Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 670: Those who wear shoes should be afraid of those who go barefoot?

The afternoon sun in Mexico City baked the convenience store on Seventh Street like a steamer, and the air was filled with the smell of tortillas and cheap gasoline.

Juan clutched the crumpled five-coin in his hand. He had just finished work at a nearby construction site, and his sweat-soaked work pants clung to his legs like they were covered in mud.

"Give me an ice-cold Coke, damn it, this weather is melting me."

Juan slammed the coin on the counter, the metallic clang startling flies on the shelf.

The store manager, Maria, was wiping the freezer with a rag when she heard this. She rolled her eyes and said, "What's the rush? The chilled items are at the bottom." As she bent over, the fat on her lower back bulged out of her cheap shirt, revealing a faded rose tattooed on her waist.

Hmm... it's not tattooed on the front.

Juan opened the freezer door himself, the cold air hitting his wrinkled face. He grabbed the innermost glass bottle of Coke, the condensation on the bottle dripping through his fingers and into his sleeve.

With a "snap," he twisted the bottle cap open, and foam with a sweet aroma gushed out. He tilted his head back and took a big gulp. The icy liquid slid down his throat, suppressing half of the burning desire in his chest.

"Awesome!" He smacked his lips and was about to take out a cigarette when he suddenly felt a tingling sensation at the base of his tongue, like he had been stung by a wasp.

"What's wrong, old man? Did you choke from drinking too fast?" Maria teased, arms crossed, her eyes still glued to the soap opera on TV.

Juan tried to speak, but found that his lips wouldn't obey him, and his throat felt like it was stuffed with a ball of hot cotton.

He suddenly clutched his neck, the Coke bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the tiled floor, the brown liquid mixed with glass shards splashing onto Maria's sandals.

"Fuck you! You son of a bitch!" Maria's curse was stuck in her throat.

Juan's eyes began to roll upwards, the whites of his eyes covered with spiderweb-like blood vessels, and white foam suddenly welled up from the corners of his mouth, like a dying fish blowing bubbles.

He staggered forward two steps, his burly body crashing into the snack shelf, scattering potato chips and chocolates all over the floor. He finally collapsed to his knees, his knees hitting the broken glass without any reaction, only convulsing, white foam dripping from his chin onto the greasy floor.

"Someone's dead! Help come quickly!"

Maria's scream shattered the afternoon's stillness. She grabbed the landline phone on the counter, her fingers trembling as she dialed the wrong number. "Hello! Police station? Quick convenience store on Seventh Street, someone's died from drinking Coke! Foaming at the mouth! Damn it, come quick!"

Meanwhile, in a car on Mexico City Metro Line 2, high school student Lucia is poking at the lid of a Coca-Cola cup with a straw.

She had just had a fight with her boyfriend and angrily slurped up an iced cola, the bubbles making her cough. Suddenly, the man in the suit sitting opposite her covered his mouth, making a strange "hoarse" sound, and then collapsed under the seat as if his bones had been removed. His briefcase rolled out, scattering documents all over the floor, one of which bore the heading of the Ministry of Health.

"Sir? Are you alright?" Lucia's voice trembled.

The man in the suit didn't respond. His legs thrashed wildly across the carriage floor as if cramping, his leather shoes scraping against the metal with a grating sound. Foam from his mouth smeared onto his gray trousers, leaving a dirty, damp stain. The entire carriage fell silent instantly, then erupted in terrified screams. Someone frantically pounded on the door. Lucia looked at the half-empty glass of cola in her hand, then suddenly felt a wave of nausea wash over her and began to dry heave against a pillar.

As soon as the subway arrived at the station, the crowd surged out like ants from a disturbed nest. Lucia was pushed and shoved, falling off the platform and scraping her knees, leaving long, bloody gashes.

She looked back and saw that the man in the suit was no longer moving, only one hand was still in a scratching position, the fingertips only a few centimeters away from the Coke cup that had fallen to the ground.

Three kilometers away at the Central Market, Pedro, a pork vendor, was unscrewing a can with his greasy hands. He had just slaughtered a pig and was covered in blood and lard.

After taking a couple of gulps of cola, he suddenly felt the pork stall in front of him begin to spin, and the pig offal on the cutting board seemed to come alive, writhing in the pool of blood. He wanted to call his wife for help, but instead, a low growl like that of a wild beast escaped his throat. He suddenly collapsed headfirst into the pig's blood basin, the red liquid gurgling into his mouth, his limbs twitching as he kicked the pig offal all over the floor.

The old woman buying meat was so frightened that she dropped her basket, screamed, and backed away. The tomatoes in the basket fell to the ground, and the red juice mixed with pig's blood spread across the stone pavement like a bizarre abstract painting.

"Fuck it! It's Coke again!"

Upon arriving at the scene, Officer Ricardo kicked over a roadside trash can. They had already dealt with a similar case that morning at a burger joint in the North District; the deceased was still clutching an unfinished Coke cup. He pulled out his walkie-talkie and roared, "Notify all units to seize all Coke from vending machines and convenience stores throughout the city! Repeat! All Coke!"

A static crackled through the walkie-talkie, mixed with reports from other areas: "Someone at the West District Shopping Center has passed out after drinking Coke!"

"South District Hospital has already admitted 18 similar cases!"

Ricardo lit a cigarette and watched as Pedro's body was carried away, leaving a long trail of pig's blood on the ground. He suddenly noticed that the can of Coke in Pedro's hand, which he hadn't finished, had a tiny mark engraved on the inside of the pull tab, exactly the same as the pattern on the bottom of the Coke cup from the hamburger shop that morning.

“So familiar…” Ricardo chewed on his cigarette butt, frowning.

At that moment in the National Palace in Mexico, Casara was slamming the latest COVID-19 report onto the conference table. The death toll on the report continued to rise, with each deceased person's name marked "onset after drinking carbonated beverages."

"Useless! All of you are useless!" Fatty Ka's crocodile-skin shoes stomped over the scattered documents. "After three hours of investigation, you still can't even figure out the source of the virus?"

The Minister of Health, pale-faced and wiping away sweat, said, "Sir, preliminary tests indicate it's cobra venom, but... but the mutation is very strange, with an incubation period of less than ten minutes, and we don't know how it was injected."

"Strange my ass!" Casare grabbed a crystal glass from the table and smashed it against the wall. "Didn't you see those marks? Don't they look like some kind of organization? It's definitely those drug-trafficking scum!" He suddenly said to his secretary, "Have the border troops seal off all the ports, even if they have to use machine guns, don't let a single suspicious person in!"

Just as the secretary was about to respond, the office phone rang urgently. The moment he answered the phone, his face turned as white as paper.

“Sir…” His voice trembled, “At Cancun International Airport, fifty migrants carrying the Lassa fever virus have been discovered, all mixed in with the tourists…”

The air in the National Palace seemed to freeze. As soon as the secretary finished speaking, the folder in the Minister of Health's hand fell to the ground with a "thud," scattering papers all over the floor. The epidemic data on it was as glaring as blood.

Casare's face instantly turned a deep purplish-red. He grabbed his secretary by the collar, his crocodile-skin shoes scraping harshly on the floor. "Say that again? Lassa fever? How were those refugees brought in? Are the border checkpoints incompetent?!" "Sir, they...they had tourist visas, their health certificates were all forged, and they mingled with ordinary tourists until they suddenly collapsed in the duty-free shop and were then discovered." The secretary's voice trembled like a leaf, his tie tightening around his neck, making it hard to breathe.

"Enough!" A deep male voice interrupted Casare's roar. Victor stepped out of the shadows, wearing a well-pressed dark suit. "Now is not the time to assign blame. Activate the highest level of health alert immediately."

Casare reluctantly released his grip, and the secretary took the opportunity to step back a few paces, clutching his neck and coughing violently.

“Notify the Ministry of Defense,” Viktor walked to the map and tapped his finger heavily on the location of Cancun, “Mobilize three brigades to seal off all international airports and border crossings. All people entering the country must be quarantined for 72 hours, whether they are tourists or diplomats, without exception.”

“Minister of Health,” he turned to the grim-faced minister, “immediately mobilize all infectious disease hospitals nationwide, establish isolation zones, distribute Lassa fever treatment plans to every community clinic, and begin reporting new cases to me every hour from now on.”

Orders were issued one after another, and the previously chaotic office suddenly came to order, with only the wall clock ticking away, as if counting down for the city.

However, the virus spread far faster than expected.

Just after the lockdown order for Cancun airport was issued, someone tried to climb over the fence to escape, but was hit by a stun gun and fell to the ground. The screams could be heard even through the screen.

Even more frightening is that those infected among the tourists had already flown to all parts of the country on flights. At 4 p.m., the first imported case of Lassa fever was discovered at Mexico City International Airport. At 5:30 p.m., in a hotel in Monterrey, two American tourists convulsed and collapsed by the pool. At 6 p.m., on a bus in Guadalajara, a woman suddenly vomited dark red blood, which splattered on the faces of the passengers next to her, triggering a stampede of panic among the entire bus.

The Coca-Cola poisoning case at the convenience store is still unfolding, and Lassa fever has taken advantage of the situation. These two deadly threats are like two venomous snakes, coiling around the neck of the city. Bottled water in supermarkets has been snapped up, and pharmacies are out of stock of masks and disinfectants. People on the streets are hurrying around, their eyes filled with fear. The once bustling Mexico City seems to have become a ghost town overnight.

At 8 p.m. that evening, the emergency conference room in the National Palace was brightly lit and filled with smoke.

The room was filled with cabinet members, military generals, and health experts attending the meeting, each with a thick stack of reports in front of them, their faces showing exhaustion and anxiety.

Viktor sat in the main seat, his fingers lightly tapping the table as he listened to reports from all sides.

Border closures have created immense pressure, severely impacting the domestic tourism industry and causing airline stock prices to plummet; hospitals are facing a severe shortage of beds, and even veterinary stations have been converted into temporary quarantine facilities.

The meeting lasted for more than two hours, ending at midnight.

The others dragged their heavy steps away, leaving only Victor and Casare behind.

Only the two of them remained in the room, smoke swirling in the lamplight.

"Do you think this is just a coincidence?" Victor suddenly spoke, his voice carrying a hint of coldness.

Casare paused for a moment, then gritted his teeth and said, "Boss, it must have been those drug dealers! Poisoning the cola wasn't enough, they brought in Lassa fever too. They want to destroy the whole country!"

Viktor didn't say anything, but simply drank the water in his teacup in one gulp. The ice cubes at the bottom of the cup clinked together, making a crisp sound. He looked out the window, squinting his eyes.

“No,” he said slowly, his gaze deep, “this is not simply revenge, it is a warning.”

He turned around, looked at the astonished Casare, and said, word by word, "The drug dealers were forced to use more methods."

Casare's pupils contracted sharply. He suddenly remembered the strange pattern he had seen at the hamburger shop that morning, the black sticker on the freezer, and the tiny marks on the inside of the pull tab. Those patterns looked exactly like the logo of the drug cartel that had been severely damaged by the military a few years ago.

“You mean…” Casare’s voice was a little strained.

“Our recent anti-drug operation cut off their main access routes and raided their warehouses.” Victor walked to the window and looked out at the dark slums in the distance. “They’re telling us that when it’s a fight to the death, nobody will get away with it.”

A night breeze slipped in through the cracks in the window, carrying a chill. Casare shivered. He suddenly realized that this war was far more brutal than he had imagined. The Coke bottles in the convenience store and the refugees at the airport were just the beginning.

Viktor whirled around, a low chuckle laced with icy malice. "I fucking want to skin these bastards alive and feed them to the dogs!"

He slammed his teacup down on the coffee table. "This isn't war, Casare, this is fucking intimidation!"

"Those sons of bitches knew we were afraid to act rashly!" Viktor's voice suddenly rose, the veins on his forehead throbbing. "We hold the lifeline of the entire country in our hands—the railways, the power grid, the airports, the livelihoods of millions of people. And what do they have? Besides their guns and their reckless courage, what else do they have?!"

“These bastards are just trying to tell us, ‘You have families and jobs, you can’t afford to mess around!’” He kicked over a nearby wicker chair, the sharp crack of the snapping rattan jarring in the quiet room. “They poisoned civilians with Coke, infected tourists with viruses, and turned Mexico City into chaos, all to scare us! To make us think that fighting these mad dogs is a losing proposition!”

"Fuck it!"

Viktor suddenly burst into a string of curses, spittle flying into the air, "These damn bastards! They think they can scare us with a few lives? They think they can make us back down by spreading some virus? What are they! A bunch of cockroaches hiding in the gutter, living off the blood and sweat of ordinary people, and now that we've cornered them, they're baring their fangs and acting like mad dogs!"

"So what if you have a large and wealthy family? Does having a large and wealthy family mean you should be blackmailed by these desperados?"

He pointed to the empty streets outside the window, his eyes bloodshot, "They'd love for us to back down because we're afraid of impacting the economy, international public opinion, or causing panic among the people! So they can continue to traffic drugs, kill people, and treat the whole country like their ATM!"

"I'm telling you, not a chance!" Viktor grabbed the ashtray on the table, about to smash it, then stopped abruptly and slammed it hard into the palm of his other hand. "These bastards! These shitty mules! Do they really think we won't fight them to the death? They dare to use civilians as shields, dare to use the virus as a weapon, I dare to deploy tanks to raze their lair to the ground! I dare to send the army to shoot all the scum who collude with them!"

"You want us to leave them alone?" He suddenly leaned closer to Casare. "Tell them that unless I'm dead! I'll risk getting my skin peeled off to drag out all those bastards one by one and fry them in oil! Let them know that messing with the wrong people comes with a bloody price! I'll curse their ancestors for eighteen generations!"

Correct!
Throw them into the boiling oil!!

……

(End of this chapter)