Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 669 The Rats Desperate!
February 12, 1995, Brasilia, underground meeting room of the National Security Bureau.

The red light from the smoke detector flickered eerily on the ceiling.

Lieutenant General José Alves, head of Brazil's National Security Agency, tapped the table with his thick fingers, his gaze sweeping over the seven senior military officers in the conference room. An old-fashioned fax machine sat on the oak table, and the Interpol report he had just received still smelled of warm ink. The royal medals that were showing when the president of the Bank of Madrid was arrested in the photo stung his retina.

"That idiot Carlos messed things up."

Alves' voice was like sandpaper rubbing against a gun barrel, "Now the Mexicans want us to hand over the people within 72 hours."

Suddenly, the metal door was kicked open, and four figures dressed in black tactical uniforms rushed in. The muzzles of their M16 rifles gleamed coldly. Leading the way was Alvin York, the head of intelligence for the Mexican frontline forces, whose combat boots crushed cigar butts on the floor.

“Lieutenant General Alves, you are under arrest.” Alvin York held a yellowed arrest warrant in his tactical glove. “You are suspected of colluding with the Gold Serpent drug cartel and laundering more than 30 million US dollars.”

Alves' pupils contracted instantly.

He secretly reached his right hand towards his waist, but was stopped on the shoulder by Luis Santos, the Brazilian military police captain behind him, clearly having already been turned.

"Bullshit!" Alves roared as he struggled, slamming his thick hand on the red alarm button on the table. "This is Brazilian sovereignty."

Alvin Yorke sneered and kicked Alves in the back of the knee.

The lieutenant general's obese body slammed heavily onto the conference table, the crystal ashtray rolled to the ground and shattered, and Santos and another military policeman held his arms and pressed his right hand onto the oak table covered with documents.

"check it out."

Alvin York pulled out a fax sheet and threw it at Alves's face. "Transfer records from the Panamanian shell company, every single one with your signature." His tactical dagger suddenly unsheathed, its blade gleaming coldly under the chandelier. "A gift from the Mexicans."

Alves screamed and tried to pull his hand away, but Alvin York's dagger pierced through the table with force, sinking into the back of his hand!

"Fuck your ancestors!" Alves's scream shook the glass windows. "You can't—"

“Can’t what?” Alvin York used his dagger to lift Alves’ tie, cutting it as it came off with a string of beads of blood. “Let me tell you, this is just an appetizer.”

He nodded to Santos, who pulled an old-fashioned camera from his tactical backpack. "Take a picture of this and send it to every member state of the Latin American Union."

The fax machine in the conference room suddenly ejected a new document. Alves scanned the contents with his one eye, his pupils contracting sharply. It was a statement of his offshore account in the Canary Islands, with each transaction marked "Special Offer."

"How...did you get it?" His voice suddenly weakened.

Alvin Yorke grabbed Alves' severed hand and pressed his middle finger against the signature on the fax paper. "Carlos's satellite phone records were a great help."

He threw the severed hand into the trash can. "Now, tell me about the last stronghold of the Golden Serpent in Brazil."

Alves was breathing heavily, sweat mixed with blood dripping onto the documents: "Fuck you..."

Santos suddenly drew his revolver and pressed it against Alves's temple: "General, you have thirty seconds left."

The lieutenant general's cloudy eyes darted around, and he suddenly caught sight of the safe in the corner of the conference room.

Alvin York followed his gaze, sneered, and used his dagger to pry open the cabinet door. Inside, cocaine bricks were neatly stacked, each labeled "Madrid Special Access".

“The evidence is conclusive.” Alvin York slapped a piece of cocaine onto Alves’s face. “Now, either talk it out or feed these drugs to the sharks.”

Alves stared at the ticking clock on the wall, then suddenly let out a chilling laugh: "You're too late..." His gaze drifted to the window, where the roar of helicopters grew ever closer.

Alvin York frowned at Santos, who grabbed the walkie-talkie: "Outside situation?"

"Report! Three black Mercedes are approaching, the license plate is..." The communications officer's voice was suddenly interrupted by gunfire.

"The people of the Golden Serpent have arrived."

Alves licked the blood from the corner of his mouth and grinned maliciously, "You think you can leave here alive?"

Alvin York drew his tactical dagger again, this time pressing it against Alves's throat: "Let them in, I'll just have a chance to try out my new finger-chopping technique."

He nodded to Santos, "Load the cocaine into the car. We're going to show the world how shamelessly Europe collaborates with drug traffickers!"

The whistling of an RPG-7 came from outside the window; a rocket had struck a tanker truck in the parking lot, and the flames illuminated the bulletproof glass of the conference room.

Alves seized the opportunity to headbutt Alvin Yorke in the face, but Santos smashed his nose with the butt of his rifle, the sound of bones breaking mixed with profanities exploding in the smoke.

"fuck your mother!"

Alvin York wiped the blood from his nose and dragged Alves toward the emergency exit. "Tell Mexico City we need backup!"

Santos grabbed the camera and the cocaine brick and rushed into the corridor.

Alvin York kicked open the iron door of the emergency exit. A wave of heat and smoke rushed in. Three black Mercedes had broken through the outer defense line. M2 heavy machine guns mounted on the roofs were firing wildly. Bullets pierced the corridor walls, creating honeycomb-like holes. Santos was shot in the shoulder, but he still clung tightly to the tactical box containing cocaine bricks. Blood dripped from the corner of the box onto the tiles.

"Damn it!" Alvin York shoved Alves into the corner, slashing open his uniform lining with his dagger to reveal plastic explosives wrapped inside. "Looks like you were prepared to die with him?"

Alves grinned savagely, crushing his dentures as cyanide venom trickled down his chin: "Mexican bastards...you'll never..." Before he could finish, his pupils dilated suddenly, and his body went limp to the ground.

Alvinyok kicked the body aside, grabbed the walkie-talkie, and roared, "We need..."

The communications were suddenly disrupted, leaving only the grating crackling of static. Santos suddenly pointed out the window: "General! Look over there!"

In the distance, thick black smoke rose from the slums, obscuring the sky, while bursts of gunfire echoed like popping beans.

In the direction of Rio de Janeiro, members of the Red Command (CV) were bombarding police outposts with RPG-7s, and burning police cars blocked the main road. In the prisons of São Paulo, the First Command of the Capital (PCC) launched a new riot, with prisoners rushing towards prison guards with homemade Molotov cocktails, and the walls were covered with the bloody words "Mexico out."

"They took action."

Alvinyok pulled off his tactical glove and took a yellowed map from Alves' pocket. "Manaus Port controlled by the Northern Family (FDN), the Third Command (TC)'s armory in Belo Horizonte..."

He suddenly slammed the map on the wall. "Santos, load the cocaine bricks onto the helicopter. We're going to Rio."

As the helicopter flew over Copacabana Beach, Alvinyok saw members of Red Command driving civilians behind barricades. A pregnant woman was being shoved around carrying an RPG-7 launcher, and the words "Mexicans killed my whole family" were written on her stomach in marker. "They're using human shields," Santos said, his voice trembling.

Alvinyok's finger tightened on the trigger of the M4A1: "Tell the pilot to go around to the back of the slums."

The helicopter landed on a mountain of garbage on the edge of the slum, the stench of decay mixed with gunpowder smoke hitting them. Alvin York kicked aside a tin shack blocking his way and suddenly heard a metallic scraping sound overhead.

"Watch out!" Santos lunged forward.

A homemade bomb exploded next to the two men, shrapnel tearing through Santos's bulletproof vest and staining the Mexican eagle emblem on his chest with blood.

Alvinyok rolled into the drain and saw the Red Command drug dealers standing on the roof, firing wildly with an M249 light machine gun.

"Bastard!" Alvinyok swung his tactical axe, the blade slamming into the man's arm. The machine gun fell to the ground, and the drug dealer howled as he pulled out his Desert Eagle with his other hand, only to have it blown off his head by Alvinyok.

“General!” Santos crawled over, clutching his wounded abdomen. “The Northern Family… they’re at the docks…”

Before he could finish speaking, an RPG-7 hit the tail of the helicopter. The violent explosion knocked the two men to the ground. Alvin York struggled to his feet and saw burning cocaine bricks scattered in the alleyways of the slum, with several children squatting nearby, curiously fiddling with them.

"Damn it!" He rushed over and kicked the child away, but was slashed on the cheek by a dagger that flew from the shadows. A tattooed teenager darted out of the shadows, his butterfly knife aimed straight for his throat.

Alvin York dodged to the side and then delivered a backhand elbow strike to the boy's chest.

The boy staggered backward, then suddenly pulled a grenade from his waist: "Mexican dog—"

A gunshot rang out, and blood bloomed between the boy's brows.

Alvinyok turned his head and saw Santos leaning against the wall, his Glock pistol still smoking.

"Hurry..." Santos's voice grew weaker and weaker, "Rio de Janeiro...it's over!!!"

……

Chepe Santa Cruz stands atop a mountain in Shan State, overlooking the opium fields in the valley.

His left arm was wrapped in a blood-soaked bandage, a wound sustained while fighting with the Burmese government forces.

Behind him, his adjutant handed him an encrypted telegram: "Operation in Mexico City failed. Alves committed suicide."

"waste."

Chepe spat. "Tell the people at Golden Snake to disguise the next batch of cocaine as medical supplies and send it via the Mekong River."

"Chief, General Khun Sa wants you to go to the command post." A Burmese soldier jogged over.

Chepe entered the bamboo house and saw an ordinary-looking man deep in thought, staring at a map.

He is Khun Sa!!

You can call him Zhang Qifu, Zhang Qifu, Zhang Qifu, Guan Yue, or any of those names. Anyway, in the Golden Triangle, this guy is a... devil.

“Santa Cruz,” Kunsha’s voice was deep and rumbling like thunder, “I know you want to deal with Victor? What do you plan to do?”

Chepe was taken aback. He knew that he had said he wanted revenge more than once, but Khun Sa had always refused. Why did he suddenly have this idea?
"I feel like Victor is a lunatic. Brazil is a mess right now, so what if he comes looking for trouble with us?"

Khun Sa sighed, "I just wanted to be a businessman."

Chepe Santa Cruz drew his Desert Eagle from his waist. "I'm going to take my men and blow this building to the sky."

Khun Sa suddenly burst into laughter: "Young man, do you think blowing up the building will solve the problem?" He picked up a cigar and lit it. "Viktor's life will have to be taken by a much more ruthless method."

The smoke rings exhaled by Khun Sa slowly dissipated in the bamboo house, mingling with the opium scent drifting in from outside the window, creating a suffocating, sticky atmosphere. He pointed to the location of Mexico City on the map with his cigar, his fingernails still embedded with red clay from the Golden Triangle.

“Killing one person is a crime, killing ten thousand people is just a statistic, but making a hundred million people lose sleep is art.” Khun Sa’s fingertip slammed heavily into the center of the map.

Chepe twirled his Desert Eagle halfway in his palm, pointing the muzzle at his temple: "I'll take a hundred suicide squads and blow up the presidential palace."

"idiot."

Khun Sa suddenly pressed his cigar against Chepe's bandaged wound, the burnt smell mingling with the stench of blood. "They can build a new one if they blow up a building, but if every Mexican turns on the tap and sees blood, turns on the gas and smells the stench of corpses," he said, leaning down to stare into Chepe's eyes, his pupils burning like a field of poppies. "They will overthrow Victor themselves."

Chepe clenched his fist tightly, his knuckles turning white: "What do you want to do?"

Remember the floating corpses in the Panama Canal?

Khun Sa pulled an iron box from under the bamboo table. When he opened it, its cold light was dazzling. Inside were dozens of sealed biological sample tubes, labeled "Black Death strain, 1347 strain." "Golden Serpent's laboratory in Marseille didn't just concoct cocaine. The gifts they dug out from the plague pits of the Crusades should be sent out."

Chepe's Adam's apple bobbed.

He had seen Khun Sa use opium to control tribes and machine guns to wipe out rebels, but he never thought of using the plague from seven hundred years ago.

“In the first phase,” Khun Sa tapped the sample tube with his cigar, “we’ll get the slums of Mexico City lively. Find ten homeless people infected with Lassa fever, force-feed them rum laced with the virus, and then put them on the subway heading to the city center.” He suddenly burst out laughing, like a crocodile flipping over in a swamp. “Imagine, three days later, hospitals will be overflowing with patients vomiting blood, and the government won’t be able to find the source of the infection. Panic will spread faster than the virus.”

Chepe drew his dagger and carved the outline of Mexico City into the bamboo wall: "What about the second phase?"

"Prepare another ten tons of anthrax spores so that every vending machine in Mexico will spew out poisoned cola."

Khun Sa slowly took out a brass seal and stamped the four Burmese characters "Khun Sa's Seal" on a parchment. The edges of the parchment were yellowed, clearly stolen from some colonial-era archive: "Put this on the forehead of every dead man. Let Viktor know that it wasn't him hunting snakes, but the snakes measuring the size of his coffin."

As Chepe took the parchment, his fingertips were cut by the rough edges. A drop of blood fell onto the seal, mingling with the dark red ink.

“Tell the Mexicans,” Khun Sa said, pointing his Desert Eagle southward, “that the harvest season has begun.”

……

(End of this chapter)