Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 666 It's him, it's him, it's definitely him!

That huge sum of money that arrived anonymously will make things much easier.

The saying goes, "If you take someone's money, you have to do their dirty work."

Overnight, countless blue and yellow flags appeared on the streets of Barcelona, ​​from the lampposts of Plaça Catalunya to the sunshades of cafes on Passeig de Gràcia, and even next to underwear hanging on clotheslines in the old town, the flag symbolizing the demand for independence could be seen waving in the wind.

The money was spent wisely.

A professional publicity team worked overnight to produce tens of thousands of posters, featuring Jordi's solemn face with the words "Our future, our vote" written next to them.

Speedboats flew over the city, displaying signs that read "See you in 3 days," attracting tourists to stop and take photos. Food trucks on the streets and alleys offered free Catalan specialties like cava and tapas, and people raised their glasses and shouted "Independence," with spilled liquor on their T-shirts creating patterns that resembled border lines on a map.

The parade starts promptly at 10:00 AM every day.

The procession started from the City Hall and slowly moved along La Rambla. Leading the way were elderly people with white hair, holding signs that read "1714 Never Forgotten," a mark of shame for them from the conquest by the Spanish monarchy. In the middle were young parents holding children, with miniature flags stuck in the strollers. The children's babbling mixed with the slogans, creating a strange harmony. Bringing up the rear were university students, riding skateboards and holding megaphones, playing clips of Jordi's speech on a loop.

The message, "Voting is not about division, it's about coming home," echoed between the buildings.

The whole of Barcelona was like an open-air party that lasted for three days—noisy, yet with a deliberately maintained order.

The protesters would make way for ambulances, pick up litter, and even when arguing with dissenting citizens, they would only get red-faced and yell at each other, at most shoving each other before being pulled apart by those around them.

"Hey Spaniard, look at this popularity!"

An ice cream vendor winked at a passing policeman. His stall had a sign that read "Buy one get one free on Referendum Day." "Don't just stand there like an idiot. Remember to come vote in three days, and I'll give you a 20% discount!"

The police officer rolled his eyes but didn't resort to violence. He had orders to avoid conflict as much as possible before the referendum results were announced.

This lukewarm protest left Madrid's González both angry and anxious.

He had prepared a complete plan to deal with the violent conflict, with the National Guard on standby around Barcelona. However, the other side did not play by the rules at all, like punching cotton. He was so frustrated that he smashed three coffee cups in his office in the middle of the night.

"A bunch of hypocrites!" he cursed at the image of Jordi calling for peace on TV. "They're divisive and pretending to be saints!"

However, while Catalonia was weaving its dream of independence with slogans and marches, in another corner of Spain, real violence had already torn open the cracks.

The ETA organization in the Basque Country, like a pack of hungry wolves that had been lying in wait, bared its fangs when everyone was watching Barcelona.

The first to suffer was the tax chief of the Biscay province.

On Wednesday morning, he had just driven out of his house when a loud explosion shattered the tranquility of the entire street as his car rolled over the speed bump in front of his door. The rear half of his car was blown to pieces, and thick black smoke carrying burning debris shot into the sky.

When the neighbors rushed out, all they saw was a twisted metal frame and a pool of blood spreading.

ETA's statement appeared on the Basque activists' makeshift website half an hour later: "For the freedom of the Basques, every bloodsucking Spanish bureaucrat deserves to die. This is just the beginning, González, the next one could be your dog!"

The violence in the text stands in stark contrast to the mildness of Catalonia.

Then, on Thursday at noon, a large hole was blown in the exterior wall of the San Sebastián City Hall. The mayor was inside holding a meeting on "regional security and stability" at the time; the blast wave overturned the meeting table, and shards of glass cut the faces of several councilors.

ETA used a time bomb this time, timing it perfectly, to make these officials who "colluded with Spain" taste the bitterness of fear.

"Fuck you, ETA!" the mayor roared, clutching his bleeding forehead at the mess on the ground. "Come at me if you dare! Don't fucking try anything funny!"

Keeta didn't waste any words with him.

Early Friday morning, a police officer responsible for monitoring Basque separatist activities received a package containing a bullet and a note: "Your child is in Grade 3, Class 2 at St. Mary's Primary School. We know what time he gets out of school every day."

The police officer broke down on the spot, crouching on the ground and sobbing.

He may not be afraid of death, but he cannot joke with a child's life. The next day, this tough guy submitted his resignation and disappeared from the public eye completely.

ETA's retaliation was swift and ruthless, and it specifically targeted government officials.

Instead of launching large-scale attacks on civilians, they targeted individuals who symbolized Spanish rule, using assassinations, bombings, and threats to gradually undermine the foundations of the government's rule.

An official in charge of education reform in the Basque Country was attacked with sulfuric acid in front of his house for promoting Spanish language instruction, resulting in half of his face being disfigured. Another retired general who participated in the suppression of ETA was shot three times by masked men on a motorcycle during his morning exercise and died on the spot. Even a businessman who supplied office supplies to government departments received a warning letter saying that if he dared to do business with the "Spanish puppets" again, his warehouse would be set on fire.

Panic gripped the entire Basque region.

Government officials are taking leave one after another, some even secretly fleeing to Madrid to hide; the number of police on the streets has increased significantly, but they all look solemn and keep their guns close at hand; ordinary people keep their doors and windows closed, and no one dares to go out after 8 p.m. The once bustling bar street is now deathly silent.

"These lunatics!" González slammed his fist on the table during the emergency cabinet meeting, spitting all over the finance minister's face. "We haven't even sorted things out in Catalonia yet, and now the Basque Country is in an uproar! Do those bastards at ETA want to tear Spain to pieces?"

The Defense Minister's face was ashen: "We have already sent three brigades to the Basque Country, but they are as slippery as eels, they strike and run, and we can't catch them at all. Moreover..." He paused, his voice lowering, "...Intelligence says that ETA recently received a batch of new weapons of unknown origin."

"Unknown origin? I bet it's with those Catalan bastards!" the Interior Minister gritted his teeth. "They've definitely conspired together, one playing the good cop and the other the bad cop, trying to drag us down!"

González slumped in his chair, his hands tucked into his hair.

Outside the window, the sky over Madrid was overcast, as if it were about to rain.

He suddenly realized that he was not facing the demands for independence from two regions, but rather a net tightening from all sides. The Catalan protests were the edge of the net, seemingly soft, yet firmly binding his hands and feet; while ETA's bombs were the steel spikes in the center of the net, slowly piercing the heart of Spain.

"Investigate!" He abruptly raised his head, his eyes bloodshot. "The source of Chaeta's weapons, the origin of that money in Catalonia! Dig to the bottom of the earth and find out! Also, tell the Basque garrison to stop worrying about the consequences. As long as they can catch Chaeta's people, any questions are allowed!"

But he knew in his heart that it was too late to say these things now.

The explosions in the Basque Country and the chants of the Catalans were like two hammers, relentlessly pounding at the foundations of Spain. And he, the prime minister, seemed to be able to do nothing but hurl insults.

On Friday night, ETA pulled off another big heist.

They blew up the high-speed rail tracks connecting the Basque Country and Madrid. Although a warning had been issued beforehand and no casualties were reported, this vital artery symbolizing the connection between the two countries was severed.

The statement became even more arrogant: "Spain's railways don't reach the Basque Country, just as your rule will never reach our hearts. Just wait, the real show is yet to come!" The reputation of ETA's scumbags was already as foul as a garbage can in summer, and now it became even more stinking.

Just after the car bombing in Biscay province, elderly women in San Sebastián blocked the streets with crosses, making the sign of the cross in the direction of Eta's hiding place, muttering "possessed by the devil."

The young people who once supported their "demands for independence" have started cursing in bars: "Fuck the bombs! I just want to find a peaceful job, not hear explosions every day!"

A Basque baker whose son was cut on the face by shards of glass in the explosion grabbed a rolling pin and rushed to the square where radicals were gathered, shouting with red eyes: "If you want independence, go talk to the government! Using the lives of ordinary people as bargaining chips, what kind of heroes are you?!"

At this time, the Spanish troops marched into the Basque Country in a grand procession.

The sound of tank tracks rolling over the cobblestone road was like a heavy hammer striking everyone's heart.

At first, many civilians who longed for peace and stability secretly peeked through the curtains, thinking, "It's good that they're here; they can keep those lunatics in check." One retired teacher even brought his child to deliver a basket of freshly baked cookies to the soldiers on guard duty, saying, "Thank you for your hard work. Please don't let them blow up anything else."

But this group of people wasn't there to maintain order; they were there to cause trouble.

The incident occurred on the second day after they moved in.

A group of soldiers stormed into the old town of San Sebastián to search a house, using the pretext of "suspecting the possession of explosives." They ransacked a house, scattering frozen food all over the floor. When the woman of the house tried to stop them, a burly soldier shoved her against the wall, causing her to bleed from her head.

"Damn it, if you keep talking, I'll arrest you as an ETA member!" The soldier spat, his boots crunching over the scattered dumplings as if they were a pile of garbage.

They stopped people on the street to check them, slapping anyone they didn't like. Those who spoke Basque fluently were treated as "suspected ETA sympathizers," handcuffed to a street lamp with their hands behind their backs, and left to be covered in flies. A fifteen-year-old boy was dragged into an alley and beaten by three soldiers because he had a Basque folk song lyric in his pocket. He broke two of his ribs and was thrown out like a dead dog.

What's even more outrageous is that they barged into the bar, drank all the alcohol without paying, and even tore down the Basque flag hanging on the wall and trampled it under their feet. The owner, enraged, cursed, "Are you robbers?" and was beaten so badly that he lost two teeth on the spot.

"Bandits? I'm here to wipe out bandits!" The leading officer grinned maliciously, took out a lighter, lit the national flag, and the flame licked the fabric, reflecting his distorted face.

This completely caused an uproar.

The originally neutral civilians were completely enraged.

"Fuck your Spanish army! Get out of the Basque Country!"

Someone shouted first, and then stones, bottles, and rotten vegetable leaves rained down on the soldiers. Someone set fire to a trash can, and thick black smoke billowed into the sky, becoming the best signal for assembly.

Tens of thousands of people flooded the streets, no longer sporadic protests, but a tsunami of anger. They chained up main roads, overturned cars to use as roadblocks, and roared at armed soldiers, spitting on riot shields as if to unleash decades of pent-up resentment.

The soldiers fired, not with live ammunition, but with rubber bullets, but they still managed to blind someone.

Tear gas filled the air, choking people and causing tears and snot to stream down their faces, but no one retreated. They coughed and rushed forward, banging wooden sticks on the soldiers' helmets, making muffled "bang" sounds like tolling a death knell.

A mother holding her baby was forced to her knees by the tear gas. Her child was crying hysterically. She looked up and screamed at the soldiers: "Look at this! This is the 'order' you're supposed to protect?! You don't even spare children!"

Chaos spread like a plague.

Shops were looted, banks were smashed, train station windows were shattered, and burning tires littered the tracks. People who had previously supported the Spanish government joined the protests—not because they supported ETA, but because they hated the soldiers who had committed the violence.

"The government didn't send an army, they sent a bunch of beasts!" The retired teacher slammed the basket of undelivered cookies onto the ground, the crumbs mixed with dust and trampled into the mud by the angry crowd.

While the Basque Country was in chaos, fires also broke out in Ireland, the United Kingdom, just across the sea.

On the streets of Belfast, Catholics and Protestants clashed again, petrol bombs turned police cars into fireballs, and gunfire from street battles continued throughout the night. Some people waved IRA flags and shouted "Freedom, not Brits" into the camera, just like the riots in the Basque Country.

At this point, the astute reporters and intelligence brokers finally sensed that something was amiss.

ETA in the Basque Country suddenly went crazy, the Catalan independence referendum was so bizarre, and the old conflicts in Ireland suddenly escalated... What a coincidence!

A French journalist covering the news in Brussels pieced together photos of the riots in these three cities and became increasingly alarmed as he looked at them. The slogans on the streets were similar in style, the logic of the inflammatory slogans was exactly the same, and even the red wristbands worn by some protesters were all from the same brand.

"There's definitely someone pulling the strings behind this." He stubbed out a cigarette and drew a big question mark in his notebook. "Who the hell has nothing better to do than turn the Iberian Peninsula and the British Isles upside down?"

In a corner of Downing Street in London, an MI6 analyst stared at a chart of fund flows on his screen, sweating profusely.

Several anonymous large sums of money first flowed to a shell company in Catalonia, then dispersed to the accounts of radical organizations in the Basque Country, and finally a small portion appeared in the overseas accounts of the Irish Republican Army.

The money originated from a tax haven in the Caribbean, but further investigation revealed layers upon layers of mystery.

"Boss."

The young analyst's voice trembled, "It's like a fucking net, it's caught up with all of Western Europe."

The old analyst didn't speak, but lit a cigar. In the swirling smoke, he thought of those burly men with snake tattoos on their wrists.

The more I look at it, the more familiar it seems!
"Hydra?"

The thought had barely crossed his mind when it sent a chill down his spine.

If it really is them, then this game is far too big a deal.

Meanwhile, at the Prime Minister's residence in Madrid, González was still yelling into the phone, calling ETA "bastards," Basque civilians "troublemakers," and the army "useless."

And that same afternoon.

Casarte held a press conference, where he smiled and spoke to the cameras.

"What a beautiful sight!"

……

(End of this chapter)