Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 661 The world's affairs, after a long period of division, will inevitably unite!
Patrick O'Connell's funeral became a spark that ignited a fire in Northern Ireland.

There were no priests, no prayers, only a silent crowd and the pent-up lava within their chests, ready to erupt.

In his photo, a slightly shy-smiling boy is printed on rough cardboard, held high like a battle flag.

The funeral had just ended, but the crowd did not disperse. Instead, like iron filings drawn by a magnet, they coalesced into a heavy and angry torrent, surging toward the British army's makeshift checkpoint that had taken Patrick's life.

"murderer!"

"Get out of Ireland!"

"Patrick's life must be paid!"

Stones rained down on the checkpoint's riot shields and armored vehicles.

The first Molotov cocktail ripped through the gloomy sky, whistling as it struck the side of a Saxon armored personnel carrier.

"Boom!" Flames erupted, thick smoke billowed, and the metal groaned piercingly under the intense heat.

The soldiers retreated in panic, some of them getting burned by the splashed incendiary agent and screaming in pain.

"Fire! Scatter them! Rubber bullets! Tear gas!" a lieutenant roared, his voice almost drowned out by the commotion.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" The dull sound of rubber bullets being fired rang out, and people in the crowd immediately fell down, rolling and howling in pain while clutching their legs or abdomens. White tear gas canisters were launched and exploded in the crowd, and acrid smoke quickly spread.

The sounds of coughing, vomiting, and cursing were mixed together.

But instead of dispersing the crowd, this was like pouring cold water into a frying pan, completely igniting their anger!
The riots spread like wildfire from Fitz neighborhood to the rest of Belfast.

Citizens and resistance members hiding inside quickly blocked all the roads leading to main roads and bridges in Belfast using abandoned cars, burning tires, and even cement pipes dragged from construction sites.

Roads leading to the military camp and the port were completely cut off.

A British supply truck attempting to break through a checkpoint was hit by more than a dozen Molotov cocktails, instantly turning into a giant torch. The burning wreckage of the truck became the most effective roadblock.

The transportation hub was completely paralyzed, and the pulse of the city was cut off.

The residential area was turned into a fortress, with windows of high-rise buildings smashed open and bricks, flower pots, and even refrigerators pushed down and thrown at British patrols trying to enter the narrow streets to clear them out.

Above Belfast, the rotor blades of the "Sea King" helicopter cut through the smoke-filled air, the fuselage trembling slightly from the airflow. BBC reporter Mark Stanton pointed his camera at the chaotic city below, while intermittent urging voices came through his headset from the control room.

"We are flying over Fitzgerald, and as you can see..." His voice came through the microphone to the ground studio, showing burning barricades and people moving about. "The riots have spread to the city center, and the standoff between British checkpoints and civilians continues..."

Amidst the hum of the camera, a blinding orange-red flame suddenly shot up.

"What is that?" Camerawoman Anna abruptly adjusted the camera, and Stanton's pupils contracted sharply.

The streak of fire, trailing a grayish-white contrail, was climbing toward the helicopter at an astonishing speed, its shrill sound piercing through the rotor noise and assaulting the eardrums.

"RPG!" The co-pilot's roar exploded in the cabin.

The pilot jerked the control stick, and the helicopter violently lurched upwards as if gripped by a giant hand. Stanton slammed against the bulkhead, and the camera lens instantly blurred into a blurry spot of light. Amid the turbulence, he stared intently out the window as a rocket grazed the fuselage, its exhaust flame almost scorching the landing gear.

"boom--!"

The explosion came from the rear, and the shockwave caused the helicopter to roll sideways. Stanton saw the tail rotor blades shatter like glass as the fuselage immediately spiraled into an uncontrollable descent.

"Abandon the aircraft! Abandon the aircraft now!" The pilot's shouts were swallowed by the sound of metal twisting.

Stanton fumbled for the first aid kit amidst the feeling of weightlessness. Anna had already unbuckled her seatbelt, but the camera was still firmly held on his shoulder.

The last thing he saw as the helicopter crashed into Sainte Anne Square was a group of young people holding Molotov cocktails looking up at him, their faces distorted in the flames like a burning oil painting.

The violent impact caused Stanton's vision to go black for a moment, and amidst the ringing in his ears, the unfinished report he had just delivered seemed to still echo...

Damn it, he's dead.

In the Cabinet meeting room at 10 Downing Street, fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and everyone's eyes were glued to the large screen on the wall. When the BBC live broadcast suddenly shook violently, the already tense atmosphere froze instantly.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer's pen fell onto his notebook with a "clatter," the Home Secretary instinctively gripped the hem of his suit jacket, and even the secretary in the corner who was responsible for refilling coffee forgot to do anything.

As the orange-red light appeared, Stanton's exclamation abruptly ceased. The image of the helicopter rotor breaking off slammed into the conference room like a heavy hammer. After a burst of static, the screen went completely black, leaving only the panicked shouts from the control room echoing in the background.

The Prime Minister slowly straightened up from the sofa, his somewhat gloomy eyes now frighteningly calm. He raised his hand and tugged at his tie, appearing somewhat anxious: "Notify the Ministry of Defence that the Third Airborne Brigade must immediately move into Belfast, and the Armored Regiment must be transferred from Liverpool Port overnight. The city must be under martial law by six o'clock tomorrow morning."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the cabinet members, "I authorize the garrison to use live ammunition. I don't care if they are resistance fighters or mobs; if they dare to fire on British helicopters, they will pay the price."

The Home Secretary opened his mouth: "Prime Minister, the authorization for live ammunition might..."

"It might let them know who owns this place!"

The Prime Minister slammed his hand on the table, spilling coffee from his cup. "From the attack on the barracks until now, our soldiers have been bleeding, journalists have been shot down from the sky, and the London stock market is still falling! If we back down any further, the whole of Ireland will be on fire, then Scotland, and then Wales!"

He walked to the map and pointed heavily at Belfast: "Surround the city, search every house for weapons, and arrest everyone involved in the riots, whether old or young! I want them to understand the consequences of provoking the British Empire!"

"prime minister."

Defense Secretary Sir Davidson suddenly stood up, pulled a yellowed report from his folder, and his fingers trembled as he looked at the numbers. “The deployment of the Third Airborne Brigade requires the use of C-17 transport aircraft, and just the fuel and ammunition supplies alone… our military budget has already exceeded its budget by 12% this quarter.”

The Prime Minister's movements suddenly froze.

No money?
Is the Empress Dowager out of money?

“The rotation of the Persian Gulf Fleet that you approved last month has not yet been settled, the maintenance cost of the new destroyers has exceeded the budget, and there is also the renovation of the barracks for the troops stationed in Germany…” Davidson’s voice grew lower and lower. “The briefing just sent by the Treasury Department said that if another large-scale military operation is launched, this year’s defense budget will directly exceed the red line, and may even affect next year’s equipment procurement plan.”

The meeting room was deathly silent, with only the jarring ticking of the wall clock.

The prime minister slowly turned around, his lips trembling. "Say it again?"

“Military funds… are really not enough, sir.”

Davidson avoided his gaze, staring at his leather shoes. "The army's ammunition reserves might not even last for a medium-sized urban battle. If we want to suppress the entire Belfast, we might need to urgently borrow equipment from France or the United States, but that would take at least three days—"

"Three days?"

The Prime Minister suddenly laughed, though he was furious. "By the time they send the equipment over, the Belfast guys will probably already be on their way to Liverpool!"

He grabbed the phone on the table, the receiver cord taut: "Connect to the Treasury! I don't care what methods they use, even if they melt down the silverware at Buckingham Palace, they have to scrape together the military funds needed for the crackdown! Tell them this isn't a request, it's an order!"

After hearing what was said on the other end of the phone, the Prime Minister's face gradually darkened, and he finally slammed the phone down.

He walked to the window, gazing at the still gloomy sky outside, his figure appearing particularly lonely in the dim light.

He said in a low voice, as if talking to himself, "Why don't some people understand that now is not the time to be stingy with money?"

The Prime Minister stood by the window, his fingers unconsciously tracing the cold glass. Outside, London was shrouded in leaden clouds, like a faded oil painting.

The tough stance I had just displayed in the meeting room was like a thin layer of ice, which was now being gradually shattered by the sense of defeat surging in my chest.

He took out his phone, and the familiar names in his contacts now felt like thorns—the chairman of Barclays Bank, the heirs of the Rothschild family, and the oligarchs of the City of London.

Once upon a time, these people had to rely on Downing Street, but now he has to lower himself to the level of a prime minister and beg them for "money".

“Connect James Wilson,” he said in a deep voice into the phone.

Wilson was the most powerful financial magnate in the City of London, controlling more than half of Britain's private capital.

The moment the call connected, the soft sound of a golf club striking the ground came from the other end, accompanied by a leisurely laugh: "Your Excellency the Prime Minister? Calling at this hour, you wouldn't be inviting me to afternoon tea at Downing Street, would you?"

The Prime Minister took a deep breath, suppressing the bitterness in his throat: "Wilson, you've seen the situation in Belfast. The military needs funds, immediately, right now."

The laughter stopped abruptly, replaced by a deliberately slowed speech, tinged with arrogance: "Funds? Prime Minister, you know the current market situation. The yield on British government bonds has risen by three percentage points, and the interbank lending rate has broken through the warning line."

"I'm not discussing market trends with you!"

The Prime Minister’s voice rose sharply, then quickly fell back down. “I need £50 million, to be in the account within a week. In exchange, the government can relax the mining permits for the North Sea oil fields, or… put part of the London Underground’s operating rights up for tender.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, followed by the crisp sound of ice cubes clinking against a glass: "The North Sea oil fields? That's a piece of fat meat that the Labour Party has been eyeing for ten years. As for the subway operating rights, Prime Minister, you're using national assets as collateral."

Wilson's tone held a hint of amusement. "Let me think about it. How about I give you an answer by tomorrow morning? After all, my advisors need to assess the risks."

"Tomorrow morning?" the Prime Minister gritted his teeth. "By the time your assessment comes out, the Belfast riots will have spread to Edinburgh!"

“Well, there’s nothing I can do about that,” Wilson said lightly, like a feather weighing on the Prime Minister’s heart. “Capital never pays for impulsiveness, Your Excellency, especially in a country where even military supplies have to be borrowed.”

The busy tone of the call being disconnected felt like needles piercing my ear.

The Prime Minister slammed his phone onto the sofa, the leather fabric making a dull thud.

He recalled the oil painting hanging in his grandfather's study—the Royal Navy fleet sailing through the Strait of Gibraltar in 1918, with its cannons like a forest and its flags fluttering.

Back then, Britain never needed to borrow money from anyone because the whole world backed its pound. But now, the military expenses of an airborne brigade stationed on its homeland have to be secured by oil fields and subways.

As night fell, the Prime Minister received seven “letters of intent to lend” in his private email inbox.

Barclays was willing to provide £30 million, but required a five-year concession for Manchester Airport as collateral. A Qatari consortium offered to invest, on the condition that it participate in the subsequent development of the infrastructure facilities. Even Wall Street hedge funds sent emails, hinting with obscure terms that they could "provide liquidity support" at the cost of a stake in the UK power grid.

"Sign it." The Prime Minister uttered a single word to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, his eyes bloodshot. "All conditions are agreed upon, as long as the money arrives within three days."

He didn't notice that two of these letters of intent came from offshore companies registered in the Cayman Islands.

The actual controllers of two companies, one called "Silver Wing Capital" and the other "Equator Trade," are currently sitting in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of a penthouse apartment in Mexico City, looking at the real-time stock prices in the City of London.

“The fish has taken the bait.” Manuel García picked up his tequila glass, the salt crystals on the glass glistening in the light. His grandfather had been a guerrilla leader during the Mexican Revolution, while he himself had become a financial hunter trained on Wall Street.

After Victor came to power, the world called on Mexican Americans to return home and contribute to their homeland. Don't underestimate Mexicans; they can fight on Wall Street and compete with Chinese people in washing dishes. They can take on two people at once.

Sophia, the secretary beside her, opened the encrypted email. On the screen was an assessment list of British assets: "Downing Street is in a hurry for money and the review process is very lax. We acquired a 20% stake in the Liverpool Port container terminal through 'Silver Wing' and bought bonds of three Scotch whisky distilleries with 'Equator'. They are all insignificant side items that no one will notice."

Garcia laughed, his finger tracing the map of Britain on the screen: "Scraps? Liverpool Port handles 17% of Britain's container traffic, and those three distilleries control half of the Scottish Highlands' water supply. Right now they're scraps, but when Britain's economy spirals out of control like the streets of Belfast, they'll be the crowbars that pry open their ribs."

Sofia pulled out another document: "The next targets are coal mines in Wales and tin mines in Cornwall, old industrial bases where the government is worried about finding buyers. We can go in under the guise of 'environmental investment' and keep costs to a minimum."

"Take it easy."

Garcia swirled his glass, the amber liquid reflecting the lights of London. “The British care most about appearances, like Victorian ladies who would wear gold-trimmed crinolines even if their underwear was torn. What we need to do is to gradually remove their crinolines, so that when they shiver in the cold wind, they will think they have accidentally lost them.”

Outside the apartment window, fireworks suddenly burst forth in Mexico City, illuminating the distant outline of the volcano. Garcia raised his glass, offering a toast towards the Atlantic Ocean: "Cheers to the twilight of the British Empire."

……

(End of this chapter)