Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 673 Beast, you beast!

In the National Palace office, cigar smoke billowed in the morning light. Victor frowned, and Rodriguez's name was marked with three red lines.

Casare's beer belly slammed against the edge of the desk with a dull thud. He paced back and forth, grabbing his hair and spewing out a string of profanities.

"Fuck Khun Sa!" Casare kicked over a metal trash can, scattering cans and cigarette butts all over the floor. "Six corpses aren't even cold yet!"

He suddenly turned around, his eyes bloodshot. "Boss, launch missiles! Turn the Mekong River basin into scorched earth! I request the deployment of a missile brigade, three basic loads of incendiary bombs. That'll ensure those bastards aren't even left with bone fragments!"

Viktor slowly raised his head, cigarette ash falling onto the buttons of his military green shirt.

He stared at the world map on the wall, where the location of the Golden Triangle was circled in red pen as a hideous blood hole, with a line of small words written in pencil next to it: 200 kilometers west of the Dongda border.

“Do you want Mexican avocados to rot in the port?” Victor’s voice was like sandpaper. “Or do you want Tesla’s assembly plant to shut down immediately?”

"Look at this! The Asian Development Bank just approved a 70 billion loan for us, secured by the oil and gas fields of the Yucatan Peninsula! Do you think those yellow-skinned businessmen will just sit by and watch us drop missiles on their backyard?"

"So you'll just have to put up with it?"

Viktor pulled a black folder from the drawer and slammed it onto the table with a heavy thud. The cover bore the gold Hydra emblem. "Last night, the intelligence agency found a survivor in Colombia—Khun Sa's treasurer, who supposedly had the entire group's ledgers."

He pointed with his cigar to a photo in the folder: a man in a silk shirt hanging from a rafter, his legs below the knees a mangled mess of flesh and blood. "That bastard confessed. He said Zhang Quan was in charge of all of this. Zhang Quan was Khun Sa's right-hand man, in charge of all the distribution channels for biological agents, and—"

Viktor paused, exhaling a smoke ring: "That old bastard's a womanizer, especially women with scars."

Casare suddenly stopped pacing, a fierce glint in his eyes: "Boss, you mean..."

"Let the Hydra people do it."

Viktor pressed his cigar against Khun Sa's photograph, the sparks burning a black hole in the wrinkled face. "Find a suitable woman, ruthless enough, beautiful enough, and preferably knowledgeable in chemistry. Zhang Quan's been tinkering with a new anthrax strain lately; he'll definitely be interested in this stuff. Tell her that after it's done, Mexico City's jewelry district will be hers for three years. If that's not enough, have the Ministry of Finance send her two more boxes of gold bars."

Kasare's breathing grew heavy. He bent down to pick up a cigarette butt from the ground, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed it fiercely. "What did the intelligence agency say? Do they have any people stationed in Yangon?"

"We've already given them advance notice."

Viktor opened the drawer, tossing out a stack of documents. "These contain all of Zhang Quan's secrets. Five years ago, he kept three strippers in Bangkok. Last year, he murdered a pregnant mistress in Chiang Mai and threw her body into the Mekong River. This old bastard appears loyal to Khun Sa, but he's already transferred the group's opium profits to a Swiss bank; the password is his deceased daughter's birthday."

He suddenly laughed, “Tell Hydra not to be polite with him, use your femininity to extract information first, and then get Khun Sa’s itinerary!”

Casare nodded vigorously. "What if Zhang Quan doesn't take the bait? That old fox is said to be incredibly vigilant, always surrounded by four bodyguards, who are never without their guns."

“The hunter is more patient than the prey,” Victor said, looking at him.

...

Three days later in Bangkok's red-light district, neon lights turned the raindrops into colorful ribbons.

In the back alley of the "Viper" bar, a woman in a black halter dress was stubbing out a cigarette butt with her high heels. A scar on her left cheek, running from her brow bone to her jaw, looked like a wriggling snake under the purple light.

A Mexican employee was standing opposite me.

The woman took the photo from the agent and traced her fingertips across Zhang Quan's scarred face.

"Zhang Quan will be here at ten o'clock tonight for whiskey. He likes to sit at the third table by the window, and when he orders, he taps the table three times with his left ring finger—that's his secret signal to check the goods."

Ruth Gabrielle suddenly laughed, the scar contorting into a grotesque shape within the laugh lines: "Don't worry, I know how to get him to stick his tongue into my glass."

She pulled down the neckline of her sundress, revealing her snow-white shoulders. "As for you guys, if I die in the Golden Triangle, remember to scatter my ashes on Wall Street. I've heard that's where the smell of money is strongest."

The agent stared at the tattoo on her collarbone. "Khun Sa's guards are all desperados who enjoy playing the game of skinning people alive."

"Even more ruthless than the drug dealers I encountered in the Sonora desert?"

Ruth Gabrielle's smile vanished abruptly. "Three years ago in Juarez, I was tied to a slaughterhouse by seven men, and I was the only one who made it out alive."

She took out a folding knife and twirled it gracefully between her fingers. "I've got Zhang Quan's matter taken care of."

At 10:07 p.m., the bar's wooden door was pushed open, and the wind carrying the moisture of the Mekong River, along with drizzle, rushed in.

Zhang Quan was wearing a black trench coat with the collar turned up high. Four bodyguards stood guard at the door like iron towers, their hands always on the holsters at their waists.

He glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on Ruth Gabriel's face for three seconds, before heading straight to the third table by the window.

Ruth Gabrielle walked over carrying two glasses of whiskey, her high heels clicking crisply on the floor. She deliberately stumbled, spilling the whiskey onto the front of Zhang Quan's trench coat (how fucking tacky!).

Scarface's expression instantly darkened, and his hand had already reached for the gun handle.

"Excuse me, sir."

Ruth Gabrielle's voice suddenly softened, like poison laced with honey. She pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his clothes, her fingertips lightly tracing his chest. "How about I buy you a new drink and a kiss?"

Zhang Quan's pupils contracted slightly as he stared at the poppy tattoo on Ruth Gabriel's collarbone, then suddenly laughed: "Your scar... is sexy."

Ruth Gabrielle sat opposite him, pushing the spiked whiskey towards him, her fingernails tracing circles on the rim. "Mr. Khun Sa's men?" she suddenly lowered her voice, speaking in Thai. "I have a batch of 'White Beauty,' three percentage points purer than the Golden Triangle, and I'm looking for a reliable buyer."

Zhang Quan paused, his hand holding the wine glass still, and tapped the table three times with his ring finger.

The rain outside the window was getting heavier and heavier, and the shadows of the bodyguards were stretched long by the streetlights, like several silent stone statues.

"Nine o'clock tomorrow morning." Zhang Quan finished his drink and deliberately bumped Ruth Gabrielle's shoulder as he stood up. "Room 307, Chiang Mai Hotel. Bring the samples."

Ruth Gabrielle watched him disappear into the rain, her fingertips touching the remaining liquid in her glass. She brought it to her nose and sniffed it; the faint almond scent was exactly the same as the hallucinogen Victor had given her.

She straightened her sundress in front of the mirror by the door. The scar looked particularly menacing in the mirror, like a venomous snake about to flick its tongue.

The following day, a luxury sports car pulled up in front of the Chiang Mai Hotel. Ruth Gabrielle, wearing sunglasses and carrying a suitcase, got out of the car, looked around, then went into the lobby and took the elevator. She stopped in front of room 307 and knocked on the door.

A moment later, the door opened.

Inside the room, the smells of sandalwood and opium mingled together. Zhang Quan sat in a rattan chair, toying with a gilded pistol in his hand. "You're here early enough."

Ruth Gabrielle smiled and placed the black leather case on the coffee table. When she opened it, the white powder gleamed eerily under the light.

"It has a very high purity."

Ruth Gabrielle suddenly ripped open her sundress, revealing a tattoo on her back—a map of Zhang Kunsha's opium trafficking routes. "I also know that Kunsha is going to Yangon next week to meet an arms dealer to trade thirty boxes of anthrax bacteria."

Zhang Quan's breathing suddenly became heavy. He stood up, grabbed Ruth Gabrielle's chin, his scarred face almost touching hers: "Who sent you?"

Ruth Gabriel suddenly laughed, licking his wrist with her tongue: "I'll work for whoever pays the most."

She grabbed Zhang Quan's hand, which was resting on the holster, and pressed it against her chest. "Khun Sa is old. His era should end. If you want to be the boss, I can help you. For example, I can make sure he never wakes up from his sleep."

Zhang Quan abruptly pressed her against the wall, the buttons of his trench coat brushing against her knife scar.

Ruth Gabrielle could feel his heart pounding faster and faster. She suddenly wrapped her arms around his neck and breathed softly into his ear, "I know you keep your opium profits in a Swiss bank, and the password is your daughter's birthday, July 15, 1978, right?"

Zhang Quan's body froze instantly, and the pistol clattered to the ground. Ruth Gabriel picked up the gun and pressed it against his temple.

Zhang Quan's Adam's apple bobbed, the gun barrel pressed against his temple, but he suddenly laughed. "Little girl, you think you can be an assassin with a piece of junk?" He slowly raised his hand, his fingertips almost touching the barrel. "Do you know how often the guards change their ammunition? Three minutes. If I rushed in now, I could skin you alive and tear you apart in less than the time it takes to drink a cup of tea."

Ruth Gabrielle suddenly turned her head, the muzzle of her gun lightly grinding against his temple. "Mr. Zhang has reminded me." She pulled a miniature voice recorder from her leather skirt pocket, pressed play, and a conversation between Zhang Quan and his trusted henchman came through: "Transfer the profits from that shipment to the Zurich account, yes, using my daughter's birthday."

Zhang Quan's smile froze instantly!

Damn it, I've been sold out!
“What if this recording were on Khun Sa’s breakfast table?” Ruth leaned closer to him. “Would he let you watch your wife and son get fed to crocodiles? After all, you swallowed three million dollars of his opium money, a debt clearly recorded in the ledgers in Yangon.”

Zhang Quan tried to push her away, but Ruth slammed her knee into his groin. The intense pain made him bend over, his forehead pressed against her collarbone.

"Don't get angry so quickly."

"Last year, Khun Sa bought a villa in Chiang Mai, and the property deed is in his mistress's name. You risked being arrested by the Thai military and police to transport that money there, right? And what happened? You didn't even touch the villa's doorknob."

“You’ve followed him for twenty years, from an opium trafficker in the Golden Triangle to the head of biological agents,” Ruth bit his earlobe. “Khun Sa lived in a house covered in gold leaf and played around with eighteen-year-old girls. And you? Zhang Quan, when your daughter died, he didn’t even get you a decent coffin. At that time, you were being hunted down by the government army.”

These words struck Zhang Quan's most hidden wound with pinpoint accuracy. He abruptly raised his head, his eyes bloodshot like a spiderweb.

Ruth slowly released her grip.

"Khun Sa is old; all he cares about is his savings for his funeral. But you're different, Mr. Zhang. You have distribution channels throughout Central and South America, laboratory formulas, and more..."

She pointed to the recording pen: "Evidence to make sure he dies a horrible death."

Zhang Quan stared at his distorted reflection in the wine glass; his scarred face was shattered into a mess in the liquid. The rain outside was still falling, the sound of it hitting the glass like countless fingers knocking on a door.

"What do you want me to do?" he suddenly asked, his voice hoarse as if it had been sanded.

Ruth smiled, the scar curving into a strange arc at the corner of her eye: "It's simple, just tell us who Khun Sa is going to see in Yangon next week."

Zhang Quan spat on the ground. "That guy in Yangon is called Nguyen Van Hung, a Vietnamese monkey. Next Wednesday at 3 PM, at Port Authority Warehouse No. 3."

He pulled out a cigarette case, shook out a cigar, put it in his mouth but didn't light it. "Don't give me that bullshit about taking down Khun Sa and becoming the boss. I've been in this business for twenty years, and you can't fool me with that kind of kidding nonsense."

Ruth holstered the gun back in her thigh, the metal buckle clicking shut: "Name your terms."

“Give me 30% more from the Swiss bank account,” Zhang Quan’s scar twitched on his cheekbone. “Also, get my wife and son South American citizenship, Chile or Argentina, the farther away from the Golden Triangle the better.”

“Okay.” Ruth turned to leave, then suddenly turned back as if remembering something, her toes crunching through the white powder on the ground. “By the way, do you know why Panama failed?”

Zhang Quan frowned: "Stop beating around the bush."

"Your precious son, Zhang Ming."

Ruth laughed out loud, like the cracking sound of shattering glass. "Take the recording of your conversation with Khun Sa and go trade it for a sports car with the Mexicans."

"Fuck you!" Zhang Quan abruptly overturned the wicker chair, his spare pistol sliding out of its holster. His hand gripping the gun trembled. "That little bastard asked me for pocket money last month to buy a game console. What does he know about the Panama warehouse!"

Ruth pulled a voice recorder out of her bag and pressed play.

Zhang Ming's voice, thick with the crackling of puberty and crackling with static, boomed out: "My dad said he's going to send something really good to Mexico, ten times better than what we have now... This news could get you a Lamborghini with wings..."

Zhang Quan stomped on the recorder, smashing the plastic casing into a spiderweb pattern. He stared at the doorway, his knuckles white from clenching his fist, then suddenly slammed his fist against the wall, sending plaster crumbling down: "I'll beat that traitorous little brat to a pulp when I get back!"

Ruth looked at the bloodshot in his eyes and suddenly sneered, "Shoot him? If you go back now, Khun Sa's men will skin you and your son alive to make lanterns."

Zhang Quan's shoulders slumped, the gun barrel trembling slightly against the floor. He remembered his son secretly making a phone call in the bathroom last time, his Adam's apple bobbed, and he suddenly cursed, "Damn it! That little bastard."

“Either cooperate with us and save his life,” Ruth bent down to pick up his fallen cigar, “or wait for Khun Sa’s guards to throw your whole family into the Mekong River to feed the fish.”

She shoved the cigar back into his hand. "If you don't get Khun Sa's itinerary, you and your precious son can expect to be collecting your corpses."

The tobacco was crushed into powder. Zhang Quan suddenly grabbed the satellite phone on the table and dialed a number: "Get me Khun Sa's exact route to Yangon next week. Yes, right now."

……

(End of this chapter)