Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 657 Kill! kill! kill!

January 1, 1995, 9:00 AM.

A new year, a new look.

The gate at the deepest part of the plateau prison slammed open.

Gilbert was roughly dragged out by two fully armed prison guards.

He could barely stand and had to be dragged forward by the prison guards. Three days of inhuman torture, coupled with the torment of fear, had left him unrecognizable. His cheeks were sunken, his eye sockets were dark, his lips were cracked and bleeding, and his hair and beard were matted together, covered in filth left behind, emitting a pungent, sour smell.

His pants were visibly wet, a darker color, and dripping with a murky liquid—complete incontinence caused by overwhelming fear.

His face was ashen, devoid of any vitality. Only his eyes moved slightly due to extreme terror, their emptiness frightening, devoid of any trace of his former ferocity or cunning.

"Damn it! Hurry up!"

The prison guard cursed impatiently.

As you walk through the long corridor, the deafening roar outside can be faintly heard.

The gates leading to the central square slowly opened.

“Gilbert!!!!!”

"Drug dealer! You son of a bitch drug dealer!!"

There were only a few hundred people present, and their roars and curses were so loud they almost overturned the entire prison square.

Who wouldn't want to see this "traditional craft" up close?
There are still a lot of people who are curious about the unusual.

If it weren't for the fact that selling tickets was a bad idea, someone might actually have paid to buy them.

Gilbert's body stiffened abruptly, then went completely limp as if all his bones had been removed. If the prison guards hadn't been holding him up, he would have collapsed onto the ground like a lump of mud, and the wet patch on his crotch quickly spread...

This is no drug lord who once dominated the scene. He's just a utterly defeated, terrified, and helpless dog waiting to be slaughtered.

In the center of the square, a specially made high platform has been erected.

Instead of traditional wooden stakes and cutting tools, there is a precision platform with a metallic sheen, on which are connected several complex devices covered with pipes, small nozzles, probes and laser emitters.

Several technicians dressed in white protective suits and goggles were making final adjustments, their movements professional, like they were performing a highly sophisticated surgery.

Lieutenant Colonel Rodrigo stood beside the platform, speaking into a microphone. His voice, amplified through a loudspeaker, filled the entire arena, drowning out the clamor of the crowd.

"Citizens! Today is the day justice is served! This blood-stained devil, Gilbert! He will receive the most severe punishment here. To ensure the punishment is precise, lengthy, and serves as a profound warning, we have employed the most advanced technological means!"

“Every cut will be precisely controlled by a computer! The force, depth, and location will all be strictly set. This will be an unprecedented, modern execution that will last long enough for this demon to pay the heinous price for his crimes!”

What a cyber torture technique!

As soon as he finished speaking, an even more enthusiastic cheer and applause erupted from the crowd!
Many people wore excited, distorted smiles, tiptoed, and craned their necks, eager to see the "high-tech" cutting begin.

"Okay! That's how it should be!"

"Let him die slowly!"

Gilbert was dragged up the platform and towards that platform.

When his gaze fell upon the instruments, he finally realized:
"Do not--!!!"

He mustered his last bit of brute strength to survive and struggled desperately!

But this futile struggle lasted for less than two seconds.

Two technicians quickly stepped forward and nimbly grabbed his arms and legs.

Several thick restraint straps popped out instantly, making a few crisp "click" sounds, and firmly secured him to the platform.

My wrists, ankles, waist, and neck were all locked in place by cold metal buckles, making it impossible for me to move.

His head was forcibly turned upright, facing the sky, towards countless pairs of fanatical, hateful eyes and the blinding light of the camera lenses. He opened his mouth in vain, only able to utter weak, gasping sounds. Tears, snot, and saliva covered his distorted face.

"I don't want to die! I don't want to die!!"

Lieutenant Colonel Rodrigo glanced expressionlessly at the completely collapsed "cargo" on the platform, confirming that the restraints were in place.

He raised his wrist, glanced at the time, and then announced into the microphone in a cold voice:
"The execution begins!"

Om-!
The sophisticated instruments on the platform simultaneously lit up their indicator lights and emitted a low, humming sound. A tiny red laser dot, with a chilling precision, silently landed on Gilbert's bare, violently heaving chest.

It instantly ignited a frenzy throughout the entire square.

It's like the medieval torture of burning a woman alive; when onlookers watched the "witch" being burned, the "violence" in human nature was probably unleashed.

However, the first wisp of white smoke rose from the spot where the laser point fell, accompanied by a barely audible hissing sound.

"Aaaaaaah!!!!"

Gilbert screamed in agony, a heart-wrenching wail.

The atmosphere subtly shifted; the howl resembled the lament of a dying beast, filled with pure, unimaginable pain.

The fervent smiles on the faces of the men in the front row, who had been shouting excitedly, instantly froze.

Their eyes widened in disbelief as Gilbert's neatly sliced ​​flesh was cut off. One of them suddenly bent over and began to gag violently. The person next to him quickly patted his back, and his own face turned ashen.

The live television cameras faithfully captured all of this.

The cameraman's hand seemed a little unsteady, and the footage was slightly shaky.

A close-up shot showed Gilbert's face, contorted in agony and streaked with tears; his eyes held only pure despair and physiological tears.

The camera then panned across the woman vomiting in the front row, the pale-faced man with shifty eyes, and the crowd behind them still shouting wildly.

In the studio, the experienced host paused for several seconds, his Adam's apple bobbing, unsure how to describe the moment.

This direct confrontation makes onlookers feel uneasy.

Myanmar, the Golden Triangle, deep in the humid and sweltering jungle.

A satellite TV signal flickered in the simple wooden hut. The screen was small, but it was enough to clearly project every detail of the high-tech torture thousands of miles away into Chepe Santa Cruz's eyes.

When Gilbert was dragged out, limp and incontinent like a lump of mud, Chepe clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his palms.

When the red laser beam, representing death, lit up on his brother's chest, his blood seemed to freeze instantly.

As the first wisp of white smoke rose, Gilbert's inhuman scream pierced his eardrums through the cheap loudspeaker, and Chepe could no longer hold on. He was struck hard on the spine by an invisible hammer, and with a thud, he knelt on the rough, cold cement floor.

"NOOOO——! HERMANOOOOO! (No—! Brother—!)"

A heart-wrenching cry, a mixture of pain, anger, and despair, exploded from his chest, so loud that it shook the wooden house and drowned out all the noise coming from the television.

The brothers had a very good relationship, and on several occasions, if Gilbert hadn't saved him, he would have been shot dead by the police.

He lay curled up on the ground like a wounded, dying beast, his body convulsing violently, his fists pounding the hard ground frantically, his knuckles soon turning to blood and gore.

“Gilbert, my brother… my brother.” His cries turned into broken sobs, his voice hoarse and filled with helpless lamentation.

He was curled up, his face pressed against the dirty ground, his shoulders heaving violently. He was almost consumed by immense grief and unimaginable rage. The drug lord Chepe Santa Cruz, who once commanded respect and terrorized the Colombian jungle, was now left with only his brother, who was witnessing the torture and execution of his loved one and was heartbroken.

He abruptly raised his head, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Lieutenant Colonel Rodrigo, who coldly announced the execution on the screen, then swept over the cheering crowd, his eyes flashing with hatred.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck your mother's Viktor! You son of a bitch!"

"Just you wait, you all just wait!"

He gasped for breath, "My brother's blood won't be shed in vain! Every single one of you Colombians, I'll make you pay ten times... a hundred times... a thousand times back!"

He pushed himself up, his body still trembling, but his eyes had changed, now filled with a fierce determination that seemed to want to tear the sky apart.

A name suddenly flashed through my mind—in this godforsaken place called Myanmar, who has the most influence?

“Khun Sa…” Chepe gritted his teeth as he uttered the name, his eyes gleaming with a desperate glimmer of hope. “Yes… find Khun Sa! Damn it, I’ll borrow his troops, I’ll borrow his roads… and turn this world upside down!”

……

Mexico City, National Palace.

Inside the office, Victor's gaze fell upon an open briefing on the state of Brazil. His expression was calm; he paid no attention to Gilbert's execution. It was a predetermined outcome, a "performance" he had personally orchestrated to intimidate drug lords throughout Latin America. The lamentations of the loser were not worth a single second of his attention.

His thoughts had already crossed the Andes Mountains, focusing on a larger and more troublesome prey—Brazilian drug cartels!
The drug trafficking networks there are deeply entrenched, penetrating every corner of the slums and even infiltrating some police and government agencies, forming a terrifying force that is almost a "state within a state."

More importantly, Brazil is not Colombia. There is a stronger central government, a more complex political landscape, and more sensitive public sentiment and international perception.

He cannot, as he did in Colombia, directly use overwhelming military force and horrific public torture to wipe out the enemy.

The Brazilian government will never allow it, and the international community will be outraged. This requires a more sophisticated, patient, and even more dangerous strategy.

That's the largest country in South America.

Some headache.

Tuk-tuk-tuk.

The knocking interrupted Viktor's thoughts.

"Come in."

The door was pushed open, and Casare's tall figure walked in. This was Victor's most trusted deputy and the de facto head of the operations department. At this moment, he was carrying a tray with cut fresh fruit on it: watermelon, mango, and pineapple, all brightly colored and exuding a sweet aroma.

Viktor looked up, saw the tray, then glanced at Casare's honest face, and said helplessly, "Casare, couldn't you have just had the attendant or any staff member bring it? Why bother you to carry the tray yourself?"

Casare carefully placed the tray on the empty space on Victor's desk. Upon hearing this, he simply chuckled twice in a憨厚 (honest and simple) manner, scratched the back of his head, and said in a deep voice that revealed an unquestionable loyalty: "Boss, I just know what you want to eat, and besides, I also wanted to see what you need."

Viktor looked at his trusted confidant, who had followed him from the streets of Tijuana to the pinnacle of power in the National Palace, and a hint of warmth flickered in the depths of his eyes.

This is what it means to be a comrade!
Perhaps his abilities weren't the best, but Casare's loyalty was beyond words; this was how he expressed it, with utmost sincerity.

“You…” Viktor shook his head, his tone tinged with helplessness, but mostly with trust. “Sit down.”

Casare then sat down in the chair next to him and glanced at the briefing on the table.

"Boss, are you watching Brazil?" Casare asked, his voice becoming steady.

“Hmm,” Victor picked up a slice of watermelon, took a bite, the juice was sweet and refreshing, but his eyes remained sharp. “Colombia is in chaos now, there won’t be any more large-scale drug cartels, as long as the Colombian government doesn’t mess things up. But this time, they’ve made an example of someone to warn others…”

He pointed with his fork at the satellite image of the Rossinha favela in Rio de Janeiro on the briefing. “Too big, too cunning, they’re deeply entrenched, tsk, trouble.”

Casare's expression also turned serious: "Yes, I am aware of the situation there as well. Those 'commanders' control the favela, and their equipment is no worse than that of the regular army. Moreover, it is their home, their fortress. A direct assault would be very costly, and there is also great resistance within the Brazilian government."

“It’s not just resistance.” Victor put down his fork and wiped his hands with a napkin. “It’s simply impossible for us to operate the way we did in Colombia. We need new tactics, tactics that allow us to precisely penetrate and dismantle them, rather than triggering a full-scale war that pushes the entire Brazilian society to the opposite side. This requires intelligence, infiltration, and people who can create divisions within them…”

His fingers traced lightly across the table, as if sketching an invisible battlefield blueprint.

Casare immediately understood Victor's intention, which was one of their areas of expertise—intelligence and special operations.

"Should we activate the 'Mole' Project's backup network in Brazil? Or, should we select suitable candidates for deep infiltration?"

The "Mole" plan was implemented two years ago. It involved cultivating individuals into Brazilian insiders or gang members, using gang tactics to fight gangs. That was the initial idea.

Just as Victor was about to speak, there was another urgent knock on the office door.

"Go!" Victor said in a deep voice.

A young intelligence officer in a suit strode in, his face serious, carrying a folder. He first saluted Viktor and Casare, then quickly reported: "Mr. President, Commander Casare, urgent intelligence has come from Burma."

Myanmar?

Golden Triangle?
What kind of news could come from that place?

Victor and Casare's eyes met for a moment, and they immediately thought of Gilbert's fierce younger brother.

no way…

You think you can escape? Actually, Victor is watching you closely, unless you hide in the Mariana Trench.

The intelligence officer opened the folder and said, "After witnessing his brother's execution, Chepe completely lost control of his emotions. He publicly wailed and issued death threats, specifically targeting you, Mr. Casare, as well as the entire Colombian and Mexican governments. More importantly, he subsequently secretly contacted Khun Sa's key contacts on the Myanmar border. Intelligence analysis shows that he is very likely trying to seek Khun Sa's protection and support, or even to seek revenge by borrowing troops."

We are working hard to find out the specifics.

A brief silence fell over the office.

Colombia carried out a bloody execution of Gilbert, and everyone cheered.

But the ripples it stirred up are brewing a new storm in the distant Golden Triangle drug den in the name of revenge.

Viktor listened to the report with a calm expression.

He picked up a piece of mango, slowly and deliberately put it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing carefully until he had swallowed the flesh. Only then did he look up at Casare, his tone eerily calm, yet containing an undeniable resolve:
"The Brazilian plan will proceed as scheduled. Casare, you are in full charge. I need to see a feasible infiltration plan. As for that crying, pathetic dog in Myanmar..."

Viktor picked up a napkin and carefully wiped the remaining juice from the corner of his mouth with elegant movements.

What is a gentleman?

"Keep a close eye on him, and that old drug lord Khun Sa. I need to know about any movement or news immediately."

He paused, his voice lowering, carrying a kind of indifferent indifference that held life and death in his hands, "Revenge? Heh, let them jump around for a few days. Once we're free, the opium poppies in the Golden Triangle will have a different color."

Casare nodded vigorously and replied, "Understood, boss!"

……

The favelas of Rio de Janeiro!
Neon lights flickered and scattered across the tin roof.

"Damn! When that laser cut down, I got goosebumps all over!"

A henchman with a mohawk crushed a beer can in his hand, the twisting sound of the metal particularly jarring in the room filled with ghostly music.

The "Governor" sitting in the middle didn't speak, but just stared at the intermittently receiving television on the wall. The screen was still replaying footage of the Highland Prison. Although it was blurred, the moment the blurry red laser swept across his skin, he subconsciously touched the scar on his neck—the one he got from the shootout with Rival years ago. Now, he felt that the pain was nothing compared to Gilbert's screams.

A skinny, monkey-like young man next to him swallowed hard. "Those Mexicans really dare to come? They wiped out Colombia so easily, what about us..."

"Shut up!" The governor slammed his hand on the table, sending cocaine powder flying and dust flying. "Brazil is not Colombia! No matter how incompetent the government is, we can't let outsiders run rampant on our turf with lasers!"

The Brazilian government didn't know whether to be happy or upset about what they said.

His words were firm, but his expression was unpleasant.

Three days ago, they were still competing with the "family" in São Paulo for port share. Now, their men are even dawdling over night patrols. Everyone is afraid of becoming the next person tied to that metal platform. Yesterday, a newbie who had just joined the team was so scared by the sound of sirens in the middle of the night that he threw the whole package of goods into the sewer. He was hit with a rifle butt and had his ribs broken.

Panic spreads faster than a plague.

Rio police have noticed that gunfire in the favelas has decreased by half recently.

It's not because things are peaceful anymore; it's because the drug dealers are all holed up in their hideouts watching the news, and even street vendors are starting to ask, "I heard that people from Mexico can use satellites to locate where we hide our drugs?"

The "family" headquarters in São Paulo is even more outrageous.

The bigwigs transferred money hidden in bank vaults to Panama overnight, and even moved their secret meetings with government officials to mobile vans. One congressman, having received bribes, wanted to make a public appearance and say a few words to "reassure the public," but as soon as his car reached the entrance to the slums, a stray bullet punctured his tires—not as a warning, but because the drug dealers themselves were terrified, assuming any unfamiliar license plate belonged to a Mexican "surgical hand."

The most bizarre of all are the plantations in the Amazon rainforest.

Farmers who had made a living by growing coca for generations suddenly began uprooting their seedlings overnight. Some even switched to growing bananas. A local gang leader forced them to continue growing bananas at gunpoint, only to find themselves tied to banana trees the next day with the words "Don't wait for Mexico to come and burn you" carved on their bodies.

"If they really attack..." the skinny boy muttered again.

The governor grabbed the pistol on the table, cocked it with a click, and pointed the muzzle at the ceiling.

"Then let them see that Brazil's bones aren't so easy to gnaw on."

kindness…

That's fucking tough talk!

But the brothers had no confidence at all.

Back then, Pablo and Gilbert of Colombia were even more defiant than you; they were planning to storm Mexico City and capture Victor alive.

Now...

They should be waiting in line to be reincarnated, right? They shouldn't need to take a number, right?

……

(End of this chapter)