Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 676 The War on Drugs Escalates!

Mexico City, National Palace, rooftop office.

The heavy velvet curtains were not fully drawn, and outside the window was the night view of the square, but the indoor light mainly came from the television hanging on the wall.

On the screen, Mexican Police Minister Roberto Bill stands under the spotlight, solemn and resolute, announcing a "great victory."

Viktor leaned back in his large leather office chair, his eyes fixed on the television. Every word of Minister Bill's speech was clearly audible. His declarations about killing Khun Sa, eradicating the cancer, and safeguarding public health were played through the high-end sound system, full of power and persuasiveness.

But there was no joy on Viktor's face; in fact, a barely perceptible gloom hung between his brows.

Because he knew through his cheat code that Khun Sa was not dead!

Secretary Bill stood on the stage, basking in the glory of a high point in his political career. The flashes from the reporters below cast a "heroic" glow on him as he declared it a major victory for Mexico against international criminal groups and a "tough response" to a series of recent events.

A response? A victory?
It's just a carefully crafted script.

The cunning Golden Triangle drug lord, Khun Sa, whom Minister Bill had said had been "killed," was currently hiding in a remote corner of the Shan State plateau in Myanmar.

Announcing the death of a powerful enemy is tantamount to lighting a match next to a powder keg.

The Golden Triangle's power structure was instantly shattered. The various forces, large and small, that had been suppressed by Khun Sa would become restless like sharks smelling blood, engaging in suspicion, competition, and annexation... Chaos would spread like a plague.

And that's exactly what Viktor wanted.

On television, Secretary Bill's speech reached its climax, and the audience erupted in applause. Victor, however, found it somewhat dull.

Just then, there was a gentle knock on the heavy solid wood door of the office.

"Go in." Viktor's voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable penetrating power.

The door opened, and Casare walked in.

He walked to the desk. "Boss."

Victor turned off the TV with the remote, and Minister Bill's impassioned voice came to an abrupt halt.

“We’ve found him,” Casare said in a deep, clear voice.

"We confirmed it three times as you gave us, boss. The location is in eastern Shan State, Myanmar, near the Lao border, in an abandoned tea processing factory. We heard it from an old shepherd in the area. They didn't know it was Khun Sa, and we weren't sure either, but we mobilized a lot of intelligence and informants, and we initially determined it was Khun Sa."

"A tea factory?"

"The intelligence team investigated for three days and found that the area was a no-man's land. The Lao border guards only patrolled once every two weeks, and the Myanmar government army's attention was entirely focused on the mess at Yangon Port."

Viktor suddenly leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and said, “Let Khalid Baskerville’s ‘Omo A Group’ squad come up.”

"We must kill him!"

"clear."

Casare nodded. "Then I'll have the military come up with a plan."

Victor nodded.

Casare then remembered the report in his hand and handed it forward: "By the way, boss, this is the global data that the Drug Enforcement Administration just compiled. In the past three months, we have raided 37 drug manufacturing dens in Latin America outside of Mexico, intercepted 12 shipments, and blocked many routes in Central and South America. The global drug circulation has indeed decreased by 45%, and the price of cocaine in New York and London has doubled."

"But the backlash was ten times worse than we anticipated. On Monday morning last week, three pickup trucks with welded steel plates drove into the crowd at the entrance of the San Juan de Dios market. The truck beds were not loaded with goods, but with ammonium nitrate explosives mixed with nails. The explosion occurred during the peak time when old ladies were buying groceries and children were going to school. Seventeen civilians were killed instantly, including nine children, the youngest of whom was only three years old. Their bodies have not all been recovered."

He raised his hand and rubbed his temples, as if trying to push those bloody images away from his mind, but he had no choice but to continue: "And there's Callao port in Lima, Peru. The brothers at the anti-drug station were on night shift the night before last. When the drug dealers sneaked in, they brought silenced guns and gasoline cans. All twelve of them were trapped in the duty room, and not one of them survived."

"The body was tied to the ankles with wire and hung on the port crane. The wind made the body sway back and forth. There were also wooden signs hanging on the ankles, deliberately making it visible to cargo ships entering and leaving the port and fishermen on the shore. The Peruvian Navy sent patrol boats to retrieve the body, but before they even got close, two sailors were shot by drug traffickers' snipers. Now the body is still hanging on the crane, and no one dares to touch it anymore."

"Bolivia is even more outrageous."

Casare's finger moved down and stopped at the title "Sucre Highway Ambush." ​​"The military transport team was delivering anti-drug equipment to the border last week, traveling on the winding mountain road from Sucre to Cochabamba. Drug traffickers blew up a section of the road halfway up the mountain. When the transport team stopped, more than a dozen people emerged from the woods, carrying not ordinary rifles, but modified M2 heavy machine guns and rocket launchers."

"All three armored vehicles were blown up. The seventeen soldiers inside were either burned alive inside the vehicles or dragged out and doused with gasoline. Their bodies burned on the roadside for an entire night, leaving not a single intact bone. They even strung the soldiers' dog tags together and hung them on the tree trunks by the roadside, with a sign next to them that read, 'Stop meddling in things that aren't your business.' Now the Bolivian military dares not send transport teams to the border anymore, and all the anti-drug equipment is piled up in the capital's warehouse."

Viktor remained silent, his expression grim.

He only raised an eyelid when Casare mentioned the word "Rio". "The worst thing is Rio."

Casare's voice finally tightened. He flipped to the last few pages of the report, which contained several blurry photos showing densely packed favela houses and traces of black smoke rising from several places. "The favelas of Rio have always been the domain of drug traffickers. They're armed even more heavily than the gangs in northern Guatemala. They have anti-tank missiles from the black market. Before, when we blocked the Central and South American routes, their cocaine was piling up in warehouses and couldn't be sold. Those drug traffickers were already holding back their anger. Last Thursday, the Brazilian military and police launched a joint raid on the Rocinha favela, trying to regain some initiative, but..."

He swallowed hard, as if suppressing a bitter taste in his throat: "Of the two hundred people who went in, only twenty-seven made it out. The rest were either killed in the alleys or taken hostage. Marcus's men ambushed people on the rooftops of the favela and shot down two military helicopters with anti-tank missiles. The wreckage is still stuck on the church steeple. They also dragged the bodies of police officers to the entrance of the favela, stripped them of their uniforms, poured red paint on them, and arranged them in a 'surrender' pose for the media to photograph. Now, no one in Rio dares to go out. All the shops are closed, and even hospital ambulances dare not drive near the favela."

"The craziest thing is yet to come."

Casare handed over the report, which included a printed transcript of a radio recording: "Local drug traffickers issued a statement yesterday through the local underground radio station, saying that they have taken control of three major highways in Rio, as well as two public hospitals and five schools in the city center. They have even occupied three five-star hotels near Copacabana Beach, where thousands of tourists are being held hostage."

"They said Rio is now a free zone for drug traffickers, and all two million residents of the city are their hostages. They made two demands on the Brazilian government: either withdraw all anti-drug police and military personnel and restore the drug routes to Europe; or they would kill ten people every day, starting with foreign tourists in hotels, and then killing patients in hospitals."

The office fell silent, save for the faint sounds of traffic coming from the plaza outside the window and the tapping of Victor's fingers on the handrail.

He stared at the photo on the report; the Rossignan favela, like a black patch on the map of Rio, had now become a new powder keg igniting the drug chaos that raged across South America.

"The Brazilian government is in chaos."

Casare added, "The president held an emergency meeting yesterday. The military said they would send special forces to storm the city, while the police said there were too many hostages and they were afraid of angering Marcus. The two sides were arguing fiercely. Now the world's media is focused on Rio. With such a big incident happening in Rio, many people are starting to waver."

Victor suddenly laughed. "It's just the surrender faction making its voice heard."

"Boss, how can you still be laughing at a time like this? Those Brazilian politicians are a bunch of cowards! They've been arguing in the presidential palace for two days without reaching a conclusion, the military is shouting for a full-scale attack but hasn't even figured out the firepower deployment map of the favela, and the police, on the other hand, are always crying to the media that they're prioritizing the safety of the hostages, safety my ass! If this drags on, those lunatics might actually kill ten people a day, and then global public opinion will swallow the Brazilian government whole, and all the hard work we've put into Latin America will go down the drain!"

He became more and more agitated as he spoke, slamming his hand heavily on the edge of the desk: "In my opinion, the Brazilian military is just a coward! They have tanks and helicopters in their hands, but they don't even have the guts to storm into the favela. They're not even as good as a border guard battalion of our Mexican army! If it were us, we would have sent the OMO team in with heavy firepower to infiltrate and take down the drug traffickers' command post first, and then rescue the hostages in stages. Instead, we're being threatened by a drug trafficker with his neck choked like this!"

"You think the Brazilian military doesn't want to act? They dare not act. How many drug traffickers' arsenals are hidden in the Rocinha favela? If they have anti-tank missiles that can shoot down helicopters, they may not lack weapons to deal with armored vehicles. More than two million hostages are scattered throughout the city, and highways, hospitals, and schools are all under control. If a strong attack is launched, and there is any incident involving any hostages, the Brazilian government will collapse."

He reached out and snatched the report from Casare's hand. "Look here. All three hotels on Copacabana Beach have had plastic bombs planted on their floors by drug traffickers. There are also remote-controlled landmines under the flowerbeds at the hotel entrances. Our informant in Rio reported back yesterday that the drug traffickers mixed C4 explosives they bought on the black market into the cement and painted it the color of the walls. Even with a detector, they might not be able to find them all."

"What's more troublesome is that he has thousands of foreign tourists in his hands, including a distant relative of the British royal family. If the Brazilian government dares to launch a strong attack, not to mention the hostages and casualties, the pressure alone could force the president to resign overnight."

Victor's voice turned somber. "Moreover, Brazil is not an ordinary drug cartel. Many of them are former military veterans who are very familiar with the military's tactics and deployments. You can tell from the tactics used in this ambush of the military transport team."

Casare's anger gradually subsided. "So we're just going to stand by and watch? If the drug traffickers really start killing hostages, drug traffickers in other Latin American countries will definitely follow suit. Then our drug enforcement posts in Colombia and Peru will probably be besieged by them too."

"Everything has to be scrapped and started over."

Viktor leaned back in his chair. "Of course we can't just stand by and watch. We need to send all our special forces units over there, and use our intelligence to relay some information from inside. We need a comprehensive plan."

“But what about the Brazilian government…” Casare was about to say something when Victor raised his hand to interrupt him.

"The Brazilian government will agree."

Victor squinted. "You can't reason with drug dealers!"

……

Rio de Janeiro.

The screen, which was originally showing the morning news, suddenly switched to static. A few seconds later, the face of Marcus Silva, the spokesperson for the Red Command (Comando Vermelho), covered with scars, filled the entire screen. He was wearing camouflage clothing stained with oil, and behind him stood two drug dealers holding AKs.

"Good morning, Rio darlings!" Marcus's voice came through a cheap microphone, crackling with static. "See that hotel behind me? The Copacabana Palace Hotel. It's our happy spot now, with tourists drinking champagne and sunbathing. Of course, that's assuming the Brazilian government doesn't cause any trouble."

The camera suddenly panned to behind him, where several drug dealers carrying submachine guns were pushing a British tourist in front of the camera.

The tourist was deathly pale, his hands bound behind his back, a thick rope around his neck, the other end of which was held by the drug dealer. Marcus reached out and slapped the tourist's cheek, the force so strong that the man stumbled, but he grinned, revealing his yellow teeth: "Did you hear that? Police, military, don't even think about stepping into the lines I've drawn! Rio de Janeiro is a city of happiness, the highways are channels of happiness, even those two public hospitals are now our happiness clinics. Anyone who dares to disrupt my territory, I'll turn this place into a slaughterhouse!"

He suddenly pointed the AK-47 at the camera, the dark muzzle seemingly about to pierce the screen: "Yesterday, some reckless patrolman tried to get close. Do you know where he is now?"

The camera abruptly shifts to a crooked telephone pole with a patrolman's uniform torn to shreds and hanging on it, below which the words "Happy City Doesn't Welcome Dogs" are painted in red.

Marcus's voice rang out again, tinged with cruel mockery: "From today onwards, I will come to greet everyone every noon. If I don't see the government's announcement of troop withdrawal one day—"

He grabbed a little girl next to him who was hugging a teddy bear and said, "Then let these 'happy babies' pay the price for the government. Remember, Rio is my city now. Here, we only need happiness, not police!"

……

(End of this chapter)