Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 672 Retaliation!

Ah Jie had kept his voice recorder in his pocket for four whole hours. The plastic casing was sticky from the sweat on his palms. He hid in the closet of the international student dormitory, listening to the sirens outside go from loud to faint, and finally gritted his teeth and dialed the Ministry of Justice's anonymous tip-off hotline.

The operator on the other end of the phone initially thought it was a prank, until he pressed the record play button. Zhang Ming's Burmese-accented voice, "Big excitement," "Ten times more powerful than now," and "syringe" hit the receiver like hailstones.

"Address, where do you want to send the goods?" The operator's voice suddenly tightened.

“My dad said he wanted to sneak into the vaccine, it’s related to El Salvador…” Zhang Ming was still dreaming about sports cars in the recording, but A-Jie suddenly hung up the phone and slumped down on the wardrobe floor.

But can you run away?

Not long after, the identity of the caller and the recording appeared on the encrypted fax machine at the National Palace two hours later.

At three in the morning, Casare hurried along, clutching a crumpled fax paper in his hand. He headed toward Victor's office, where the light was still on, cigarette butts piled up in the ashtray, and the map on the wall was marked with a dozen or so dense dots in red, all indicating the outbreak sites of Lassa fever.

"Boss, look at this!"

Casare knocked on the office door and pushed it open, slapping a fax paper onto the map. "Damn it, some Burmese hothead has spilled the beans about those bastards in the Golden Triangle!"

Viktor raised his bloodshot eyes, the cigar between his fingers already burned down to the filter. He picked up the fax paper, his Adam's apple bobbing as he read silently. When he saw the words "Black Death," "vaccine," and "El Salvador," he suddenly pressed the cigar against the Khun Sa Group's logo, an inconspicuous red dot on the Mekong River along the map.

"Zhang Ming... Zhang Quan's son."

Viktor suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse like sandpaper, "Zhang Quan is Khun Sa's right-hand man, in charge of all biological agents transportation. This idiot son has become our breakthrough point."

Casare leaned closer to the map, his beer belly almost tipping over the edge of the table: "The Black Death has infiltrated the vaccine? These sons of bitches want to turn all of Central America into a graveyard!"
Suddenly remembering something, he slammed his hand on the table. "Last week, the Ministry of Health approved a batch of polio vaccines to aid El Salvador. They'll be departing from Veracruz the day after tomorrow!"

"According to intelligence calculations, the approximate location is near the Colon Free Trade Zone in Panama."

Casare's breathing suddenly became heavy: "Boss, fuck it! Send special forces to Panama and blow up the warehouse! Then have the navy blockade Veracruz port, not even a bird can fly in!"

"In Panama, have the Coast Guard's SWWE task force intercept the Black Death samples first."

"As for Khun Sa..."

"Find a way to get rid of him!"

Casare nodded vigorously, "Boss, I'll contact our informant in Panama right away and find a way to kill him!"

“Wait a minute.” Viktor called out to him, pointing to “A-Jie” on the fax paper. “Have our people protect this student. Don’t let Khun Sa’s men find him first, and don’t let him say anything out of line. We don’t need a fool who wants to trade intelligence for a sports car to ruin things.”

"understand!"

...

The task was issued quickly.

In the container stacks of the Colon Free Trade Zone in Panama, Rodriguez, the captain of the "SWWE" special forces unit of the Coast Guard, was observing Warehouse No. 3 with night vision goggles. The sea breeze at two o'clock in the morning carried a fishy smell, and the condensation on his mask kept sliding down.

The warehouse was dimly lit, and six men in overalls were moving boxes into refrigerated cabinets. The words "For the Use of the Ministry of Health of El Salvador" printed on the boxes were particularly glaring under the light.

"Attention all units."

Rodriguez spoke into his throat microphone, "Operate at 3:00 sharp. Prioritize intercepting the black metal cans, then destroy them. Remember, capture them alive." The twelve team members behind him gripped their MP5 submachine guns tightly, their tactical boots treading silently through the water between the containers.

At the naval base in Veracruz, the screen showed the fishing vessel "Tuna" had entered Mexican waters, with the Panamanian flag flying at its bow, and its speed was suspiciously steady.

"Tell the patrol boat not to fucking alert the enemy."

Joseph Joffre slammed his coffee cup on the control panel. "Wait until it gets close to the reef, then use a fishing net to entangle the propeller and force it to stop!"

He has now been promoted to Deputy Chief of Naval Operations of the Mexican Navy.

The radar operator suddenly pointed at the screen: "Sir, it looks like it's launching small boats towards the shore!"

Joseph Joffre leaned closer to the screen and saw a small dot separating from the "Tuna" and moving rapidly toward the beach.

He suddenly realized that this was a feint; the fishing boats were a decoy, and the real virus containers were on the small boat.

"Damn it! Chase them!" he roared, grabbing the walkie-talkie. "Get the Marines on the shore ready. Shoot anyone who dares to come ashore!"

The clock struck three o'clock sharp from the clock tower in the free trade zone. Rodriguez waved, and the team members darted out of the shadows of the containers like cheetahs, the MP5's silencer emitting faint sparks.

Before the two guards at the warehouse entrance could turn around, they were shot in the throat, their blood splattering onto the boxes labeled "vaccine".

"Quick! Cold storage!" Rodriguez kicked open the warehouse door, and the six movers inside instantly erupted in chaos. One of them grabbed a wrench to resist, but was hit on the temple with the butt of a rifle by a teammate. The cold storage door was locked with a combination lock. He took out hydraulic shears, and the metallic clanging sound was particularly jarring in the silent warehouse.

With a "click", the lock opened.

A cool breeze carrying the scent of almonds wafted over, and Rodriguez's gas mask filter immediately started working. Twenty black metal cans were neatly stacked on the refrigerated shelf.

"These are them!" Shining a UV light on them, the canisters immediately displayed fluorescent markings. "Black Death aerosol, high-pressure storage, in case of leakage..."

Before he could finish speaking, the roar of an RPG rocket launcher suddenly came from outside the warehouse.

A rocket pierced the tin roof and exploded at the entrance of the cold storage. Flames instantly licked at the metal cans. Rodriguez roared and rushed over, using his body to shield the can closest to the blast. The scorching blast scorched his tactical vest.

"Retreat! Retreat with the samples!"

He dragged a metal can out, while his teammates behind him opened fire on the militants rushing into the warehouse with submachine guns. One of his teammates was hit in the shoulder by a stray bullet, fell down screaming, and blood spread across the floor, mixing with the brown liquid seeping from the can.

In the rocky area of ​​Veracruz harbor, Marine Corps rubber boats are chasing the small boat.

The two smugglers on the boat frantically threw metal cans into the sea. One of the cans hit a reef and cracked, and brown liquid flowed down the rock wall. The crabs on the reef instantly flipped belly up.

"Shoot at the stern! Don't shoot the canisters!" the captain shouted into the walkie-talkie.

M16 rifle bullets splashed water around the small boat. One smuggler was shot in the thigh and fell into the sea with a scream. Another grabbed the last can and tried to throw it on the beach, but was shot through the wrist by a precise shot from a SWWE member.

The metal can rolled to the bottom of the boat with a dull thud.

In Warehouse No. 3 of the Colon Free Trade Zone in Panama, the smoke from RPG rockets had not yet dissipated when Captain Rodriguez dragged a metal canister out of the cold storage. His tactical vest had been torn open by shrapnel, and blood was seeping from the wound.

"Suppress fire from the left flank!"

He roared and collapsed among a pile of containers. His MP5 submachine gun fired three shots toward the warehouse entrance. Three armed men in overalls rushed in, only to have their skulls blown off by the accurate bullets. Blood splattered onto the cardboard boxes labeled "medical supplies," staining the word "supplies" sticky.

Team member Marcos held his wounded comrade against the back of the refrigerator; the bandages in the first aid kit were soaked with blood.

"Captain, Pedro is dying!"

His voice was choked with sobs. Pedro's carotid artery had been pierced by a stray bullet, and blood was gushing from between his fingers. The light in his eyes was slowly dying out.

Rodriguez gritted his teeth as he changed magazines, the clanging of metal particularly jarring in the warehouse.

"Drag him to the safe zone!" He suddenly leaned forward and fired, the bullet striking the barrel of the militant's AK-47, the sparks illuminating the man's狰狞 (zhengning - ferocious/hideous) face. This group was clearly not ordinary smugglers; their tactics were precise and ruthless. Some even carried explosives, attempting to rush forward and take the others with them, but Rodriguez shot them, detonating the fuses and sending them flying into pieces in the flames.

The sound of tires screeching against the ground came from outside the warehouse. Three pickup trucks rammed open the gate, and heavy machine guns mounted in the cargo beds began firing. The muffled thud of bullets hitting the containers sounded like hail hitting a tin roof. Rodriguez suddenly noticed a mark on the windshield of one of the pickup trucks!
Very familiar!

"It's Khun Sa's core guard!" His heart sank. Armed forces of this level are usually only responsible for protecting Khun Sa himself, but now they are in the Panama warehouse, which means that the importance of this batch of Black Death samples is far greater than imagined.

"Throw a smoke bomb!"

Rodriguez threw a smoke grenade, and the grayish-white smoke instantly enveloped the center of the warehouse. The team members took the opportunity to retreat under cover. Marcos carried Pedro's body, his submachine gun always aimed at the edge of the smoke. When they retreated to the back door of the warehouse, the last team member suddenly screamed. A bullet pierced his knee, and he fell to the ground, yelling at Rodriguez, "Captain, don't worry about me!"

Rodriguez's eyes reddened.

He watched the dark figures of the militants approach through the smoke, then glanced at the metal canister in his arms, and suddenly shoved it into Marcos's hand: "Take the sample and go to the designated evacuation point!"

"team leader!"

"Execute the order!" Rodriguez shoved Marcos and charged toward the wounded team member with his submachine gun. He knew that only by delaying the spread of the Black Death could the samples be safely removed.

The gunfire at the back door of the warehouse lasted for seventeen minutes.

As Marcos rushed onto the waiting helicopter with the metal canister, he saw through the porthole that the back door of the warehouse was engulfed in flames. It was Rodriguez who detonated the last grenade. In the firelight, he seemed to see the captain standing in the sea of ​​fire, giving a thumbs up in the direction of the helicopter.

"team leader!!"

The waves crashed against the jagged rocks with a dull roar, the Marines' rubber boats tossed about in the waves, and bullets from M16 rifles pierced the night, hitting the engines of the smugglers' boats with precision.

With a "bang," the engine emitted black smoke, and the small boat instantly lost power, spinning among the rocks. The remaining smuggler, clutching his bleeding wrist, frantically grabbed the last metal can, biting open the safety pin with his teeth. He wanted to detonate the can before being captured alive, letting the Black Death spread on the beach.

"Shoot his hand off!" Santana, the rubber boat captain, aimed at the smuggler's elbow and pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced the man's bone precisely, and the metal can clattered into the sea, bobbing on the waves.

The smuggler roared like a wild beast and plunged into the sea, trying to swim to shore. Santana sneered and fired two shots into the back of his wetsuit. The seawater instantly turned red, and the smuggler's body floated to the surface, face down on the reef, like a discarded rag.

"Take inventory of the scene!"

Santana jumped onto the small boat, the beam of his flashlight sweeping across the hull. Three metal cans were intact, while the fourth, cracked can, had sunk to the bottom. He shouted into the walkie-talkie, "Call in the frogman unit! Immediately search the underwater area around the reef, focusing on finding the leaked sample!"

Ten minutes later, five divers in diving suits dived into the water.

Underwater visibility was less than three meters. The crevices of the reefs were filled with sea urchins and seaweed. Where the beam of a flashlight swept, you could see schools of fish killed by the virus lying belly up, like a desolate silver graveyard.

"We've found the leak!" the frogman team leader reported over the underwater communicator. "It's between three rocks, and brown liquid is still seeping out."

Santana stood on the rubber boat, looking at the eerie oily sheen on the water, and suddenly remembered the order from the National Palace: "At all costs, we must not allow the virus to spread."

He took out five metal containers from the insulated box, which contained a special chlorine preparation that could kill the Black Death bacillus within thirty minutes.

"Disinfectant!"

The divers opened the container and poured the chlorine-based agent evenly around the leak point.

The pale green liquid made a "sizzling" sound and produced white foam the moment it came into contact with the brown virus liquid.

As dawn broke, Santana sat on the rocks, watching the sunrise paint the sea golden, but he felt no warmth at all. His boots were still stained with the blood of smugglers, and his nostrils were filled with the pungent smell of disinfectant mixed with the stench of blood.

"It's so bright outside," he said softly, looking at the distant sunrise.

When Chepe Santa Cruz slammed the satellite phone onto the barrel, it was already 10 a.m. local time. All he heard from the receiver was a monotonous busy tone, like a dull knife repeatedly cutting into his nerves.

"Damn it! These bunch of useless trash!"

He kicked over the wicker chair next to him, spilling rum on the floor, which mixed with the bloodstains he hadn't cleaned up yesterday. From five in the morning until now, he had dialed the Panama warehouse and the Veracruz port contact point no less than twenty times, and each time he got the same busy signal.

Khun Sa sat in the rattan chair at the head of the table.

"Call Zhang Quan again," Kunsha suddenly said, his voice eerily calm.

Chepe paused for a moment, then grabbed another satellite phone. Zhang Quan was in charge of the transshipment route throughout the Americas, and his private number should be able to contact the people in the warehouse. The phone rang seven times before being answered, with the faint sound of water coming from the background.

"Hello?" Zhang Quan's voice had a heavy nasal tone.

"What's going on in Panama? I can't get through to any of the phones!" Chepe roared into the receiver.

There was a full half-minute of silence on the other end of the phone, before Zhang Quan's grim voice came through: "Chepei, the warehouse is gone!"

Chepe's hands began to tremble: "Where is Veracruz? Where is the Tuna?"

"do not know……"

Chepe abruptly slammed down the phone, his back instantly soaked with cold sweat. He looked at Khun Sa, his lips trembling, unable to utter a word.

Khun Sa finally raised his head and stubbed out his cigar in the copper ashtray on the table, making a harsh scraping sound.

"No need to guess."

His gaze swept across the map on the wall, next to the red dots along the Mekong River, where someone had drawn a glaring red cross: "The Mexicans have made their move."

"Make a move?" Chepe's words were interrupted by Khun Sa's sharp gaze.

Khun Sa laughed, “We poisoned their cola and hid lassa fever in their tourists, and now they’re just returning the favor.”

He suddenly coughed violently. "The Black Death samples... are gone?"

Chepe nodded with difficulty: "It looks like it's all gone."

The bamboo house was deathly silent, with only the cicadas chirping tirelessly outside the window.

Chepe rushed outside the bamboo house, roaring madly, "Victor! You coward! You dared to blow up my warehouse, but you don't dare to fight me head-on?!"

Seeing his hysterical state, Khun Sa suddenly waved his hand, and two guards stepped forward, carrying the still-roaring Chepe away from the bamboo house.

crazy?

The mental stress is too great.

Khun Sa was the only one left in the bamboo house. He slowly stood up and walked to the window.

“Viktor…” Khun Sa whispered to the river, his face grim.

Meanwhile, at the National Palace in Mexico City, Victor looked at the battle report from Panama and suddenly pushed it toward Casare.

The report stated: SWWE commando team suffered 6 dead, 6 seriously wounded, and more than 40 killed. They successfully intercepted 17 samples of the Black Death and destroyed two sources of the leak.

Viktor's voice carried a hint of weariness, "Give Rodriguez and his team a collective first-class merit, and an individual first-class merit."

……

(End of this chapter)