Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 671 I'm going to get rich too!

The emergency lights at Mexico City Central Hospital cast a stark white glow down the corridor. The hospital director, Isabella Garcia, wore a white coat stained with dark red blood. She had just come out of the third isolation ward, her eyes behind her goggles bloodshot, yet she remained calm.

"Attention all departments."

Her voice was hoarse from working continuously for thirty hours into the walkie-talkie: “Lassa fever cases are being handled according to the Class A infectious disease protocol. Twenty negative pressure wards have been cleared out, and eighty ICU ventilators have been brought up. From now on, all medical staff will rotate every four hours.”

In the laboratory at the end of the corridor, chief virologist Ricardo Mendes was using a pipette to draw up a sample of cola. Amid the hum of the centrifuge spinning at high speed, he suddenly slammed his hand on the table: "Found it!"

On the monitoring screen, the structure of the pathogen captured by the electron microscope was clearly visible. The spore shell of anthrax bacillus had been artificially grafted with the protein sequence of cobra neurotoxin. "These bastards have combined biological weapons and nerve agents, compressing the incubation period to ten minutes, with a 100% lethality rate!"

"Send an encrypted report to the State Palace."

Isabella burst into the lab, clutching the newly compiled figures in her hand. "As of now, there are 187 confirmed cases and 153 deaths in the city. There are 42 new cases of migrant workers in Lassaje, all around Cancun airport. Our test kits will only last until tomorrow morning."

Mendes suddenly ripped off his glove, revealing redness and swelling on his wrist: "I accidentally got some sample on my wrist." He grabbed an alcohol bottle from the table and poured it on his arm. "Give me an antiseptic serum and anthrax vaccine, then send my research data to the WHO in Geneva and tell them this is a genetic weapon, not a natural mutation."

Isabella's pupils contracted sharply, but she immediately grabbed the walkie-talkie: "Tell security to lock up the lab, no one is allowed in or out! Prepare the highest level of emergency care for Dr. Mendes. Also, notify all pharmacies to requisition all antivenom and penicillin, saying it's an order from the Department of Defense!"

At the State University of Mexico hospital, head nurse Anna was distributing protective equipment to the nurses. A young nurse's glove tore, and she trembled with fear. Anna slapped her across the face: "Stop crying! Is this the time to cry?"

She ripped off her spare glove and threw it over, saying, "Think of those people who collapsed on the subway; their children are still waiting for their fathers to come home!"

A commotion suddenly broke out in the corridor. Three soldiers in protective suits rushed in carrying a stretcher. The patient on the stretcher was convulsing, and blood and foam gushed from his mouth and nose, staining the white cloth red. Anna recognized him as the doorman who had brought her coffee yesterday. She turned her head sharply and said in a trembling voice, "Send him to the negative pressure ward, prepare for hemodialysis, notify the family... tell them to be prepared."

...

Inside the Security Council chamber at the United Nations headquarters in New York, the smoke was more pungent than the gunfire in Mexico City. Mexico's UN ambassador, Joachim Ribbentrop, clutched a report sent by Mendes, while the US representative opposite him leisurely sorted through documents: "Mr. Ribbentrop, classifying a civilian incident as a terrorist attack without conclusive evidence is probably not in accordance with international law."

“Evidence?” Ribbentrop slammed his fist on the table, scattering documents all over the floor. “Does the genetic weapon in the cola count as evidence? Does the forged visas of the Lassa refugees count as evidence? Or are you going to wait until the virus spreads to Wall Street before you’ll admit this is a war?”

Americans are so annoying. We're in the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period now, but they're still causing trouble. They just do one thing: they oppose what Mexico supports and they support what Mexico opposes!

Come on, kill me! That's the kind of attitude I'm in.

Ribbentrop grabbed a Coke can from the table—a sample taken from a convenience store in Mexico City—and slammed it in front of the American representative: "Look at this! A hybrid of anthrax and snake venom! Who the hell, besides drug cartels and terrorist organizations, would do something like this? Your CIA claims to know everything, right? Tell me, how much overlap is there between the bank transfer records of the Panamanian shell company and the accounts of drug cartels!"

The Russian representative suddenly tapped on the table: "Mr. Joachim, calm down."

He pushed a document over, saying, "Our satellites have detected unusual biological activity in the Golden Triangle region. Near Khun Sa's bamboo house, seven cargo planes of unknown nationality have taken off and landed in the past three months, and the timing coincides perfectly with drug money transfers from Mexico."

Ribbentrop's breathing suddenly became heavy. He pointed at the Security Council emblem: "You founded this organization in 1945, claiming to maintain world peace. Now my country is being slaughtered by biological weapons. Civilians can die from drinking a can of Coke, and you're discussing whether the evidence is sufficient?" He suddenly ripped open his suit collar, revealing a bullet wound on his chest, left during a drug raid. "I'm telling you, this is not an accident, this is a declaration of war!"

When the meeting ended, reporters swarmed around the corridor like sharks smelling blood.

Ribbentrop ripped off his tie and sneered at the camera: "Some forces think they can defeat Mexico with a virus? Let me tell you, dream on!" He suddenly raised his voice, making the microphone vibrate, "This is a deliberate terrorist attack. We have enough evidence. Next, we will make the perpetrators pay a bloody price!"

A French journalist pressed further: "Will the retaliation you've mentioned trigger a military conflict in Latin America?"

Ribbentrop stared at the camera. "Conflict? No, this is a hunt." He raised his hand and made a cutting motion. "We will find all the scum involved, whether they are hiding in the Golden Triangle or hell, we will twist their heads off and use them as footballs!"

In a bamboo house in Shan State, Myanmar, Chepe Santa Cruz and others were watching television. Ribbentrop's speech was displayed on the screen when he suddenly burst into maniacal laughter and kicked over a barrel of rum, spilling it all over the floor.

"Did you hear that? That old bastard said he'd twist our heads off!" Chepe grabbed a Desert Eagle and fired a shot into the air. The bullet pierced the bamboo roof and startled the crows outside. "General Khun Sa, look at them! We just gave them some Coke as a gift, and they're acting like dogs whose tails have been stepped on!"

Khun Sa slowly lit a cigar, his eyes fixed on the distant Mekong River amidst the swirling smoke: "In a hurry? This is just the beginning."

He pointed to Ribbentrop's face on the screen, "The fact that this old fox dares to openly challenge us shows that Mexico's healthcare system withstood the first wave of the impact, and they are confident."

"Confidence? I'll make sure they won't even have the confidence to cry tomorrow!"

Chepe suddenly ripped open his shirt. "I've already had the Marseille lab send another batch. This time, it'll be mixed into baby formula. I want to see if this UN commissioner will still be laughing when Mexican mothers discover the Black Death virus in their babies' formula!"

The adjutant next to him suddenly leaned over, holding a satellite phone: "Boss, news has come from Panama that the US DEA (Denis Agency for Drugs and Crime) seems to be getting involved. Their fleet is patrolling the Caribbean Sea, saying they want to help Mexico blockade the waters."

"DEA? A bunch of sons of bitches in suits!"

Chepe grabbed a block of cocaine from the table and smashed it against the wall. White powder scattered like snowflakes. "Tell the Panamanians to pack anthrax spores into containers, disguise them as disaster relief supplies, and send them to Miami. I want the Americans to know that if they dare to meddle, their beaches will become morgues!"

Khun Sa suddenly coughed, covered his mouth with a handkerchief, and when he unfolded it, it was stained with dark red blood: "Don't go too far."

He pressed the cigar against the back of Chepe's hand. "Our goal is to force Viktor to back down, not to drag the whole world into this."

"Stop?" Chepe shook off his hand, blood dripping from his wound into the barrel. "Victor ordered our processing plant in Colombia to be blown up and killed three of my brothers. Do you think we can just let this go?"

"This is war: win or die. There is no third way!"

Suddenly, the sound of engines came from outside the bamboo house. Three SUVs stopped by the opium field. Among the people who got out, the leader was Zhang Quan, the number two figure in the Khun Sa Group, nicknamed "the strategist." He was carrying an iron box. When he opened it, there were neatly arranged syringes inside, each filled with a turbid liquid.

"The Black Death strain has arrived."

Zhang Quan has a scar on his face that runs from the corner of his eye to his chin, and when he smiles, it looks like a snake's mouth splitting open. "As instructed by Mr. Khun Sa, I've mixed it into the vaccines that Mexico is providing to El Salvador, and it will be able to enter the country the day after tomorrow."

"Well done!" Chepe suddenly put his arm around Zhang Quan's neck and shoved the Desert Eagle into his hand. "Don't you think it would be more interesting if we injected this thing into Viktor?"

Khun Sa looked at their madness and suddenly laughed, his laughter like a broken bellows: "Remember when the Americans bombed my opium warehouse with cruise missiles?" He picked up a syringe from the iron box and looked at it in the light. "Back then, they also said they would grind me to dust, but what happened? I can still drink rum here now, while the general who gave the order back then has grass growing three feet high on his grave."

He tossed the syringe to Chepe: “Tell the Mexicans that we set the rules of the game. If they dare send troops, we dare bomb the airport; if they dare cut off our financial resources, we dare turn their capital into a ghost town.”

Khun Sa stood up, walked to the door of the bamboo house, and looked at the endless poppy fields in the distance. "On this land, those who survive are never the strongest, but the most ruthless."

Suddenly, Chepe raised the flask, pointed it towards Mexico, and downed it in one gulp. The liquor trickled down his chin and into the bullet hole in his neck, bringing a sharp, pleasurable sting. "Viktor, Ribbentrop, you bunch of idiots!" He smashed the empty flask on the ground. "Get ready to collect your corpses!"

Outside, Burmese soldiers began firing into the air, the sound of AK-47s echoing through the valley, mingling with the drug lords' maniacal laughter. Chepe grabbed the camera, making a throat-slitting gesture towards the lens: "Tell our friends in Mexico City, the next batch of gifts is on its way. This time, the flavor will be unforgettable!"

The fax machine in the bamboo house suddenly spat out a new document. Carlos picked it up, glanced at it, and then whistled, "The Mexicans are really something. They actually sent special forces into Panama to try and take down our transit point." He handed the document to Khun Sa, "Should we let them taste the Black Death?"

Khun Sa didn't even look at it, he just pointed to the Panama Canal on the map with his cigar: "Let them come."

His smile held a cruel anticipation. "I'd love to see if that UN commissioner will still be able to utter the word 'retaliation' when American soldiers find a floating corpse in the canal."

Chepe suddenly slammed his fist on the table and burst into laughter, the sound shaking dust from the roof. "That's fucking brilliant! I'm going to let the whole world know that if you mess with us, you won't get a good night's sleep!" He grabbed a handful of cocaine and shoved it into his mouth, the white powder making him cough, but his eyes gleamed with a mad light. "Tomorrow morning, I want to see their president crying on the Mexico City news!"

On the distant Mekong River, a cargo ship disguised as a fishing boat is sailing at night. In the containers below deck, in boxes labeled "medical supplies," sample tubes of the Black Death strain sway gently in the turbulence, like bombs waiting to be detonated.

End of the meeting.

When Zhang Quan pushed open the wooden door of the bamboo building, the glow of the kerosene lamp flickered under the eaves. The evening breeze, carrying the damp scent of the opium fields, swirled the shadow of the lamp wick, casting dappled patterns on the mud wall.

His wife, Ah Xiu, was squatting in front of the stove, turning over the grilled fish in the iron pot. Oil splattered on her indigo homespun apron, and the rising smoke carried the salty aroma of fish sauce.

"Dad!" Zhang Ming, the 18-year-old son, suddenly stood up from the wooden stool by the stove, his army green T-shirt cuffs stained with machine oil. The boy was thin, but his features already resembled Zhang Quan's before the scar appeared, only his eyes had lost their sinister edge and gained a restlessness rarely seen in mountain children.

Ah Xiu turned around, the spatula in her hand making a crisp sound as it tapped against the iron pot: "Why are you back so late today? Did Mr. Khun Sa keep you in a meeting again?" She took the canvas bag from Zhang Quan's shoulder, her fingers pausing as they touched the hard edges of the bottom of the bag, but she didn't dare to ask. In this family, there were some things that couldn't be asked.

Zhang Quan pulled off the towel around his neck to wipe his face, the knife scar glowing dark red under the light. "Yeah, a new batch of goods is about to be shipped, I've been busy until now." He glanced at his son's 8848 phone, the screen displaying news from Mexico City. "Watching this useless stuff again?"

“It’s not useless,” Zhang Ming stuffed his phone into his pocket. “Something’s happened in Mexico. They say someone poisoned the cola and a lot of people have died.”

Zhang Quan suddenly laughed, a laugh tinged with barely perceptible smugness. He grabbed the rice wine on the table and took a big gulp, the liquid dripping from the corner of his mouth to his chin: "It's more than just cola."

He didn't realize what he had said until Ah Xiu nudged him with her elbow, at which point he abruptly shut his mouth, but it was too late.

Zhang Ming's eyes lit up instantly, like a cat eyeing a mouse hole: "Dad, you know about this?"

“Why are you asking so many questions, you little kid?” Zhang Quan changed the subject, picked up a piece of crispy fish skin and stuffed it into his mouth. “I’m going to university in Bangkok next month, so don’t keep thinking about irrelevant things.”

“Bangkok is nowhere near as interesting as Mexico City,” Zhang Ming muttered, his fingers gripping his phone tightly in his pocket. “My friend A-Jie is studying in Mexico City, and he says it’s as chaotic as a battlefield, with armed police everywhere on the streets.”

Zhang Quan was a little tipsy, and the alcohol made him extremely alert.

He slammed his hand on the table, the scar on his face twisting into a grotesque worm: "Battlefield? That's just the beginning." He lowered his voice, but it was enough for Zhang Ming, who had leaned over, to hear clearly, "In a few days, there will be an even bigger spectacle over there, ten times more intense than now. The good stuff we send over will be enough to give them a hard time."

Ah Xiu pushed him, "What nonsense are you talking about!"

Zhang Quan finally sobered up, glared at Ah Xiu fiercely, but no longer denied it.

Zhang Ming's heart suddenly pounded like a drum. He pretended to pick up the broken pieces of the bowl, but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the zipper of his father's canvas bag was not fully zipped up, revealing the plastic packaging of a black syringe inside, exactly the same as the one he had secretly seen outside the Khun Sa Group warehouse.

"I'm going to do the testing." Zhang Ming suddenly stood up, his steps so fast he was almost unsteady.

He rushed into his small cubicle piled high with old textbooks, bolted the door shut, and pulled out his phone. The screen lit up in the darkness, reflecting his flushed face. The name "Ajay - Mexico City" was flashing in his contacts—a Chinese-American student he had met at an international repair competition last year.

The moment the call connected, Zhang Ming lowered his voice, his breath trembling, and said, "Ah Jie, guess what? I just heard some huge news!"

"What are you listening to? I'm hiding in my dorm. The sirens outside are shaking the building to the point of collapse."

The sound of shattering glass came from the other end of the phone, and Ah-Jie's voice, mixed with the background noise, asked, "What happened on your end?"

“My dad… my dad and his team are sending some good stuff to Mexico.” Zhang Ming’s voice was barely audible, but every word was clear. “It’s not ordinary stuff, it’s something that can cause a big stir. I think this news could be traded for a sports car, one of those Lamborghinis with wings that you posted pictures of. What do you think?”

There was a sudden silence on the other end of the phone, only the sound of rapid breathing. A full half-minute passed before Ah-Jie's voice returned, trembling with disbelief: "What...what good stuff? Is it related to the recent poisoning case?"

“I don’t know exactly what it is,” Zhang Ming said, his fingers turning white as he gripped his phone. “But I saw a syringe in my dad’s bag, the same one he brought when he went to Mr. Khun Sa’s meeting last time. He also said that there would be a big commotion in Mexico in a few days, ten times more intense than what we are now.”

Suddenly, the sound of AK-47 test firing came from afar; it was the sentries on the hill changing shifts.

Zhang Ming shuddered in fright and hurriedly said, "I can't say anything now, my dad seems to be coming. Remember, this can be traded for a sports car, no, it's worth much more than a sports car!"

He hung up the phone and pushed open the door. Zhang Quan was standing there, his scarred face looking particularly gloomy under the kerosene lamp: "Who were you talking to?"

"No, no one, I was just discussing exam questions with a classmate." Zhang Ming's voice was weak, and he didn't dare to look his father in the eye.

Zhang Quan stared at him for a long time, then suddenly twitched the corners of his mouth, revealing a creepy smile: "Prepare well for your studies in Bangkok, don't learn those useless things."

As he turned around, the strap of his canvas bag made a soft thud against the wall, and the hard object inside made the bag surface bulge slightly, as if it contained a beating heart.

In the small cubicle, Zhang Ming slid to the floor with his back against the door, his T-shirt soaked with cold sweat.

He didn't know what his phone call just now meant; he only felt a fire burning in his chest, a fire containing fantasies about sports cars and a longing for distant places.

He wanted to leave Myanmar; this place... was really bad!

In his dorm room in Mexico City, Ajay held his scalding phone, the words "Call Ended" on the screen stinging his eyes.

Outside the window, the siren of an ambulance grew louder as it approached, then gradually faded into the night. He suddenly grabbed the recorder on the table and pressed the save button. Inside was Zhang Ming's voice with a mountain accent, and the crazy phrase, "I could trade it for a sports car."

"I'm going to get rich too!"

……

(End of this chapter)