Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 664 Victor? A mentally challenged idiot!

At nine o'clock the next morning, Casare appeared before the reporters in the presidential press conference hall on time.

The lights below flashed generously.

"In the past three months, violence against Mexican immigrants in Spain has resulted in 13 deaths and dozens of injuries."

He slammed a stack of photocopies of case files on the table. “The attack on the international students at Atocha train station, the arson at a restaurant in Barcelona, ​​and the serial murders in the suburbs of Madrid are not isolated incidents, but rather a systemic trampling on the basic rights of Mexican citizens.”

"The Spanish government's inaction is not a simple oversight in law enforcement, but a blatant disregard for Mexico's national dignity."

Casare's voice came through the microphone, "We demand that the Spanish government immediately launch an independent investigation into all cases, release the police officers' records, and provide a clear statement on the progress of the investigation within 72 hours. This is not a request, but a formal demand."

An hour later, the Spanish Ministry of Foreign Affairs issued a statement through official channels, using arrogant language.

"The unfounded accusations from Mexico are completely untrue. Preliminary investigations have shown that the recent cases are all related to gang warfare, mainly involving turf wars between Mexican gangs."

The statement emphasized: "The Spanish government consistently protects the rights of all legal residents in accordance with the law, but we are taking necessary measures to strengthen control over certain groups with inherent violent tendencies and destabilizing characteristics. We suggest that the Mexican government first address its own exported crime problem, rather than interfering in the internal affairs of other countries."

The last sentence was laced with undisguised sarcasm: "Instead of creating a spectacle in the press conference room, why not spend some energy working on improving the country's economy? Does Viktor even know what an economy is? We know he doesn't have any particularly outstanding educational background."

When the arrogant statement from the Spanish Foreign Ministry reached Mexico, the streets erupted in uproar.

Thousands of protesters gathered in Constitution Square, waving the green, white and red tricolor flag and trampling a simulated image of the Spanish flag under their feet, chanting slogans such as "Down with the Spanish colonizers" and "Blood for blood" in a deafening voice.

Some agitated individuals even stormed into the Spanish-style district in the city center and overturned a food cart selling Iberian ham.

In just half a day, four violent incidents targeting Hispanic immigrants occurred across Mexico. In Guadalajara, a Spanish businessman who runs a winery was surrounded and beaten by protesters, resulting in a broken arm. In Monterrey, a Spanish-owned dance school was vandalized with paint, and a flamenco guitar model displayed at its entrance was broken.

Some people have even started publicly soliciting addresses of Hispanic residents, their words filled with hostility.

At 3 p.m., the Mexican presidential palace was forced to issue an emergency statement, with Casare himself appearing on camera: "We understand the anger of the people, but violence is never the answer. Attacks against innocent people have fallen into the trap of certain forces. Staying rational and upholding the rule of law is the most powerful way to fight back against arrogance."

Look how civilized our leader is!

The autumn nights in Paris are filled with the mixed scents of champagne and perfume.

Catalan Finance Minister Costa was attending an economic forum on the banks of the Seine in a private capacity. During a tea break at the forum, he met a British woman named Isabella on the terrace. She was wearing a well-tailored grey suit and spoke with the shrewdness characteristic of the City of London. Her views on the European economic situation coincided with Costa's.

“Mr. Costa’s economic plan for the Catalan independence referendum is simply a stroke of genius.” Isabella raised her glass, the diamond in her earring sparkling under the lights. “Unfortunately, those old guys in Madrid will never understand.”

This perfectly timed compliment hit a nerve with Costa.

The two chatted about inflation in the sterling zone and development rights for the North Sea oil fields. The more they talked, the more they clicked. Before the forum was over, they went into a nearby five-star hotel together.

Before the crystal chandelier in the room could be dimmed, Costa's hand was stroking Isabella's unbuttoned shirt when suddenly a violent slamming sound rang out.

Before the two could react, four or five burly men wearing black hoods burst open the door, flashes of light exploded like lightning, and the clicking sounds were as dense as hail hitting glass.

Costa instinctively pulled the blanket over his body, but a burly man ripped the sheet off Costa's head and shoved the camera directly at his terrified face. Another person recorded the entire chaotic scene on their phone: scattered clothes, overturned wine glasses, and the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the wall that hadn't been taken down yet.

"It seems Mr. Costa's private time is more interesting than the forum topics."

The burly man at the head of the group, speaking with a heavy Eastern European accent, threw a Polaroid photo at Costa's chest; Costa's face in the photo was contorted with shock.

The moment the flash went out, Costa caught a glimpse of a snake tattoo on one of the men's wrists, a design that sent shivers down his spine—Hydra!!!
Why would this most notorious "organization" in the world target someone as insignificant as me?
Costa's pupils contracted sharply in the dim light; the Hydra serpent tattoos writhed on his retina like living creatures, and the bloody legends surrounding the organization instantly shattered his composure.
She suddenly rolled off the bed, her expensive silk robe torn askew, her knees slamming heavily onto the carpet but she felt no pain, only the chattering of her teeth.

"Don't kill me! Please, don't kill me!" His voice, like a piece of metal rubbed with sandpaper, was forced out of his throat by sobs. "I have money, lots of money in my Catalan bank account, I can give it all to you! And real estate, apartments in Paris and Barcelona, ​​the property deeds are in my briefcase, the password is..."

Snot dripped down his philtrum and into the corner of his mouth, the salty taste making him even more flustered. He even tried to crawl over and hug the burly man's ankle, but the man's cold gaze kept him rooted to the spot.

Tears blurred his vision, making the hooded figures look even more grotesque. He recalled the news reports of politicians executed by Hydra, their bodies hung outside the city hall, and his stomach churned.

“I’m willing to do anything…really, do you need intelligence? The financial loopholes in Madrid’s budget? Or the secret agreements of the regional government? I know all about it, I can write it down, right now!”

He was incoherently grabbing his hair, his robe belt had come undone, revealing his flabby belly, and he was nowhere near as respectable as a finance minister.

Costa's wailing was particularly jarring in the silence, and a burly man couldn't help but move his feet to the side, seemingly annoyed by the sight of him crying and snotting.

"Shut up!"

The burly man at the head of the group finally spoke. His deep voice was like a wheel crushing gravel, instantly choking Costa's sobs in his throat. He froze on the spot, his mouth still open, tears still streaming down his face, his shoulders trembling uncontrollably.

"Who told you we were going to kill you?" The burly man took a step forward, his military boots making a dull thud on the carpet. "Hydra always operates on reason!"

He bent down to pick up the Polaroid photo he had just thrown at Costa's chest, and flicked the edge of the photo with his gloved fingers: "Mr. Costa, do you really think those idiots in Madrid care about Catalonia's economy? They only care about the taxes in your pockets and how to keep you obedient citizens forever."

Costa blinked his blurry eyes, seemingly not understanding what he was saying.

Isabella, who was next to her, also sat up and casually wrapped herself in a sheet and smoked a cigarette.

This woman…

Damn it, it's a honey trap!!
“Our mission,” the burly man’s voice suddenly rose, with an almost fanatical certainty, “is to break the shackles of the old world, and you, Catalonia, are standing on the threshold of breaking those shackles.”

He slammed the photo back in front of Costa, the distorted face in it almost touching Costa's nose: "Independence referendum? Economic plan? These are nothing but empty words in the face of Madrid's iron fist. But with our help, it's different. We can provide funding to free you from the control of the Bank of Spain; we can provide channels to let your declaration of independence be heard by more countries; we can even..."

He paused deliberately, his gaze sweeping over Costa's slightly agape mouth in shock: "Make those Madrid officials who are hindering your independence disappear forever."

Costa felt as if his heart had been gripped. He suddenly realized that these people weren't there to extort or seek revenge, but to form an alliance? But they were Hydra, that terrifying organization with blood on their hands!
"Why...why are you helping us?" His voice was hoarse, as if it were being squeezed out of a rusty iron pipe.

The burly man let out a low, sneer. "Why? Because chaos is a ladder, and your independence will bring the Iberian Peninsula the perfect chaos. As for how far you can climb, that depends on whether Mr. Costa has the guts."

He straightened up and waved to his men behind him: “Give Mr. Costa some time to consider. Remember, we’ll only wait three days. After three days, either come with us, or… let this photo appear on the front page of all the Spanish newspapers tomorrow.”

After saying that, he turned and walked towards the door. As he passed the foot of the bed, he kicked the overturned wine glass away. The sound of the crystal shattering was particularly crisp in the silence.

Only after the door slammed shut did Costa collapse to the floor as if all his bones had been removed. He looked at the clothes scattered on the floor and that damned photo, then looked down at his little brother... It was limp!

At the doorway…

"Boss, are we really going to give him three days?"

The burly man sneered, "What use is a dog that doesn't even know when to eat shit?"

...

Costa didn't sleep well all night. The next day, he vaguely received a call from his wife, who told him that a package had been found at their doorstep and asked him what he had bought.
Costa was startled, then shuddered.

"Don't touch it!" he suddenly roared, startling the phone so much it nearly slipped from his hand. "Throw the cake away! Now! Right now!"

His wife's voice on the other end of the phone was hesitant: "Costa? What's wrong? Are you too tired from work?"

"I said throw it out!" he practically roared. "I didn't buy it!!"

It's a hydra.

These three words were stuck in my throat.

He dared not speak, not even mention that name on the phone. Last night, those hooded burly men said they would "reason with him," but that reason was paved with fear. They were able to get him to meet with Isabella and lead him step by step into their trap through their words.

This group of people has a truly thorough understanding of human nature.

His wife's voice trembled with tears, "Has something happened? You said you were going to a meeting in Paris yesterday, what happened...?"

“I’m fine.” He interrupted abruptly, forcing himself to calm down. “Listen, throw the package in the trash can, get rid of it completely, then lock the doors and windows, don’t open the door for anyone, and wait for me to come back.”

"But……"

"Do as I say!" he emphasized as he hung up the phone.

He stumbled to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains.

The morning light of Paris was filtering through the thin mist over the Seine. Several boats floated on the river, and the laughter of tourists could be faintly heard. Everything was as peaceful as a painting.

But Costa felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff.

The screen of his 8848 phone in Mexico lit up briefly. It was a text message from an unknown number, containing only one MMS image. It was a close-up of his front door, taken from what looked like a rooftop across the street, with his wife's back clearly visible as she bent over to pick up a package.

Below is another line: "Happy Bronze Wedding Anniversary, we have excellent memories, Mr. Costa."

His legs went weak, and he collapsed heavily onto the carpet.

Last night he was still thinking about whether to seek help from the Madrid security department, but now it seems that his every move is under their surveillance, and the so-called "three days to consider" is nothing more than a cat-and-mouse game.

The phone rang suddenly.

Costa jerked violently, his gaze frantically sweeping across the carpet. The phone had slipped from his hand and fallen to his feet, the screen displaying an unfamiliar number.

His fingers were trembling, and he almost pressed the hang-up button by mistake several times.

"Hey?"

"Sir, what's your decision?"

The voice coming from the other end of the phone was that of the burly man wearing a hood from last night.

Costa opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"It seems Mr. Costa is still hesitant," the burly man chuckled. "Does he feel our sincerity isn't enough? Or does he think the safety of his family isn't worth the little bit of power Madrid is offering?"

"Don't touch my family!"

Costa roared, his chest heaving, "What do you want? I'm just the finance minister, I can't make that decision..."

"Can't make the decision?" The burly man's voice suddenly turned cold. "That's not what you said last night. You said you knew about Madrid's financial loopholes and the autonomous region's secret agreements. What, are you going to back out now?"

"I..." Costa was speechless.

All those incoherent attempts to please him last night now felt like slaps in the face. He could imagine the other person holding a recording pen, recording his embarrassing behavior word for word.

"Mr. Costa, we don't have that much time to waste with you."

"I...I need time," he managed to squeeze out, his voice pleading.

"It seems you've already made your choice, haven't you?"

Costa's vision went black. "Wait!"

He closed his eyes, and he seemed to see the hydra's serpentine tattoo, his wife's terrified face, and his fate of being nailed to the pillar of shame.

"Okay," he heard his own voice squeeze out from between his teeth, "I'll help you."

A satisfied chuckle came from the other end of the phone: "A wise choice!"

"Happy cooperation!"

……

(End of this chapter)