Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 697 He's just my dog.

Naples, Italy.

In the narrow, damp alley, garbage was piled up like mountains, the walls were covered with mottled graffiti, and rats could be seen running around.

This area was once the traditional territory of the Camorra gang, and the air was filled with various smells all year round.

But recently, a new "smell" has begun to mix in, a strange smell that is sweet and cloying with a chemical undertone, coming from that "extraterrestrial object"!
It is expensive, far exceeding the price of cod and yakine, but it is said to bring a stronger and purer pleasure, enough to make addicts and party animals seeking extreme stimulation flock to it.

Moreover, those who have used it say that it feels like being in heaven.

The price is not cheap either, costing nearly 130 euros per gram, which is much higher than other prices.

High profits mean bloody competition.

How many people die from drugs every year?

Mexicans know this, but Europeans don't.

Naples was the absolute territory of Salvatore Mariolo, the old leader of the Camorra.

But the appearance of this "extraterrestrial treasure" was like a boulder thrown into a stagnant pond. The profits were outrageously high, enough to turn even the most cautious people into desperate criminals. Old-fashioned rules began to loosen in the face of astonishing wealth.

They're taking over territory!

The more territory you capture, the more potential customers you have, and that's all money.

The struggle began in the outskirts of the city, with small skirmishes and warning shots escalating into large-scale gun battles.

Night had completely fallen, and the broken street lamp on the street corner flickered occasionally.

suddenly!

"Bang! Bang!"

The crisp sound of a rifle shot shattered the stillness of the night, coming from the rooftop of an apartment building not far away.

Almost simultaneously, a more intense burst of gunfire erupted from another alleyway—the familiar rapid-fire of the 9mm Beretta submachine gun. Bullets pelted the brick walls of the opposite building and the rusty roller shutter door, sending up a shower of sparks and debris.

"It's Costello's men!" a hoarse voice screamed in the alleyway.

The battle instantly became intense.

"Iron Hand" Maliolo's men react extremely quickly.

They swarmed out from the back rooms of the cafes and barbershops where they were hiding, and fought back, taking advantage of the narrow terrain.
.
The .38 revolvers, Glock pistols, submachine guns, and shotguns all opened fire, providing considerable firepower.

Bullets ricocheted wildly through the narrow alley, creating a cacophony of bangs, whistling sounds, shattering glass, Italian curses, and screams.

A young man had just peeked out from behind the door when a burst of blood erupted from his chest, and he collapsed without a sound.

But this is just the beginning.

"boom!"

A huge explosion shook the entire neighborhood!
A crudely made iron pipe bomb was thrown into the porch of what was believed to be an important stronghold of Mariolo's men, and flames and thick smoke rose into the air, with broken wood chips and bricks flying everywhere.

"Heavy stuff! Force them out!" someone on the attacking side shouted.

At the other end of the alley, an engine roared as a beat-up Fiat Uno without license plates sped in. A man leaned out of the passenger window, carrying an old M79 grenade launcher on his shoulder!
These are all relics from the Vietnam War, and they are all older than we are. But does being old mean that old things are no longer appealing?

You like women in their thirties and forties too?

A muffled firing sound.

The grenade flew in a low, flat arc and crashed directly into a second-floor window that was continuously spewing bullets outwards.

"Boom!!"

The entire window, along with half a wall, was blown away, flames shot into the sky, and fragments of human bodies and furniture debris fell from inside.

The attackers let out a wild cheer.

However, Marioro's legacy remains.

The sniper on the roof adjusted his target.

"boom!"

A precise burst of rifle fire.

The guy carrying the M79 jerked his head back sharply, blood and brain matter splattering onto the Fiat's window, and his body went limp.

The driver was terrified, and the car went out of control and crashed into the wall.

"Damn it! Kill that bastard on the roof!" roared the leader of the attacking side, a burly man with a scar on his face.

More automatic weapons began pouring bullets onto the rooftops to suppress the snipers.

Meanwhile, a gunfight broke out in another adjacent alley.

Both sides committed more personnel, firing at each other almost face to face. Shotguns displayed terrifying power at close range, blasting people flying.

The firefight lasted for nearly twenty minutes.

Until the sharp sound of police sirens came from afar.

The attackers retreated swiftly like a tide, carrying the wounded and the dead, disappearing into the labyrinthine alleyways, leaving behind only devastation: burning vehicles, collapsed walls, shop fronts riddled with bullet holes, shattered glass, and bodies lying haphazardly in pools of blood.

The police did not go deep inside, but quickly set up a cordon and sealed off the scene.

“Holy Mary.” A young police officer looked at a body riddled with shotgun blasts and couldn’t help but gag.

The seasoned sheriff, Falcon, his face ashen, used the tip of his shoe to brush aside the scattered shell casings on the ground. "AKs, 9mm Parabellums, .38 special rounds, and... Good heavens, 40mm grenade launcher casings? Did they steal them from a museum?"

He crouched down and picked up a piece of scorching hot metal. "No, it's new. These bastards got their hands on a military-grade weapon."

The on-site investigation lasted all night.

The number of corpses rose to nine, and the number of wounded was countless, all of whom had already been dragged away by both sides.

Police Chief Falcone's initial report, along with shocking photos and videos of the scene, was rushed to the Naples Police Headquarters before dawn.

The report is filled with terms such as "highly militarized," "extreme violence," and "serious threat to public safety," and it emphasizes that a new type of drug, described as "something from outer space," is at the heart of this bloody struggle.

However, the General Administration of Sport considers this report to be an isolated case.

On the same day, at the Italian police headquarters in Rome, Interior Ministry officials and senior police officers frowned as they looked at a summary report.

The report shows that in just one month, the number of gang-related murders across the country has surged by 300 percent!
It wasn't just the Camorra in Naples; similar, unprecedentedly fierce clashes erupted in the territories of Cosa Nostra in Sicily, the Gloria in Calabria, and almost every traditional gang's territory.

The motivations all point to the same new drug with staggeringly high profits.

The atmosphere in a soundproof conference room at headquarters, overlooking the entire city of Rome, had plummeted to freezing point.

Finally, under the personal watchful eye of the Minister of the Interior, Police Commissioner Luca Martino picked up an encrypted satellite phone.

Martino is nearly 60 years old, with his gray hair neatly combed. He has always presented himself as a crime fighter.

Ok…

foreign.

The call was answered, and on the other end was a figure well-known to the police but difficult to shake—Vito Scarpa, one of the rising giants of Camorra!
“Scapa”.

Martino roared, "What are you trying to do in Naples, in Calabria, throughout the country? Turn the streets into battlefields? Grenade launchers, assault rifles—are you declaring war on the nation?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, followed by a soft sneer, as if mocking his overreaction.

Vito Scarpa began, “Calm down, Director. The market needs vitality, and we are providing that vitality. A little competition will eliminate those outdated and useless companies, which is good for everyone. Order will soon be restored, a more efficient and powerful new order.”

"Order? Dozens of lives lost in a single day! You call this a minor competition?"

"It's just a price, Mr. Director."

“Huge profits always come with huge risks, and we take those risks to create value. In the end, all that value will spread and benefit many people, including you, Director.”

"Think about the latest equipment budget for your elite anti-crime unit, think about the generous pension you'll receive after retirement, and even the successful law firm your son runs in Milan. Where does all this 'stability' and 'prosperity' come from? Isn't it built on our 'hard work'?"

“So stop calling and screaming over the deaths of a few nobody. Go back to your office, enjoy the air conditioning, and keep an eye on your people. We’re making more luxury cars, more beautiful women, and more luxurious lives for you and your entire system. What you need to do now is learn to do the math.” *Click*

The phone was abruptly hung up.

Director Luca Martino stood there, the microphone still clutched tightly in his hand, veins bulging on the back of his hand, his face turning from ashen to a terrifying pale, his chest heaving violently.

Fuck you!

……

Vito Scarpa casually tossed his satellite phone onto the expensive silk-covered table, took a deep drag on his large Havana cigar, letting the thick smoke swirl in his mouth before slowly exhaling, the smoke billowing around him.

Around the huge marble conference table sat several of his key subordinates.

Scarpa chuckled and pointed his cigar toward the phone: "That old dog Martino peed his pants from the gunfire in the street and called to bark a few times."

His men let out a low, echoing chuckle.

Scarpa sank back into the soft Italian leather sofa, crossing his legs.

He gestured with his chin to his subordinates, "Take another portion from this month's profits and send it to our Director Martino and his friends in the Ministry of the Interior."

Alberto's subordinate nodded immediately: "Understood, boss. Still through the Swiss account?"

Scarpa waved his hand. "This time, send it directly to his son's law firm in Milan, under the guise of legal consultation fees, so that he knows we know where to put the money to make him most comfortable."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over each of his subordinates present, and raised his voice slightly, "Those officials in Rome, those big shots in the police headquarters, who are they?"

He answered his own question, "It's my dog, a guard dog that needs to be fed meat regularly."

“I’ve fed them, made them so fat and bloated that they can’t even afford a decent cigar without me. I have evidence of their corruption, bribery, prostitution, money laundering, every fucking thing, enough to send each of them to jail for life or leave them dead in the street!”

"Director?"

Vito Scarpa waved his hand, pointed to his teddy bear crawling on the ground, and said with a smile, "His name is Vito."

A group of underlings smiled in agreement.

But while some conform to the mainstream, others resist the darkness.

After weeks of arduous tracking, Inspector Mario Esposito of Naples' anti-gang unit located a dilapidated church on the edge of the old town.

According to sources, this is an important distribution point.

Esposito, accompanied by four elite men, decided to conduct a surprise inspection without requesting large-scale support to avoid alerting the enemy.

They pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside the church, candlelight flickered, and the space was empty and silent, with only the statue of the Virgin Mary gazing down with compassion.

“Police! Is anyone there?” Esposito shouted, his hand on the holster at his waist.

Suddenly, bursts of gunfire erupted from the confessional and the shadows of the back room!

boom! boom! boom!
Bullets rained down on them!
It wasn't an inspection at all; it was an ambush!

The roar of submachine guns and carbines echoed deafeningly beneath the church dome, shattering statues of saints and sending wood chips flying from pews.

Esposito and his men didn't even have time to fully draw their guns before they were engulfed in a crossfire.

Bullets tore through their bulletproof vests and entered their bodies, blood blooming in the dim light.

A young police officer was trying to find cover when a bullet blew his skull open.

The massacre ended in a few dozen seconds.

Five policemen lay in pools of blood, their blood staining the stone slabs in front of the altar, mingling with the candlelight to create a bizarre and blasphemous scene.

The gunfire subsided, but smoke filled the air.

From behind the church, several typical Italian Mafia bosses dressed in black suits came out and gave the corpse a rifle, appearing ruthless and decisive.

At that moment, another group of people emerged from the deeper shadows.

The group of people who were in charge were clearly of Asian descent.

They wore trench coats or suits, their calm demeanor incongruous with the bloodshed at the scene.

One of them, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, carefully avoided the pool of blood spreading on the ground.

An Italian man who appeared to be the leader turned around and said in Italian, "Mr. Chen, the police are getting more and more troublesome."

The Asian man, referred to as "Mr. Chen," slowly exhaled a smoke ring, his gaze sweeping over the corpse on the ground, before replying in fluent, albeit accented, Italian:

"It's too much trouble. Just clean it up. Who can bother us making money?"

He paused, then added, "For the next batch, the extraterrestrial objects will be increased by 30%..."

A glint of greed and excitement flashed in the Italian leader's eyes, and he nodded.

Mr. Chen didn't look at the corpse on the ground again, stubbed out his cigarette, gestured to his companion, and the group left through the side door of the church.

...

European intelligence poured into Victor's hands at Chapultepec Castle in Mexico City.

Jeff Bennett, the head of Mexico's counterintelligence agency, stood before Victor with a solemn expression on his face.

He was holding a thick file in his hand.

"Sir, the situation is worse than we thought."

Bennett's voice was a little hoarse, "The speed at which extraterrestrial objects are circulating is too fast, and the resulting struggle has gotten out of control, causing great losses in Europe."

He opened the file, page by page:

"In Marseille, France, two members of the National Police Intervention Group (GIPN) were killed instantly when they were attacked by assault rifles loaded with armor-piercing rounds during a raid on a dockside warehouse that appeared to be a storage facility. Their body armor was penetrated."

"In Frankfurt, Germany, three police officers were following a suspected distributor when their vehicle was destroyed by a remote-controlled bomb, and there were no survivors."

"In Liverpool, England, a veteran narcotics detective was executed in front of his home with two gunshot wounds to the head. His wife and daughter went missing and were later found cut into pieces and mailed to Liverpool Police Headquarters three days later!"

"In Amsterdam, Netherlands, two undercover police officers were exposed and their bodies were found in a canal. Their hands and feet were bound, and their bodies were covered with signs of torture. The forensic doctor said they had been injected with large amounts of drugs and died in extreme excitement and pain."

Bennett closed the file and took a deep breath: "We used all our resources in Europe, but this 'second brother' is too well hidden. There are no photos, no fingerprints, no reliable eyewitness accounts. He's like a ghost. What we can confirm at the moment is that Xie Zhile's 'Third Brother Group' and Ye Zhenli's 'Three Leaf Society' are the core of the secondary structure. They are responsible for funding, channels, and connections with local gangs."

He looked up and said, “Below this network are traditional and emerging gangs throughout Europe, from the Camorra and 'Ndrangheta in Italy to the skinheads in Russia, the remnants of the Irish Republican Army, and even some far-right militias. According to the most conservative estimates, the number of people who directly or indirectly serve this network and depend on its supplies may have reached millions. It is not just a drug cartel, boss; it is becoming a shadow kingdom.”

"This is more troublesome than any drug cartel we've encountered before!"

Victor stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to Bennett and Casare.

The atmosphere in the room was so oppressive it was suffocating.

Just then, the red encrypted phone on the desk rang shrilly.

Casare glanced at Viktor's retreating figure, and seeing that he didn't react, he walked over and answered the phone: "Hello?"

He listened for a few moments, then covered the microphone with his hand and turned to Victor: "Boss, it's Ethan. He says he has something extremely important to discuss and must speak directly with you."

Vic suddenly turned around, a glint of light flashing in his eyes.

He strode over and practically snatched the phone from Casare's hand.

"Hello, this is Victor."

Ethan Hunt's voice came from the other end of the phone, equally crisp and efficient, with an extremely quiet background: "Sir, to make a long story short, I paid a heavy price to intercept and decipher a very brief internal communication."

He paused, then said, word by word, "That 'second brother' is a Chinese man. He has no photo, no specific name, only a surname."

"What's your last name?" Victor asked hastily.

On the other end of the phone, Ethan Hunt clearly uttered a single word:

"Liu!"

……

(End of this chapter)