stood beside the plane.

They were dressed in the dark combat uniforms of the Mexican Army Special Forces, well-equipped, tall and imposing, wearing dark masks that revealed only their emotionless eyes, all focused on Gilbert who was being dragged out.

The leading officer slightly raised his chin. Two Mexican soldiers immediately stepped forward, their movements precise and powerful, grabbing Gilbert from either side and replacing the Italian soldiers. Their strength was greater, their grip more secure; Gilbert felt as if he were being clamped between two steel pincers.

He was roughly shoved and staggered toward the transport plane painted with the Mexican flag and military insignia.

"Waaah." The gag only allowed him to let out desperate whimpers, sweat mixed with tears of humiliation flowing down and dripping onto the cold concrete of the tarmac.

He was shoved into the cabin, and the door slammed shut, completely cutting him off from the outside air and the last glimmer of hope.

The roar of the engines was deafening. The plane began to taxi, accelerate, and finally break free from gravity, carrying the heartbroken Gilbert towards the destination of his deepest fear—Mexico City.

Meanwhile, an explosive piece of news swept through the underworld and international news circles like a hurricane, its impact even overshadowing the smoke of battle: Gilbert, one of the top leaders of the Cali Cartel and a drug lord who had been wanted for many years, had been extradited to Mexico!
A Mexican government spokesperson confirmed that legal proceedings against Gilbert will begin immediately!

Even more chillingly, in a subsequent informal conversation with the media, Casare, a key figure in the government, revealed chilling details in a tone that was almost like announcing a festival celebration:

"That filthy rat has finally fallen into our mousetrap. He will pay the ultimate price for his heinous crimes. In order to welcome the new year and to give all criminals who are enemies of the Mexican people an unforgettable warning, we have decided to publicly execute Gilbert at the beginning of the new year."

Casare paused for a moment: "As for the method? There is an ancient Eastern method that cuts a person's flesh into thousands of pieces, called 'Lingchi'. This word best expresses our determination to eradicate the scourge and purify the land, making the New Year's bells the final countdown of his life."

The news shocked the world!

"Lingchi?!" Countless people who saw the news, whether ordinary citizens, members of law enforcement agencies, or leaders of other criminal groups, stared wide-eyed in disbelief, wondering if they had misheard.

A user from Dongda University: ??? What the hell? Am I still living in the feudal era?

"Holy crap?? You can stage an accident like this??"

"Lingchi (death by a thousand cuts)??? Casare, was your history class taught by the PE teacher??? We're not taking the blame for this!!"

"Although Gilbert is a scumbag, publicly mentioning 'death by a thousand cuts'... that's such a slick move, so outrageous it's almost insane..."

"Wasn't Gilbert in Italian hands? Wasn't Colonel Rossi having a great time talking with him? How come he was sold to Mexico in the blink of an eye?"

"What are the Italians up to? Aren't they the most particular about rules and 'deals'? This is utterly treacherous!"

"The Mexicans have gone mad! What era are we living in? Publicly announcing the use of slow slicing as a form of execution? Aren't they afraid of international condemnation and sanctions?"

"Condemnation? That's nothing to Mexico! He just wants to make an example of them in the most horrific way! Gilbert has run into him, he's completely finished."

"The people at the Cali Group must be going crazy. One of their top executives has been humiliated and executed like this."

"The Italians have completely lost face this time, and they've thoroughly offended Gilbert, even though he's already dead."

Discussions, speculations, shock, and fear spread like a plague.

This method of slow slicing was not kept secret from Gilbert at all.

In the highland prison in Mexico City.

Gilbert's mind was in complete chaos.

The chilling details of the torture: electrified pools, skinning hooks, and machines that slowly crushed bones.

But it was actually: "Lingchi?!"

Several thousand dollars? In full view of everyone?

He suddenly shivered, and his body convulsed violently uncontrollably.

Italians! Rossi! You sons of bitches! You took my money! You took my intelligence! All that fake coffee and wine! That pretentious "preferential treatment"! It was all for this moment! To deliver me, like a sacrifice, intact, into the hands of the Mexicans!

"Waaah...waaah..." A suppressed sob escaped the lips of this drug kingpin who had roamed Colombia; he wept...

What is this called?
This is called killing someone by breaking their spirit. I'll tell you what methods I'll use, and it's up to you whether you can handle it!
In Southeast Asia, deep within the Golden Triangle, a hidden camp.

It was hot and humid, and the air was so thick it felt like you could wring water out of it.

Mosquitoes buzzed in the dim light, and the makeshift barracks, built of wooden planks, were filled with the pungent smell of cheap tobacco, sweat, and jungle humus. This was the temporary hideout of Gilbert's brother, Chepe Santa Cruz, far from the former glory and center of power of the Kali Group, where he was barely surviving in the chaotic area where northern Myanmar, Laos, and Thailand meet.

An old satellite TV is the only connection between this place and the outside world.

On the screen, a CNN news anchor was broadcasting the bombshell news in a serious yet slightly shocked tone.

When words like "Gilbert," "extradition," "Mexico," and "public execution" came out one after another, the few remaining Cali soldiers who had been dozing off in the barracks were instantly awakened.

"A Mexican government spokesperson confirmed that legal proceedings against drug lord Gilbert will begin immediately. Even more shockingly, earlier, Mexican high-ranking official Mr. Casare revealed to the media that, in order to 'welcome the new year' and 'give the strongest warning,' the Mexican government has decided to publicly execute Gilbert at the beginning of the new year using the ancient and cruel Eastern form of slow slicing..."

"Lingchi?!" A burly man with a scarred face jumped to his feet, knocking over a chair with a jarring noise. "What did they say?! Mierda! (Shit!)"

All eyes were focused on the silent figure in the corner of the room.

Chepe Santa Cruz sat in a worn-out wicker chair, clutching an almost empty tequila bottle, his eyes glued to the television. The flickering light from the screen reflected on his face, and in his eyes, which bore a resemblance to Gilbert's, disbelief was first replaced by a surge of rage.

“Italians…” Ceppe’s voice was low and hoarse, as if squeezed out from between clenched teeth, filled with deep-seated hatred and utter humiliation. “Hijos de puta traidores! (Traitorous bastards!)”

He suddenly smashed the empty bottle in his hand against the wall! Glass shards and leftover wine splattered everywhere, startling the people nearby.

The television was still broadcasting the international community's shocked reaction, with experts analyzing the devastating blow Italy's move would deal to the credibility of international anti-drug cooperation, and the uproar that Mexico's blatant announcement of using the inhumane torture method of "death by a thousand cuts" would cause.

But Chepe wouldn't listen to a word she said.

All he could think of was the image of his brother being gagged and dragged away like livestock into a plane, and Casare's almost festively relaxed face as he announced the execution by slow slicing.

After extreme anger comes a bottomless sense of despair and powerlessness.

Chepe abruptly stopped, his back to the crowd, his shoulders trembling slightly. He looked around the simple, stuffy, musty barracks and at the faces of his men, which were also filled with anger but could not hide their exhaustion and fear.

This is not Colombia, not their territory where they can do whatever they want.

This is the Golden Triangle, someone else's territory.

They hid here like stray dogs, barely surviving by selling off their last remaining resources and engaging in shady deals with local warlords, all while constantly on guard against Interpol, local military and police, and other covetous forces.

Survival is already difficult enough, let alone revenge?
"Big Brother" Chepe's voice trembled slightly, almost imperceptibly, but was quickly drowned out by a deeper ferocity. He whirled around, his eyes bloodshot: "Victor! Casare! And those damned Italians! I, Chepe Santa Cruz, swear! As long as I live, I..."

His harsh words came to an abrupt end.

A subordinate approached with a satellite phone, his face extremely grim, and whispered, "Boss, our last line of communication in Colombia has just been cut off. It was done by the government forces, in cooperation with the Americans. We... we're completely wiped out in the country."

The barracks were deathly silent.

Chepe slumped back into the wicker chair, burying his hands deep in his hair. He felt an unprecedented sense of insignificance and despair.

When you lack strength, some words are just empty talk!

“We…we can’t even afford to give him a proper funeral…waaaaah.”

Victor made the drug dealers cry.

Don't be a drug dealer in your next life.

……

(End of this chapter)