Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 687 If you won't do it, plenty of others will!

In a small banquet hall on the side of the National Palace, the heavy oak doors were pushed open by two expressionless presidential guard soldiers.

Lawrence Constantine Stuart, the vice president of the interim government of Texas, walked in with slightly unsteady steps.

His face was pale, not from hunger, but from anger and the humiliating search he had just endured.

Her buttocks were spread apart, and the other person even put their fingers inside!
Fake squid!
"Fuck you," he thought, feeling incredibly embarrassed.

The banquet hall was decorated in an exquisite yet understated manner, with a long mahogany dining table covered with a snow-white linen tablecloth and set with gleaming silver cutlery and crystal glasses.

Oil paintings depicting scenes from the Mexican War of Independence hang on the wall.

There's also an oil painting of Viktor in military uniform hanging on the wall.

It was a gift from a Mexican painter.

Oh, now the other party is the director of the Mexican Museum.

Victor sat alone at one end of the long table, slowly and deliberately cutting a perfectly grilled steak with his knife and fork. He was dressed casually in a well-tailored dark suit, without a tie. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, a perfectly timed, almost friendly smile spreading across his face.

That's called being a gentleman.

"Mr. Lawrence, Vice President,"

Victor's voice was gentle. "Please sit down. I hope they didn't give you too much trouble. These are extraordinary times, and these are necessary procedures. I hope you can understand."

Lawrence didn't move; he stood in front of the table, his chest heaving slightly with suppressed anger.

He glanced at the abundant food on the table—grilled steak, fresh salad, and steaming bread—and then, thinking of the horrific events unfolding along the Red River and in southern Texas, of the soldiers groaning in the gunfire and the helpless civilians, a wave of nausea rose in his throat.

"understand?"

Lawrence's voice was hoarse with excitement; he tried to sound like a hero in a Hollywood movie who refused to yield to a tyrant.
“Victor! I am the Vice President of the Republic of Texas, not your prisoner! You are letting me be arbitrarily searched by your men like...like a piece of luggage! This is a great insult to me and to the country I represent!”

Viktor narrowed his eyes, his expression slightly hardening.

“An insult?” he repeated softly, then said with a smile, “Mr. Vice President, when your powerful families drive and sell Mexican-American laborers like livestock, do you ever think about their dignity?”

"When you started trafficking drugs and human traffickers, did you ever think about their dignity? Don't give me that nonsense."

“I am stronger than you now, and I have the right to stand in front of you and say these things.”

His tone remained calm. "Sit down, Lawrence. Standing won't make your protest any more significant; it'll just make you seem childish. We're all adults, politicians, not gunmen in a Western."

Lawrence's face turned red.

He took a deep breath, trying to regain some of his composure.

“I’m not here to have dinner with you, Mr. Victor!”

He mimicked a tough-guy tone, "I'm here to lodge the strongest protest! Your Mexican army's undeclared and despicable sneak attack on southern Texas is a blatant act of aggression! It is a blatant trampling on international law and the bottom line of human morality! You must immediately cease military operations and unconditionally withdraw all troops!"

He pointed out the window, though he couldn't see anything there: "Otherwise, the people of Texas will make you pay a price! We will fight to the end! You can fool all the people some of the time, and all the people some of the time, but you can never fool all the people all the time!"

He quoted Lincoln in an attempt to amplify the power of his words.

Viktor listened quietly, even nodding slightly as if to express his approval when Viktor quoted famous sayings.

After Lawrence finished speaking, he pointed to the chair opposite him.

"Finished? Excellent speech, very powerful. Now, can we sit down and talk? Or would you prefer to eat this meal standing up? The steak won't taste good when it's cold; this was brought directly from the best ranch in Coahuira."

His tone was like that of someone comforting a sulking child.

Lawrence felt a wave of powerlessness wash over him.

He felt as if he were facing not a person, but a soft yet impenetrable wall. His anger and protests seemed to have no effect on the other party whatsoever, and this deep sense of frustration almost suffocated him.

He eventually stiffly pulled out a chair and sat down, but his back was ramrod straight, and he made no attempt to touch the cutlery in front of him.

"now it's right."

Victor nodded, picked up his glass, and gently swirled the deep red liquid inside. "You call it aggression? No, we call it a special military operation aimed at disarming the Paul Stuart crime syndicate, liberating the oppressed people of Texas, and preventing a humanitarian catastrophe, especially the one you initiated targeting the east bank of the Red River. As for international law? We'll have plenty of time to discuss that after we've dealt with those Texas parasites who collude with drug lords and traffic people."

He took a sip of his drink and continued in that calm yet deadly tone:

"You say you'll fight to the end? On what grounds? On your National Guard troops bogged down in the Red River quagmire? On your pampered soldiers who deserted in the face of battle? Or on Paul Stuart's Gulfstream private jet, fully fueled and ready to escape at any moment, hidden at Austin Airport?"

Lawrence's pupils suddenly contracted.

Viktor took in his reaction and said sarcastically, "So you're not entirely in the know either? Or are you just a pawn he left behind to buy time?"

"Your brother is nothing but a cowardly parasite!"

He put down his glass, leaned forward slightly, and stared sharply at Lawrence: "Let me be more explicit, Mr. Vice President. Southern Texas is mine now. Paul won't be able to hold out much longer on the Red River front. As for the fall of Austin, it's only a matter of time. Paul's speech may incite some hot-blooded young people to their deaths, but it won't change the outcome of the war."

"Now, as you sit here, you don't represent the soon-to-be-extinct Republic of Texas; you can only represent yourself."

Victor lowered his voice, but it carried an even stronger sense of oppression, "You can choose to remain loyal to the president who abandoned you and is preparing to flee alone, and then be nailed to the pillar of historical shame with him, or..."

He paused, giving Lawrence time to think.

"Or, you could make a wiser choice. A choice that might reduce unnecessary bloodshed and allow Texas to return to order as quickly as possible. After all, after a war, someone has to govern this land."

Lawrence Constantine Stuart sat there, his earlier anger and courage gone, replaced by despair and bewilderment.

Viktor's words were like peeling an onion, tearing away all the glamorous disguises to reveal the cruel and real core beneath.

The steak in front of him still smelled delicious, but he felt a churning in his stomach. Outside the window, he could vaguely hear a distant rumbling sound, whether it was thunder or cannon fire, he couldn't tell.

He knew that a difficult choice had been ruthlessly placed before him, and this time, no Hollywood script could tell him how to act.

Lawrence Constantine Stuart's fingers trembled slightly on the tablecloth. Victor's words seemed to precisely dissect the crumbling reality of Texas and pierce the carefully maintained shell of dignity he had been maintaining.

His throat was dry, and images of his brother Paul speaking passionately in front of the camera flashed through his mind, as did the scene of the family ranch under the setting sun, and the young faces that might have died on the banks of the Red River.

He took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound firm, with a hint of the stubbornness and sorrow inherited from his family in Texas:
“Mr. Victor, you may be able to take over our land and crush our cities with steel and fire, but there are some things you cannot conquer.”

He raised his head, trying to meet Victor's unfathomable eyes. "That's loyalty and blood ties. Paul is my brother, the legally elected leader of Texas. I may not agree with every decision he makes, but I will never stab him in the back while my people and army are still fighting a bloody battle! I will not betray my own brother, much less my state! There are no traitors in the Stuart family!"

He used almost all his strength to say those words.

This fits the script in his mind: a tough guy who would rather die than submit, and who generously sacrifices himself for his principles.

The feigned gentleness on Viktor's face vanished instantly.

He seemed to have heard an extremely bad joke; a twisted smile first appeared on his lips, then he burst into loud laughter, the sound echoing jarringly in the ornately decorated banquet hall.

"Hahahaha! Loyalty? Bloodline? The Stuart family has no traitors?"

Victor's laughter stopped abruptly, his gaze fixed on Lawrence's face.

"Are you fucking acting out a Western with me? You think you're John Wayne?!"

Before he finished speaking, Victor suddenly grabbed the almost untouched, juicy steak in front of him and slammed the plate and steak into Lawrence's face!
"boom!"

The porcelain plate shattered instantly upon hitting Lawrence's forehead, splashing scalding meat juices and black pepper sauce all over his face. Blood immediately seeped from the cuts caused by the shards, mixing with the sauce and trickling down. Lawrence was stunned by the sudden attack, letting out a scream as he leaned backward, nearly tipping over with his chair.

Before he could react, Victor had already pounced around the table like an enraged lion, his movements incredibly fast.

He grabbed Lawrence by the hair and slammed his head hard against the hard mahogany table!

A muffled thud!

"Ugh!" Lawrence felt a sharp pain that made his vision go black, and blood gushed from his nose.

"Loyalty?! You're loyal my ass!"

Victor's face was contorted with rage as he roared into Lawrence's ear, spitting as he did so.
"Your bastard brother Paul is thinking about how to run away with the money! He's just leaving you here to die like an idiot! And you're talking to me about your bloodline?!"

As he spoke, Victor pressed down hard on Lawrence's struggling arm with his left hand, and grabbed the gleaming meat cleaver on the table with his right hand!

"no, do not want!!"

Lawrence saw the cold glint in his eyes and screamed in terror, struggling desperately, but Victor's strength was terrifying, and he couldn't break free at all.

"I've already given you face! I've given you a way out, but you won't take it?!"

Viktor's voice was hoarse and manic, carrying a sense of exhilaration at the complete ripping off of his facade: "You like playing tough guys? I'll let you play the role to your heart's content!"

Before he finished speaking, he raised the knife high and, without hesitation, stabbed it into the back of Lawrence's right hand, which was pressed against the table!
"Pfft!!"

The sharp blade pierced through the skin and flesh, severed tendons and bones, and drove directly into the wooden tabletop!

"Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah--!!!"

Lawrence let out a non-human, extremely shrill scream, his whole body convulsed violently, and tears, snot, and blood smeared all over his face.

The excruciating pain almost made him faint instantly.

Viktor gripped the knife handle and even cruelly twisted it, making the blade rub against the bone and flesh.

Lawrence's screams became even more heart-wrenching.

"Does it hurt?! Huh?!" Victor leaned down, his face close to Lawrence's contorted face in extreme pain, his eyes filled with bloodthirsty excitement. "This is fucking reality! Not your shitty Hollywood movies!"

He yanked the knife out, drawing blood that splattered onto the pristine white tablecloth and his own suit.

Lawrence collapsed, clutching his bloodied, convulsing right hand, emitting intermittent howls and sobs like a broken bellows.

Viktor flicked the blood off his knife, then used the tip to lift Lawrence's chin, forcing him to look into his crazed eyes.

"Listen to me, you ungrateful piece of trash."

Victor's voice deepened, "What I hate most is a shameless idiot like you! You think you're important? You think Texas won't function without you?"

He scoffed, his voice filled with utter contempt.

"You don't want to do it? Fine! There are plenty of people who will! Those opportunistic bigwigs in Texas will crawl over like dogs, licking my boots and begging me to give them a bite to eat!"

With a slight pressure, he drew a bloody line on Lawrence's chin with the tip of his knife.

"But you? And your damned, self-important Stuart family?"

A sinister grin spread across Victor's face. "You're all finished! I'm telling you, you're all fucking finished! Once I drag Paul out of his turtle shell, I'll hang you two brothers, and every single bastard in your family, right in front of the Austin Capitol!"

He abruptly withdrew his knife, glancing with disgust at Lawrence, who was limp and groaning.

"Drag him out! Lock him in the dungeon!"

Victor shouted at the guards standing like statues at the door, "They're an eyesore!"

Two soldiers walked forward expressionlessly, roughly lifted the nearly unconscious Lawrence from the chair, and dragged him out, leaving a trail of blood on the carpet.

It's been a while since I've worked with people, so I'm a bit rusty.

Victor straightened his blood-stained suit collar, picked up a clean napkin, and slowly wiped the bloodstains from his face and the knife in his hand, as if he had just completed a trivial task.

"You shameless bastard."

He muttered a curse under his breath and threw the napkin he had used to wipe his hands on the ground in disgust.

Viktor, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, took a deep drag, letting the pungent smoke swirl in his lungs before slowly exhaling.

The violent look on his face had faded.

“Rohus,” he said to the Deputy Director of the Secret Service and his personal bodyguard, who had been standing guard at the door like a shadow.

Rohus immediately stepped forward and bowed slightly: "Sir."

Victor's voice was completely flat, "Get the Hydra people moving, and those three agencies—the Mexican Counterintelligence Agency, the Mexican News Agency, and the Ministry of the Interior—not fucking idle."

He flicked the ash from his cigarette.

"Their mission was singular: to use any means necessary to contact those powerful families in Texas who hadn't yet been stunted by the bombs—Garrett, Taft, Johnson…whoever the hell they were—and tell them that Paul Stuart's ship was sinking and that smart men should think about how to get ashore."

"Tell them a message: those who listen to us now, actively correct their mistakes, and cooperate with us will be able to keep 70-80% of their land, oil fields, and businesses, and may even receive more in the future."

"If our tanks get to their manor gates..." "I'll blow up their ancestral graves!"

“Understood, boss.” Rohus nodded.

"Go on, and be quick. We don't have time to wait for them to hold a family meeting to make a decision," Victor waved his hand.

Rohus quickly turned and left, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

Victor took another drag of his cigarette, muttering to himself with a hint of mockery at the corner of his mouth:
"A dog doesn't need to worry about being alone! The world has no shortage of dogs that want to snatch bones!"

……

Deep within Braylock Ranch, west of Houston, Texas.

This is a vast private estate, more like a small kingdom than a ranch.

High walls, electric fences, and private armed patrols all demonstrate the owner's immense wealth and vigilance against isolation.

The atmosphere in the study of the main house, which was covered with a bearskin carpet and decorated with a deer head specimen and an antique rifle, was unusually oppressive.

Old Elton Blelock sat behind his enormous mahogany desk, his fingers tapping impatiently on the surface.

He was nearly seventy years old, with silver hair, but his eyes were still as sharp as an eagle's, though at this moment they were filled with bloodshot veins and struggle.

Standing before him were his two sons: the elder, Marcus, a burly man with a fierce face, wearing cowboy boots, and seemingly still smelling of the stables.

The youngest son, Cole, dressed in a suit and wearing gold-rimmed glasses, is the actual operator of the family's business in Houston.

On the table, an unassuming satellite phone had just ended a call.

"The Mexicans...the conditions they offered..."

The youngest son, Cole, took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down and analyze the situation. "They promised that if we could help maintain order in the Houston area and recognize the new ruling authority when the time was right, our oil contracts, port usage rights, and... and those less-than-compliant businesses from before, could all be pardoned, and we could even get more state government projects."

"This is fucking making us traitors! Traitors!"

Marcus, the eldest son, growled, his face flushed and his fists clenched. “Father! We can’t listen to these bastards! President Paul is still holding down the fort in Austin, and the Texas kids are still fighting that Louisiana guy on the Red River! Are we going to turn around and lick the boots of the Mexicans? The Brelock family’s 140-year history will be completely ruined! We’ll be written into history books and cursed!”

"face?!"

Cole abruptly turned to his brother, his voice rising with barely suppressed sarcasm and anxiety, “Marcus! Open your eyes and look outside! The Red River Line is about to collapse! The south has been breached by the Mexicans! How long can Austin hold out? A week? Three days?! Paul Stuart himself is preparing for his escape! And us? Are we just waiting for Mexican tanks to roll over our ranches? Waiting for their gendarmes to storm into this study and hang us all?!”

"That's dying like a man!"

Marcus roared, slamming his custom-made Colt Python revolver into the table with a loud bang that seemed to shake the deer head specimen, "instead of wagging its tail and begging like a lame dog!"

"Die in battle? You make it sound so easy!" Cole retorted, pointing out the window, "There are three hundred men working for our family outside! What about their lives? Our oil refineries, our docks, thousands of families who depend on us for their livelihood! You think you can drag all of them down to hell to be buried with President Paul just because you say 'act like a man'?! You stupid donkey who only knows how to fight and kill!"

"What did you say?! You spineless sissy in a suit!"

Marcus's forehead veins bulged as he took a step forward, almost grabbing Cole by the collar. "Without my father and the family's connections and guns protecting you, all your dirty futures trading and real estate mergers would have been devoured long ago, leaving not a trace!"

"Shut up, everyone!"

Old Elton slammed his hand on the table, his voice hoarse yet carrying an undeniable authority.

He coughed violently, his face turning ashen.

The two sons stopped abruptly, but still glared at each other like two angry bulls, their chests heaving.

Only old Elton's heavy breathing and the crackling of burning wood in the fireplace remained in the study.

After a long while, old Elton slowly raised his head, his gaze sweeping over his two sons, filled with exhaustion.

“Marcus,” he said, looking at his eldest son, “your courage is the backbone of the Brelock family, and I have always been proud of you.”

Then he looked at his youngest son: "Cole, your scheming is the brains that have allowed the Brelock family to survive and thrive to this day, and I also rely on you."

He paused for a moment, his voice becoming even hoarser:

"But now, our spines may break, our brains may be ripped out, and we are not facing business rivals or politicians in the state legislature who can be bought off, but war... and madmen like Victor who do absolutely no rules."

He glanced at the gleaming revolver on the table, then recalled the threat from the satellite phone—

“They know us inside and out… They have tanks, they have planes, and we…” Old Elton smiled bitterly, “We only have some security guards who are paid to do their jobs and a few old guns. If we stand in the way, we’ll just get crushed to dust.”

“Father!!” Marcus cried out in disbelief.

"Then what do we do? Surrender? Give in?" Cole pressed, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

Old Elton did not answer directly. He slowly stood up, walked to the window, and looked out at his own dark but dangerous territory.

"The Brelock family...has been in existence for four generations."

He muttered to himself, "It can't end with me."

Who says there are no aristocratic families in America?
If you go to America to pick up trash, of course you won't see it. Are all the people in this capitalist country "saints"? What a joke.

They're very shrewd.

He whirled around, his eyes flashing with the ruthlessness and decisiveness of someone who had finally made a decision: "Marcus, put that damn gun away! From this moment on, without my orders, you are not to fire a shot at anyone, especially Mexicans!"

“Cole!” he said, looking at his youngest son. “Reply to them that the Brelock family is willing to cooperate.”

"Dad!" Marcus roared in anguish, "This is betrayal! This is cowardice!"

Old Elton stared intently at Cole. "Tell them we need written guarantees to ensure the safety of our core businesses and family! That's the bottom line! If they can't deliver, then let them try! Even if the Brelock family dies, we'll knock a few teeth out of them!"

These words sounded somewhat weak.

He lowered his voice, "Get rid of those shady businesses under our umbrella as soon as possible, especially those we did with the Garrett and Taft families, wipe the traces clean, and if necessary..."

A sinister glint flashed in old Elton's eyes:

"Put all the responsibility on them, sell them off as a way for us to... pledge our allegiance to our new masters."

Cole took a deep breath and instantly understood his father's meaning—not only should they submit, but they should also turn on their former allies in order to gain a favorable position in the new order.

This was even more ruthless and decisive than he had imagined.

Marcus looked at his father as if he were seeing him for the first time, his eyes filled with disbelief.

Old Elton sat back in his chair wearily, waving his hand as if all his strength had been drained:
“Go…do as I say, in order to survive…the family must survive.”

Cole nodded, glanced at his brother who was on the verge of exploding with a complicated look, picked up the satellite phone, and strode out.

Only the father and son remained in the study.

Marcus suddenly grabbed the revolver from the table, not pointing it at his father, but slamming it hard onto the floor, shattering the expensive oak floorboards.

"Coward!" he growled at his father, then stormed out of the study without looking back and slammed the door shut.

Old Elton Brelock sat alone in his enormous study, the flickering firelight on his face mirroring the light from the fireplace. He slowly picked up a yellowed family photograph from the table, his fingers trembling as he stroked it.

Outside the window, at the distant edge of the night sky, there seemed to be faint rumbling thunder.

That's not thunder.

It was artillery fire.

He closed his eyes.

"Only those who survive can be called brave or cowardly; medals and history are of no use."

For such cunning capitalists...

If you have milk, you are a mother.

No milk...

You are the enemy!
"Sir, dinner is ready."

John the butler's voice sounded softly from outside the door, carrying his usual respect, yet unable to completely conceal a hint of unease.

Old Elton snapped out of his daze and replied with a dry throat, "I know. What about Marcus and the others? Let them eat first. I don't have much of an appetite."

The person he was most unsure how to face at that moment was his eldest son, who valued honor above all else.

There was a moment of silence outside the door, then John's voice rang out again, tinged with hesitation: "Sir... we couldn't find Master Marcus. He's not in his room, nor is the door to the stables' study locked from the inside."

An ominous premonition instantly gripped old Elton's heart.
He sprang up from his chair, his vision blurring from the sudden movement. He stumbled to the door, flung it open, and yelled, "What do you mean it's locked?! Which study?!"

“It’s…it’s the small one at the end of the corridor, the one he usually keeps his hunting rifles and trophies.” John was startled by his master’s outburst.

Old Elton's heart sank to the bottom!
He almost recklessly pushed aside the old butler, dragged his heavy steps, and rushed like a madman towards the small oak study at the end of the corridor. Other servants who heard the commotion and Cole who rushed over also followed.

"Marcus! Marcus! Open the door!!" Old Elton pounded on the heavy wooden door, shouting in a hoarse voice.

It was deathly silent inside.

"Break through! Break through!!" he roared at the two burly ranch security guards who rushed up behind him, his voice filled with panic.

The security guards exchanged a glance and then slammed the door shut.

Bang! Bang! After a few blows, the lock broke, and the door slammed open inwards.

A strong smell of blood instantly hit us!

The sight before them struck everyone like a thunderbolt, leaving them frozen in place.

Marcus Brelock slumped in an armchair by the window, his head tilted to one side. He had changed into a clean Western shirt, and even his boots were polished to a shine, but his right hand hung limply at his sides, his fingers still loosely gripping the Colt Python revolver that he cherished so much and had once slammed onto his father's desk.

Half of his head was missing.

Red and white substances splattered all over the oak wainscoting behind him and the hanging elk head specimen. Warm, viscous blood soaked through the chair beneath him, dripping onto the carpet and forming a growing, shocking dark red stain.

On the windowsill lay a page torn from a notebook, covered in rough, messy handwriting, the ink seemingly smudged by a few drops of blood.

Old Elton seemed to have all his strength drained away; his vision went black, and he fell straight backward. Fortunately, Cole and the butler behind him caught him in a panic.

“Dad! Dad!” Cole’s voice was filled with terror.

Old Elton struggled, his eyes fixed on the page of the suicide note, his lips trembling, unable to utter a single word.

A security guard stepped forward tremblingly, carefully took off the page, and handed it over.

Old Elton grabbed it, his cloudy eyes scanning the words on it with pain:
I can't believe it, I can't believe this is a decision my family made.

Father, were the pride, courage, and loyalty you taught me all lies?
Surrender to that butcher, that Mexican bastard? Betray our allies, and live like hyenas, devouring the corpses of our companions?

This is not the Brelock family! This is absolutely not!

Texas is bleeding, and we're going to put shackles on her ourselves?
I would rather die than watch my family's banner fall in humiliation.

I would rather die than have my child know that his father and grandfather were traitors.

Forgive me, Father, but I had no other choice.

Honor is my life!
—Marcus Blaylock, a fool who believed Texas would be free until his death!

Every word was like a sharp knife, stabbing deeply into old Elton's heart and cruelly churning it.

"Ugh... Ah...!!"

He let out a broken, dry howl, like he was suffocating, but not a single tear came out.

Overwhelmed by grief and remorse, he collapsed from his aged body. He abruptly pushed away the person who was supporting him, his body lurching forward uncontrollably before crashing heavily onto the cold floor with a dull thud.

He curled up, clutching his chest tightly with both hands. His face quickly turned bluish-purple, and he could barely breathe with his mouth open. Only heartbreaking, intermittent dry howls squeezed out from deep in his throat, filled with indescribable despair and pain.

"Doctor! Call a doctor quickly!!"

Cole knelt beside his father, holding his convulsing body, and screamed at the terrified crowd around him, tears finally streaming down his face.

……

(End of this chapter)