Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 683 A Just Cause!

On the Red River in the United States.

Several bodies, not yet recovered, floated on the water. Some were wearing Louisiana Commonwealth khaki uniforms, while others were still wearing Texas National Guard cowboy boots. Blood was spreading in the river, drifting downstream towards the Mexican border.

The riverbank is no longer as lively as it used to be.

Old John, who used to sell barbecue on the Red River Bridge, was now dragging a canvas bag full of canned goods, clutching his grandson's wrist tightly as they ran south. His truck had been blown open by a stray bullet the night before, and was lying askew on the side of the road, billowing black smoke. The unsold barbecue in the truck bed was still sizzling and dripping oil, but no one dared to look back.

"Grandpa, my toy!" Little Jack cried out at the top of his lungs, the plastic cowboy in his hand still lying on the ridge he had just run across.

Old John slapped his grandson's bottom hard, his voice trembling but filled with malice: "We're about to die and you still want toys! The bastards from Louisiana are about to attack, if we dawdle any longer we'll both be bullets!"

"Then we'll stick a bird feather on your head and make you look like an Indian."

On the distant highway, the fleeing crowds surged into the heart of Texas like a tide. Occasionally, a few civilian pickup trucks would roar past, their backs packed with people and signs on the rear windows reading "Don't shoot, we're just civilians."

Americans also enjoyed what the Afghans called a “good day.”

Louisiana's armored forces have advanced into small towns along the Red River, their tank tracks crushing residents' vegetable gardens and turning ripe tomatoes into a pulp.

Soldiers kicked down doors and ransacked houses for food. Any men who resisted were pinned against the wall and beaten with rifle butts. The screams of women and the cries of children mingled with the roar of tanks, turning the once peaceful town into chaos.

The Texas vs. Louisiana border conflict has a history, with the core issue being the Sabine River line.

After the internal strife, these two traditionally "southern states" had long been at odds with each other over trivial interests and border issues.

Everyone wants better land…

And a better environment.

"Texas scum! Don't cower like cowards!" a Louisiana soldier yelled from his tank. "Surrender now, and maybe we'll spare your lives!"

The Texas National Guard hid behind a sloping hill outside town, their M16 rifles resting on sandbags, fingers on the triggers but hesitant to fire.

"Damn it! These Louisiana bastards think they can act so arrogantly just because they have a few beat-up tanks!"

A guard with a full beard spat, "Wait until our air force gets here, and I'll blow their tanks to scrap metal!"

A teammate next to him sneered, "Air Force? Don't dream about it! Two of the fighter jets that were transferred here yesterday were shot down by the enemy's anti-aircraft missiles as soon as they reached the border. Now the command headquarters can't even find any pilots who dare to take off!"

"What can we do? We can't just stand by and watch them take over our territory, can we?"

"What else can we do? Just hold on! The president said that as long as we hold out until the powerful families send troops, we'll have plenty of ways to deal with these bastards!"

But no one knew that the "President" they were talking about was sitting in the study of the Austin mansion, simmering with anger at a room full of powerful figures.

Paul Constantine Stuart was wearing a sharp dark blue suit, but his tie was pulled askew by his impatience.

In just three days, more than two hundred people have died in Texas, and the wounded are piled up like mountains, while Louisiana's armored forces are still reinforcing the border.

He is an ambitious and aspiring man. What does he want to be?
He wanted to be Roosevelt!
"Gentlemen, what time is it now? Are you still trying to bargain with me?"

Paul's voice was filled with barely suppressed anger as his gaze swept over the several powerful figures sitting on the sofa. "The Lockhart family's ranches are right on the border. Your cattle herds have almost been plundered by the Louisiana people, and you just stood by and watched? And you, Benson, two of your oil refineries were bombed by them, resulting in millions of dollars in losses, and you're talking to me about 'sending troops is fine, but you have to provide subsidies first'?"

The Lockhart family patriarch, sitting on the far left, slowly exhaled a smoke ring while smoking a cigar: "Mr. President, it's not that we don't want to help. Our Lockhart family has three thousand ranch men, all of whom are skilled fighters, but they only have rifles and sabers. Louisiana has tanks, and if we rush in, we'll just be throwing our lives away. We can send troops, but we need to be equipped with anti-tank missiles, and the government must guarantee that the losses to our ranches will be compensated. Otherwise, why should we risk the lives of our people to make up for it?"

The Lockhart family had already started recruiting heavily when they were "allowing powerful families to recruit soldiers on their own." Does America really need more people who can shoot?
Even disabled people can pull the trigger with a dagger.

The 3000 "army" he mentioned were actually mostly... gangsters or drug traffickers who had been brought over from neighboring Mexico, and could be considered "elite veterans".

He's a bit more skilled than the veteran who played a few rounds of Peacekeeper Elite later.

“Exactly!” Refinery owner Benson slammed his fist on the table. “My refinery was bombed, all the workers have fled, and now we can’t even get crude oil in. I can organize the workers into an armed force to defend the remaining plant, but the government has to give me a reconstruction grant first, at least $1500 million. Otherwise, I can’t even pay the workers’ wages, so who would be willing to risk their lives for me?”

Other powerful figures echoed this sentiment, some demanding tax breaks from the government, others prioritizing oil exploration rights on the border, and still others offering their sons a seat in the state legislature. Each of their demands seemed to be cutting into Paul's flesh, yet not a single one was willing to send troops to support the front lines.

Paul was so angry that his fingers were trembling. He pointed at the group of powerful people, unable to say a word for a long time. These people usually made their fortunes by relying on Texas's resources, and each of them was rolling in money. But when it came to the crucial moment, they only cared about their own interests and had no sense of national responsibility whatsoever.

"Okay, very good!"

Paul finally managed to say, "You're all thinking about your own interests, but you've forgotten who's protecting you! If the people of Louisiana attack, they'll rob your ranches, your oil refineries, and all your money! What good will all your offers then?"

But nobody listened to him.

Everyone was dismissive.

Let them take it, we'll just be Illinois's dogs.

The head of the Lockhart family stood up and straightened his suit: "Mr. President, it's not that we are unpatriotic, but we have to consider the future of our family. If you can meet our conditions, we will send troops immediately. If not, then there's nothing we can do but protect our own assets first."

The other powerful figures also stood up and made excuses to leave. Some said they needed to go back and discuss things with their family members, while others said they needed to appease the workers. Before long, Paul was the only one left in the study.

Paul slumped into his chair, feeling as if all his strength had been drained away.

He looked at the empty study, feeling both angry and anxious, but there was nothing he could do.

These powerful figures control Texas's economy and military. Without their support, I, as president, am just an empty shell and have no way to resist Louisiana's attack.

"Damn it! A bunch of money-grubbing bastards!"

Paul kicked the table hard, and the coffee cup on the table smashed to the ground, shards and coffee spilling everywhere.

Just then, the study door was pushed open, and Lawrence Constantine Stuart walked in. Seeing the mess on the floor and Paul's gloomy face, he knew that the meeting must have gone badly.

"Brother, are they still unwilling to send troops?" Lawrence squatted down, picking up the broken pieces on the ground as he asked softly.

Paul nodded, his voice hoarse: "They're all unwilling. They're like vampires, only knowing how to make demands and not caring about life or death on the front lines. If this continues, we'll collapse before the Louisiana troops even arrive."

Lawrence sighed, threw the shards into the trash can, and then sat down in the chair opposite Paul: "Brother, I told you long ago that these powerful figures are unreliable. They only care about their own interests, not the president. We can't count on them now; we have to think of another way."

"Other options? What other options are there?"

Lawrence was silent for a few seconds, then looked up with a hint of worry in his eyes: "Brother, there's something I need to tell you. The Ministry of Defense just sent word that the troops in Mexico's Eastern Command have been acting strangely lately."

Paul paused, then asked, "Mexico? What happened to them?"

"They have amassed a large number of troops on the border, and have also deployed a number of armored vehicles and artillery. It is said that even missile units have been mobilized."

Paul's expression changed instantly. He had been focused on Louisiana and hadn't considered the Mexican issue at all. Now that he thought about it, Mexico had always coveted the southern territories of the United States. If they took advantage of the situation and left Texas besieged on both sides, then Texas would be truly doomed.

"Damn it! Those Mexican bastards!"

Paul slammed his hand on the table, scattering the broken pieces he had just cleaned up all over the floor again. "They want to take advantage of the chaos and get a piece of the pie? Do they really think Texas is easy to bully?"

Lawrence shook his head: "Brother, now is not the time to be angry. We need to think of a solution quickly. We have to fight against Louisiana on one hand, and guard against Mexico on the other. If they really make a move, we simply can't withstand it."

"Then tell me, what should we do now?" Paul opened his eyes, a hint of helplessness in them.

Lawrence frowned and thought for a long time before speaking: "Right now, we can only try to stabilize Mexico and prevent them from finding an excuse to attack. I suggest you send a delegation to Mexico to talk to Victor. Even if you have to make some concessions, you have to keep them in check. At the same time, talk to those powerful families. If all else fails, agree to some of their conditions and get them to send troops to drive back the people from Louisiana first."

Paul fell silent.

He knew that Lawrence's suggestion was the only solution at the moment, but agreeing to the powerful's conditions meant handing over Texas's interests to others; and making concessions to Mexico made him feel even more frustrated.

But now, he has no other choice.

“Victor is an ungrateful son of a bitch!” Paul said, sounding a bit aggrieved. “Back when we were working together on the Pentagon, we were all lovey-dovey. You used to call me ‘darling,’ but now you call me ‘old hag.’”

Fuck!
That's really reality.

"Okay, I'll do as you say."

Paul gritted his teeth. "You take charge of the delegation. Try to find someone who can talk a good game. As for those powerful figures, I'll talk to them again. Even if it means taking a loss, we have to get them to send troops!"

Lawrence nodded: "Brother, don't worry, I'll arrange it as soon as possible, but... now is not a good time to start a war with Illinois."

"I know, I know, you don't need to worry about anything else."

Paul Constantine Stuart was impatient when it came to admonition.

Lawrence could only sigh helplessly.

He really didn't want to say it, but his older brother was indeed a bit...

They've lost their minds.

Does he really think he's an emperor?

……

Reynosa, a border city in Mexico.

In the early morning, it was shrouded in a thick fog.

Inside the Don Quixote breakfast restaurant, cast-iron frying pans sizzled, and the rich aroma of butter mingled with the bitter smell of black coffee, filling the small space to the brim.

A truck driver in a plaid shirt slurped down his bean soup, while waitresses in aprons moved between tables, teasing regular customers in a mix of Spanish and English. A radio in the corner played Mexican folk songs intermittently. Everything was as usual, immersed in the unique languor of the border region.

Old Alvarez wiped the mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth with a tissue and stuffed the last half of the tortilla into his mouth.

He is 67 years old and has spent his entire life running a small business between Reynolds and Brownsville, Texas, witnessing countless ups and downs along the border.

To survive the drug dealer era and then the era of Viktor's reckoning at this age is no easy feat.

Just as he was about to get up to pay at the counter, he caught a glimpse of the old-fashioned television hanging on the ceiling suddenly turning on.

Normally, this TV either shows soap operas or local commercials, but today the logo of Mexico's national television station popped up on the screen. The anchor, dressed in a navy blue suit, looked serious, with the white pillars of the Presidential Palace in Mexico City in the background.

"Yesterday morning at nine o'clock, Mexican President Anatoli Lunacharski officially met with representatives of Texas Native American tribes at the National Palace. The two sides held talks on 'indigenous historical rights' and 'border cultural protection'."

As soon as the anchor finished speaking, the camera switched to the reception room of the Presidential Palace.

Anatoly Lunacharsky sat on a dark sofa, opposite a man wearing an indigo deerskin vest. The man's hair was gray, braided into two thick braids that hung over his shoulders. He wore a necklace made of eagle claws and turquoise, and held a wooden box engraved with sunburst patterns. When the two shook hands, the man's profile was turned towards the camera.

Old Alvarez's hand was still on the back of the chair. He was stunned for a full half minute before he suddenly turned his head to look at the next table, where a young man in a denim jacket was taking pictures of the TV screen with his phone, his fingers flying across the screen.

"Boy."

Old Alvarez, his voice hoarse with disbelief, asked, "You saw it clearly just now? Those were Texas Native Americans?"

The young man put his phone back in his pocket and raised an eyebrow: "What else? Can the presidential palace fabricate news? That old man is a representative of the Comanche tribe, and I heard he's lived his whole life on a reservation in western Texas."

"Reserved land?"

Old Alvarez seemed to have heard a fairy tale. He leaned forward and laughed, "Are you kidding me? There are still Native Americans?"

As soon as he said that, people at the next few tables looked over. The truck driver in the plaid shirt scoffed, "Old man, how long has it been since you've been to Texas? I saw them last year when I was hauling goods to El Paso. They were selling handmade arrows by the highway, their skin was as black as asphalt, and they spoke with a strange accent."

“That’s not what I meant,” old Alvarez waved his hand, his tone becoming more urgent. “Weren’t the purebreds already turned into shoes long ago?”

The moment the word "leather shoes" was uttered, the air in the breakfast room instantly turned cold.

No one answered; only the sizzling sound of the frying pan filled the air, sounding particularly jarring.

Old Alvarez realized he had misspoke, and he coughed awkwardly, but still couldn't help asking, "I mean...didn't the United States deal with the Native Americans a long time ago? How come there's a representative of the indigenous people now? And they can even meet with the Mexican president?"

This shouldn't be taken too seriously.

Thinking about it carefully, it really is true!

The news anchor on TV was still reading the press release, every word shrouded in official solemnity:
"During the talks, President Lunacharski clearly stated that the Mexican government has always respected the historical heritage of all ethnic groups, recognized the status of Indigenous peoples as the first inhabitants of the North American continent, and is willing to provide necessary humanitarian assistance and cultural protection support to relevant tribes within the framework of international law for the injustices they have suffered in the past, including but not limited to establishing cultural exchange centers, providing medical resources and basic education assistance..."

In the reception room, the representative of the Comanche tribe held a wooden box in both hands, bent down and handed it to Lunacharsky.

The camera zoomed in as the wooden box was opened, revealing a dark red deerskin lining the interior, along with three smooth stone axes whose patterns gleamed with an aged luster under the light.

Lunacharsky stood up and took the wooden box, and even said "thank you for your trust" in the Indian language, which was then translated and broadcast through the television speakers.

Old Alvarez stared at the screen, his fingers unconsciously stroking the edge of the table.

He recalled the scene he saw at the border three days earlier when he returned from Brownsville. The guard post, which usually only had two soldiers, was now armed with a heavy machine gun, and an armored vehicle with the words "Mexican Army" printed on it was parked on the other side of the barbed wire, its camouflage pattern barely visible in the fog.

He even asked the soldier in the guard post what was going on, but the soldier just waved his hand impatiently and said, "Don't ask so many questions, just get through."

"It's not about making excuses, it's about finding legal justification."

Old Alvarez suddenly spoke, his voice very low, as if afraid of being overheard.

He glanced at the television; the anchor was still saying, "A special task force will be established to address the needs of Indigenous tribes," but the light in his eyes turned cold. "Do you think the government really cares about the historical status of Native Americans? Back when General Victor was cracking down on drug traffickers, he checked civilians in border towns three times over. Now he's suddenly being so polite to 'Indigenous people,' isn't it just because of the civil unrest in Texas?"

The truck driver in the plaid shirt put down his soup bowl, wiped his mouth, and said, "Old man, what do you mean by that? Mexico can't control Texas?"

Whether or not to intervene depends on whether there is a justification.

Old Alvarez picked up the salt shaker on the table and drew a crooked line on the tablecloth. "This is the Red River, this is Texas, and that is Louisiana. Now both sides are fighting tooth and nail, and President Paul is almost losing control of his own territory. At this time, Mexico steps forward and says it wants to help the Native Americans in Texas. Is it necessary to make contact?"

The young man suddenly slammed his hand on the table, making the coffee cup rattle: "You mean... Mexico wants to use the issue of the Native Americans to interfere in Texas?!"

"It's not certain whether this Native American is real or not," someone murmured, their eyes lighting up.

After these words were spoken, the breakfast room fell completely silent.

Old Alvarez pushed the salt shaker back to its place and pointed to the still-present image of the presidential palace on the television screen: "Didn't you hear what the anchor said? They're going to provide humanitarian aid. So, if the Comanche people say we're being bullied, won't Mexican troops be able to cross the border under the pretext of protecting civilians?"

“What Mexico wants is more than just simple help.”

He walked to the door, pushed open the glass door, and a gust of cold, damp wind rushed in.

In the breakfast shop behind him, a young man was on his phone, his voice filled with urgency: "Get the goods from Texas cleared out quickly! I have a feeling something terrible is about to happen..."

Those with a keen sense of smell can discover huge business opportunities and problems from just a few words!
Just like when the Soviet Union collapsed, many people didn't know that they could actually trade canned goods for airplanes.

Seeing the news, I was completely confused.

The collapse of the Soviet Union?

Damn, that’s awesome!
That's the sense of smell.

……

(End of this chapter)