Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 677 The Divine Sword of North America!

Rio de Janeiro!
The revolving doors of the Copacabana Palace Hotel had long been welded shut, and the glass was covered with a sign painted in red by the Red Command drug dealers that read "Entrance to Happy City." Several drug dealers carrying AK-47s leaned against the door, their eyes scanning the scattered crowds on the street like hungry wolves.

At 10:50 a.m., a commotion suddenly broke out on the second-floor terrace of the hotel.

Carlos, the officer in charge of the beheading at the Red Command, shoved a French tourist in a suit to the edge of the terrace, his mud-splattered military boots tumbling over the edge. The tourist's tie was pulled askew, his hands were tied behind his back, and his mouth was stuffed with rags. He could only make muffled, struggling sounds, tears welling up in his eyes.

Carlos grabbed the back of his neck and grinned at the camera on the balcony: "Friends, please point your lenses!"

He pulled a military dagger from his waist, its blade gleaming coldly in the sunlight. The French tourist's eyes widened instantly, tears and snot streaming down his face. He struggled desperately, but Carlos kicked him hard in the knee with a sharp "crack," and the tourist screamed as he fell to his knees, his knee bent at an unnatural angle.

"I said yesterday, kill ten every day."

Carlos's voice was sinister, "Let's start today and teach the Brazilian government a lesson!"

The dagger plunged into the tourist's carotid artery.

Blood splattered like a fountain on the white tiles of the terrace. Carlos grabbed the tourist by the hair and slammed his face against the railing again and again until his brains and blood clung to the wrought iron railing.

He casually threw the body downstairs, and it hit the ground with a "bang," shattering into four, five, six, or seven pieces—a complete mess!
"Next one, at noon!"

"Want to save the rest? Get the government to withdraw the anti-drug squad and open up the trade routes to Europe! Otherwise, I'll send you gifts every day at this time!"

The live television signal was suddenly cut off, and the conference room in the Presidential Palace was so quiet that you could hear breathing.

The president stared at the black screen of the television.

Across the table, Brazilian Army Commander-in-Chief General Pedro slammed his cap on the table, his tone fierce, "Damn it! This is a slap in the face for Brazil!"

The Minister of the Interior rubbed his throbbing temples, his voice filled with exhaustion. "How much munitions are in the Rossinia slums? RPG-7s can shoot down helicopters, M2 heavy machine guns can pierce armored vehicles, and there are thousands of hostages scattered in hotels, hospitals, and schools. A direct assault? If the explosives in just one hotel go off, we're all doomed!"

"We can't just let him kill people every day!"

"The French ambassador just issued an ultimatum. If we still can't get through to them, France will join the EU in imposing economic sanctions on us! And then there's Britain. If something happens to that distant relative of the royal family, we'll be in even more trouble!"

The conference room door was flung open, and the secretary, clutching a telegram, exclaimed, "Mr. President! Mr. Victor from Mexico has replied! He says he can send special forces to assist us, but command of the operation rests with his people; our military will only be responsible for the outer perimeter blockade!"

"They're planning a full-scale assault??? This is going to cause an uproar!"

"Even if the pot explodes, it's better than the country being destroyed!"

General Pedro snatched the telegram, glanced at it, and slammed his fist on the table. "Mexico's North American sword! President, don't hesitate any longer, don't wait any longer!"

The president stared at the coffee stains on the table, remaining silent for a full half minute before finally gritting his teeth and saying, "Agreed! Tell Victor that I agree to the conditions, but he needs to know the progress of the operation in real time. We cannot let any Brazilian citizen die in vain!"

"Raise your hands if you agree."

The group looked at each other.

"agree!"

"agree!"

"agree!"

"Alright, call Mexico immediately and request their special forces support!"

After receiving the request for assistance, Mexico immediately began the necessary procedures, and about four hours later, the 23rd Company of the Air Force's "North American Sword!" special forces boarded the plane.

After a 12-hour flight.

Four C-130 transport planes arrived at Galeón International Airport.

By this time, dozens of hostages had already been killed, all of it was being broadcast live.

Colonel James Vought led the way.

He took the map from the Brazilian soldier, tapped his finger on the location of the Rocinha favela, and asked in Spanish with an Arabic accent, "Where's the informant? Where's the map of the firing positions I asked for?"

"over there."

The colonel who was greeting them pointed to a boy squatting on the ground not far away. The boy looked to be only seventeen or eighteen years old, but he was very thin and wore a faded T-shirt with his trousers rolled up to his knees, revealing scars on his calves.

“His name is Lucas. He’s an orphan from the slums. His family was killed by the Red Command last year. He’s been helping us pass on messages.”

Colonel James Water walked over, squatted down, took a piece of chocolate from his pocket, and handed it to Lucas.

The boy hesitated for a moment, took the chocolate, and whispered, "The Red Command's command post is in an abandoned flour mill in the center of the slums. There are more than fifty guards inside, all armed. The hotel's explosives are planted under the flower bed in the lobby on the first floor, and C4 is also buried in the elevator shafts on every floor."

He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, on which the alleys of the slums were drawn crookedly in pencil: "This is their patrol route. They change shifts every half hour. After eight o'clock at night, they will send rocket launchers to guard the roof. The hostages in the hospital are being held on the third floor."

Colonel James Waters took the blueprints, examined them carefully twice, and then asked, "Who is in charge of the Red Command in Rio? How many people are around the leader? Does he have any habits, such as where he usually eats and sleeps?"

"The spokesperson, Marcus, has five bodyguards, all of whom are former special forces soldiers. He always keeps them with him."

Lucas's voice lowered even further. "I don't know anything else."

“Understood.” James Waters stood up and patted Lucas on the shoulder. “Go and rest. Someone will take you away from here when we move out.”

Lucas shook his head, clutching Colonel James Walter's sleeve: "I want to go with you... I know all the alleys in the slums better than your maps."

Just as the other party was about to refuse, the Brazilian colonel said, "Let him go. The alleys of Rossina are more complicated than a spider web. Even our soldiers get lost when they go in. With Lucas leading the way, it will save a lot of time."

James Water stared into Lucas's eyes, where there was no fear, only a ruthless thirst for revenge.

He nodded: "Okay, but you must stay by my side and not run around."

At 2 PM, the final preparations before the operation began.

The North American Sword Team was divided into more than a dozen groups: Colonel James Walter personally led a team of 38 people, responsible for infiltrating the flour mill and taking down the Red Command's command post; the rest of the team, in groups of 16, were responsible for rescuing hostages and taking over the Copacabana Hotel.

He held the walkie-talkie, his voice low, "If you encounter a patrol, take action first. Don't leave any survivors. The people from the Red Command are all die-hards. You won't get anything out of them if you capture them, and it will only expose your location."

"Team B, received." Rodriguez, the leader of Team B, came through the walkie-talkie. "There's a sewer entrance at the back door of the hotel. We can go in through there and avoid the guards in front."

"C team received." Bomb disposal expert Calgoli's voice was a little tense. "We can only disarm C4 manually, which will take time."

"You have forty minutes."

James Walter glanced at his mechanical watch. "Four o'clock sharp. Three teams will move in simultaneously. Operation codename: 'Witch Hunt'."

Lucas suddenly tugged at James Walter's sleeve and pointed to an inconspicuous red dot on the map: "There's a secret passage here. Go in through the abandoned water pipes on the edge of the slums, and it leads directly to the flour mill's basement. I found it when I was hiding from them."

Colonel James Waters' eyes lit up, and he immediately adjusted the plan: "Group A will take the secret passage, with Lucas leading the way. The rest of the groups will proceed as planned, but keep in touch with communications. If any trouble arises, call for backup immediately."

At 3:50 p.m., on the edge of the Rossini slum.

Group A followed Lucas and crawled into an abandoned water pipe less than a meter in diameter. The pipe was full of sewage and garbage, emitting a pungent stench. The sewage was ankle-deep, and the icy touch made them shiver.

The colonel walked at the front, the beam of his flashlight swaying against the pipe wall, illuminating the rats and cockroaches inside.

“Turn left ahead, and walk another fifty meters to reach the basement entrance.” Lucas’s voice echoed through the water pipes, with a muffled sound.

Suddenly, footsteps were heard in the distance.

Colonel James Walter immediately turned off his flashlight, raised his hand to signal everyone to stop, and pressed his ear against the pipe wall to listen to the sounds outside.

"Damn, this weather is so humid and hot."

A drug dealer's voice came over, filled with impatient curses, "Boss, you're the same. You insist on making us patrol this lousy place. You should be spending this time in a hotel playing with a couple of foreign girls."

"Stop talking nonsense, didn't you see the corpses thrown down? The brains of those foreign scum are splattered all over my shoes."

Another voice chimed in, "If the police get in, we're all going to die."

As the footsteps faded into the distance, James Walter turned his flashlight back on and whispered, "Hurry up, ten minutes left." Finally, an iron fence appeared at the end of the pipe.

Lucas pulled a rusty screwdriver from his pocket, inserted it into a gap in the fence, and pried hard—with a "click," a gap was pried open in the fence.

James Walter was the first to crawl out, raising his gun and looking around.

The basement was filled with flour sacks, and the air was thick with the smell of flour and mildew. There were also several boxes of AK-47 ammunition piled up in the corner. He made a "safe" gesture behind him, and the others crawled out one after another and gently closed the iron gate.

"The command post is upstairs."

Lucas pointed to the staircase leading to the first floor, "There are two guards at the top of the stairs, both carrying heavy machine guns."

James Walter pulled a silenced pistol from his waist and handed it to the teammate next to him: "You and I go up and take care of the guards. The rest of you wait here and keep watch."

The two of them crouched down and walked up the stairs.

The stairs were made of wood and creaked softly when stepped on. As Colonel James Walter approached the first floor, he heard the guards chatting upstairs.

"Do you think the boss can win this time? If the Brazilian government really sends troops, do we have enough men to fight them?"

"What are you afraid of! We have RPGs and so many hostages, would the army dare to come? Besides, Boss Marcus said that if Rio isn't in our hands, we'll take all these hostages with us!"

The colonel gave a signal, and the team member nodded, then suddenly stood up, pointing his silenced pistol at the guard on the left.

With a "thud," the bullet pierced the guard's temple, and blood splattered on the wall.

Before the guard on the right could react, James Walter pounced on him, covering his mouth with his left hand and plunging the dagger into his throat with his right, severing the trachea with a twist of the blade.

The guard collapsed to the ground. James Walter dragged him to a corner of the stairwell and said into the walkie-talkie, "Team A has reached the first floor. The guard has been dealt with. Prepare to advance to the command post."

Meanwhile, the sewer entrance of the Copacabana Hotel.

Group B is climbing out of the sewer, covered in mud.

Team leader Rodriguez wiped the dirty water off his face, raised his gun and looked into the hotel lobby. The lobby was empty except for a few flower beds in the middle, each with C4 explosives buried underneath, the fuses exposed and connected to a remote control device in the distance.

"Cargory, come here and defuse the bomb," Rodriguez shouted into the walkie-talkie.

Calgoli from Group C immediately ran over, squatted down by the flower bed, took out a metal detector and scanned the soil, his brow furrowing: "The fuse is connected to the control room on the second floor, and there are glass shards mixed in. Manually removing it could easily trigger an explosion."

"How much longer?" Rodriguez glanced at his watch; it was already 4:05.

“At least ten minutes.” Carlos took out pliers and scissors from his backpack and carefully dug away the soil. “Keep watch for me and don’t let anyone come over.”

Suddenly, footsteps came from the second floor.

A drug dealer carrying an AK-47 walked down, cursing, "Damn it, who gave you permission to smoke in the lobby? The boss said no fires near the explosives!"

Rodriguez immediately raised his gun, and with a "bang," the bullet struck the drug dealer in the chest. The drug dealer screamed and fell to the ground, the AK-47 clattering to the floor. The gunshot echoed in the empty hall, alerting the other drug dealers upstairs.

"Damn it! Someone broke in!!!"

Shouts from drug dealers came from the second floor, followed by a hail of bullets that struck the marble floor, sending sparks flying.

Rodriguez took cover behind a pillar and fired at the second floor. "The rest of you, guard the stairwell and don't let them down!"

Calgary's hands were trembling, sweat streaming down his face and dripping into the soil. He finally found the fuse, carefully cut it with scissors, and then took out a blast blanket to cover the flower bed: "The first one is done, three more to go!"

More and more drug dealers were coming upstairs, and some were even carrying machine guns and firing into the lobby.

The bullet hit the pillar, and shards of gravel splashed all over Rodriguez's face.

He gritted his teeth and shouted into the walkie-talkie, "Team A! How's it going over there? We're in trouble here!"

Colonel James Walter's voice came through the walkie-talkie, muffled by the sounds of gunfire: "Team A is advancing. There's heavy firepower at the command post, so we can't support you for now! Hold on, we'll get this sorted out as soon as possible!"

On Group A's side, Colonel James Vought and his team had already stormed up to the third floor of the flour mill. The Red Command's command post in Rio was located here. The corridor on the third floor was piled with drugs, bags of cocaine in transparent plastic bags, piled up higher than a person, and the air was filled with a pungent chemical smell.

"Damn, so many drugs."

One of the team members couldn't help but curse, smashing open a bag of cocaine with the butt of his gun, scattering white powder all over the ground.

"Don't waste time."

He kicked open the door of the command post, gun in hand, and rushed in. The place was empty except for a table and a few chairs. A map of Rio hung on the wall, with the controlled areas circled in red.

“Something’s not right.” James Waters frowned. “Marcus isn’t here?”

Suddenly, a team member's voice came through the walkie-talkie: "Watch out! There's an ambush in the basement!"

Colonel James Walter turned around sharply and saw a burst of gunfire coming from the direction of the basement, followed by the screams of his men.

He immediately ran up the stairs, and as soon as he reached the second floor, he saw several drug dealers carrying RPG-7s, facing the entrance to the basement.

"Fuck you!"

He raised his gun and fired. The bullet struck the drug dealer in the shoulder, and the dealer screamed as he fell to the ground. The RPG-7 exploded with a "boom" against the wall of the stairwell, and the rubble cut James Walter's arm.

He endured the pain and rushed into the basement, where he saw two team members lying on the ground, their bodies riddled with bullet holes, their blood staining the flour sacks on the ground.

The remaining team members were hiding in a corner, firing at the drug dealers, who were armed with heavy machine guns, suppressing their firepower so they couldn't raise their heads.

“Where’s Lucas?” James Water grabbed a player’s arm and asked.

"He saw the drug dealers come in, so he ran out to distract them!"

"He ran down the alley, I wonder how he is now!"

Colonel James Walter's heart sank. He shouted into the walkie-talkie, "Lucas is missing! Team A requests backup! Team B, Team C, who can come?"

"Team B is still locked in a stalemate with the drug dealers and can't get through!" Rodriguez's voice came through. "Team C has defused the hotel's explosives and is on their way to the hospital. We can have them go around to us!"

"Get Team C over here immediately!" James Walter raised his gun and fired in the direction of the drug dealers. "The rest of Team A, follow me out!"

The battle lasted for more than two hours.

The third hour after the live TV signal was cut off.

The clock on the wall pointed to 7:10 p.m., and each tick of the minute hand felt like a hammer blow to everyone's temple. It had been exactly two hours and fifteen minutes since the start of the North American "Witch Hunt" operation.

"I just hung up the phone with the EU."

The Interior Minister, his forehead covered in cold sweat and his voice hoarse, said, "Germany and Italy have stated that if the issue isn't resolved by 10 p.m. tonight, they will freeze all of Brazil's energy cooperation projects in Europe. The deep-sea oil field contract we just signed last year is going to fall through!"

"It's over? People are almost dead!"

General Pedro stood up abruptly, his military boots slamming heavily on the floor. He clutched an aerial photograph from the Brazilian army at the front lines, showing black smoke billowing over the Rocinha favela. "Look! The gunfire from the flour mill hasn't stopped!"

The conference room door was flung open, and the secretary rushed in, pale-faced, carrying a stack of faxes: "Mr. President! Drug dealers at the Copacabana Hotel have dumped two more bodies down the stairs, this time British tourists! The BBC is broadcasting live, and the British Royal Family has issued a statement saying they will reassess all Anglo-Brazilian diplomatic relations in light of the Brazilian government's actions!"

"The royal family?" The president looked up abruptly, his eyes bloodshot. "That British nobleman who was arrested..."

"He's still alive, but they say they'll cut off his head in two hours and broadcast it live to the whole world."

The meeting room was deathly silent, with only the ticking of the wall clock.

The president’s voice was hoarse but firm: “Have the 12th Brigade move to the outskirts of the favela first. Don’t turn on the lights on the armored vehicles. Set up the mortars on the high ground two kilometers away from the flour mill. Don’t fire for now. Tell Colonel James Waters to give them the last forty minutes. If they have not taken control of the command post by forty minutes, the Brazilian Army will take over the operation.”

He leaned back in his chair and waved wearily: "Go tell the reporters outside that the Brazilian government is taking all necessary measures to rescue the hostages, and ask the public to remain calm."

If all else fails, we'll have to resort to brute force!
……

(End of this chapter)