Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 725 Does it really matter if it's one or two?

Felix, Lister, and Joffre decided that the preliminary report they produced would definitely be uploaded.

After all, someone has to sign and stamp it.

Otherwise, no one could bear this responsibility.

However, instead of being presented directly to Victor's desk, it was placed on Casare's desk first, following procedure.

As Victor's most trusted assistant and administrative filter, Casare is required to review all major matters and offer preliminary opinions on how to proceed.

When he saw the document title and the "extermination" recommendation co-signed by Felix and others, his brows furrowed instantly.

He quickly skimmed through the contents, a look of helplessness mixed with reproach on his face.

"This Felix..."

Casare muttered to himself, shaking his head. "Still so impulsive when it comes to doing things. Once his bloodlust takes hold, he can't control himself. Can these kinds of things be decided just by talking and raising his hand? Foolish!"

He pressed the intercom and instructed his confidential secretary, "Come in here for a moment."

The secretary quickly pushed open the door and entered, standing respectfully to one side.

Casare handed the document back to him. "Felike's report has good ideas and great determination, but there are some procedural oversights. We must act with evidence and in accordance with the law. We can't just say they deserve to die and expect them to. Take this and have your men work hard to compile a detailed record of all the crimes committed by the Kola tribe, especially their so-called 'Mountain Guardians' armed group, over the years. The evidence must be conclusive, and the timeline must be clear. We need to make it clear to everyone that it's not that we're heartless, but that they deserve to die!"

You can't flip the table when you're doing business...

At the very least, once my backside is cleared, I can't flip the table.

Having served Casare for many years, the secretary had long since developed the ability to understand implied meanings from a single sentence. He immediately nodded and took the documents with both hands: "Understood, sir. I will take care of it right away and will make sure the materials are prepared thoroughly and completely."

He returned to the secretary's office with the document, clapped his hands to attract the attention of all the staff: "Put aside the less urgent work for now and concentrate all manpower and resources on this document. The goal is to comprehensively and thoroughly collect and organize evidence of the crimes committed by the Kola tribe and its armed forces, covering a long time span, starting from several decades ago, focusing on drug trafficking, violent resistance against the government, harm to civilians, and collusion with external forces. Remember, the chain of evidence must be complete. If... if direct evidence cannot be found, relevant testimonies and reasonable speculations can be used as supplementary explanations. Make sure this report appears impeccable."

The entire secretariat instantly sprang into operation with incredible efficiency. These people were all top-notch at handling paperwork, adept at packaging intentions into an ironclad case.

More than two hours later, a new report, significantly thicker and filled with numerous attachments, was placed back in front of Casare.

Casare carefully perused the document, especially the newly published "Record of Major Crimes of the Kola Tribe." His gaze swept over the shocking lines of text, a satisfied smile curving his lips as he nodded.

Huo Guang had to find a reason and excuse to depose the Marquis of Haihun. What do you call that? You call it procedural justice!

"That's right." He closed the report, stood up, and said, "When doing things, you have to be logical and well-founded, leaving no room for criticism."

He personally carried the weighty report to Viktor's office, knocked on the door, and went inside.

"Boss, this is an urgent request just submitted by Michoacán State, the final recommendation on how to deal with the Kola tribe issue."

Viktor smiled and said, "I trust Felix to get things done."

As he spoke, he picked up the report, first quickly skimming through the suggestions of Felix and others, but when his gaze fell on the thick record of crimes, his reading speed noticeably slowed down.

He looked at it very carefully.

That record of crimes was written in extreme detail and was also extremely ruthless:

A partial summary of the major crimes committed by the Kola tribe (the “Guardians of the Mountain” armed group).

Since the Vietnam War, the Khora tribe's upper class and militants have used the secret mountain passes they control to collude with some US military personnel stationed in South Vietnam and CIA secret projects to help transport high-purity heroin produced in Southeast Asia into the Americas in exchange for US dollars and weapons.

Records show that between 1967 and 1969 alone, more than two tons of "Southeast Asian heroin" flowed into Mexico and the United States through their hands. The drug money was used to purchase large quantities of automatic rifles, grenades, and even mortars to arm their private army, sowing the seeds for future resistance against the government. They were not only transport teams, but also, with the tacit approval or even guidance of the CIA, established small processing points in their controlled areas to purify drugs, harming countless families. The older generation of tribal chiefs and priests, such as the then "Great Elder" Luca, were direct handlers. They used money stained with drug money to consolidate their dark rule over the tribes.

With the rise of Mexican drug lords, the Cora tribe quickly shifted its focus, becoming the most important supplier of opium paste raw materials for major drug cartels in Michoacán and even the entire Midwest. They forced the tribespeople to cut down virgin forests and cultivate poppies on a large scale. Any tribespeople who dared to resist or slack off would be subjected to cruel vigilante punishment, ranging from being whipped and maimed to being buried alive as a sacrifice to the gods.

In the late 1970s, government-sent agricultural technicians attempted to guide them to switch to cash crops. As a result, three technicians, along with their families—a total of eight people—were kidnapped and publicly executed by the "Guardians of the Mountain." Their hearts were ripped out and hung at the village entrance as a public display. The cruelty of the act was appalling.

They maintained close ties with the Medellín and Cali Cartels in Colombia, establishing a stable corridor for the smuggling of drugs from the south to the north. Simultaneously, they utilized the mountainous terrain to construct numerous secret warehouses and processing plants. Internal strife and massacres of "disobedient" villages frequently occurred as they vied for control and punished "traitors."

In 1985, they massacred a neighboring village that had been partially taken over by the government, killing more than 200 villagers and burning down their homes, creating the "Santa Maria Massacre" that shocked the nation.

As the government intensifies its anti-drug efforts, violent resistance from the Kola tribe has become even more rampant.

They ambush military and police patrols, kidnap and brutally murder officials who dare to enter the mountains to enforce the law. In 1994, a deputy state police chief and seven of his men fell into a trap during a patrol and were all tortured to death; their bodies were hung on the border fence, covered with provocative tribal symbols. They enforce a strict reign of terror within their controlled areas, prohibiting their people from contacting the outside world, forbidding children from receiving modern education, and insisting on maintaining their so-called "tradition" and "divine protection" through bloody "human sacrifices"—essentially a tyranny disguised as theocracy. Any member of the tribe who attempts to escape or leak information to the government is labeled a "traitor," and their entire family faces extermination.

……

The report concludes that the core armed forces of the Kola tribe and their extreme separatist ideology have long since degenerated into a malignant tumor parasitizing the nation, whose crimes are countless and whose threat to social stability and public safety is long-term and fundamental. They have rejected all opportunities for peaceful reform and integration, stubbornly standing in opposition to civilization and the rule of law.

Victor looked up at Casare, "I never imagined we had someone like this under our rule..."

He didn't even know what words to use to describe it.

Casare met his gaze and nodded solemnly: "Some of them are from a long time ago, and there may be slight discrepancies in the details, but the general facts are undoubtedly true."

Viktor fell silent. He picked up the report again and quickly flipped through a few more pages.

"Let's proceed according to the plan set by Felix and his team."

"From today onwards, there will be no more Kola tribes!"

"Understood," Casare replied solemnly.

……

When the order bearing the seal of supreme authority reached the joint command headquarters in Michoacán, the gears of the entire war machine began to turn rapidly.

Inside the command post, Commander Joffre issued final instructions to his subordinate units at all levels.

Operation codenamed "Iron Broom" has begun.

Iron broom, for sweeping up trash.

Sanchez Canyon, a narrow passage winding along the northeastern side of the Santa Ana Mountains, was once one of the ancient routes for the Kola tribe to access the outside world. Now, however, it has become their desperate escape route and a pre-ordained slaughterhouse.

On the outermost edge of the canyon, in the relatively open valley entrance area, three reinforced companies had already been secretly deployed. They had used the terrain to construct crossfire positions, equipped with several M2HB heavy machine guns and MK19 automatic grenade launchers.

The first group of Kola people to descend from the mountains appeared.

There were about 70 people, walking unsteadily. Many of them had sores and blisters caused by chemical agents on their bodies. Their eyes were empty and numb. Driven only by the instinct to survive, they helped each other to walk out.

They thought that leaving that cursed forest might offer them a glimmer of hope.

They were wrong!

As the group staggered into the optimal firing range at the valley entrance, the major battalion commander in charge of the blockade operation lowered his binoculars, spoke into the communicator, and his voice remained completely flat:

"Attention all units, target confirmed, fire freely, repeat, fire freely, ensure elimination."

Cries for mercy erupted in the very first moment, despite the language barrier.
But the trembling, almost distorted wailing was enough to pierce through some of the gunfire.

"No! No!"

Similar syllables were cried out in various languages. Some people raised their hands high above their heads and waved them wildly, even if their fingers were to be severed by bullets in the next second. Others knelt on the ground, their foreheads pressed tightly against the blood-soaked ground, their bodies curled up in a fetal position, as if this would allow them to escape back to a non-existent womb.

A young man even tore open his shirt, revealing his unprotected chest, and spread his arms out in some ancient, language-transcending gesture to show his harmlessness, until a stray bullet blasted his gesture along with half of his shoulder blade, and he was still twitching when he fell to the ground.

In this desperate sacrificial arena, the instinct for survival fuels a final struggle.

Some people near the inner side of the valley entrance were briefly stunned after the initial blows, but were then awakened by the splashes of warm blood and flesh, and turned to flee deeper into the valley.

They abandoned everything and trudged through the slippery, bloody mud and mangled bodies.

A man, clutching his ears deafened by the shockwave, staggered backward. He wasn't moving fast; a huge gash in his abdomen oozed dark red liquid as he ran, leaving a trail of broken blood behind him.

The other woman displayed astonishing agility, scrambling almost on her hands and feet among the piles of corpses and craters. With each muffled thud of an MK19, she would recoil like a startled rabbit and then dash to the next pitiful cover at an even faster pace, her eyes wide open.

But... can a person outrun a bullet?
Faced with firepower, running away and being brave lead to the same result.

Within minutes, the valley entrance fell silent, leaving only the smell of gunpowder and the heavy stench of blood in the air.

Those dozens of living people have been turned into a pile of incomplete and unrecognizable corpses.

The battalion commander, a major, reconfirmed the situation at the valley entrance through binoculars and issued new instructions via the communicator: "Cleanup team, move in quickly and clean up the trash."

The cleanup convoy, which had been waiting in the rear, received the order.

These were not troop carriers, but a special unit consisting of several military trucks covered with heavy canvas and two tracked excavators. The engines roared as they drove into this land that had just experienced a massacre, the tires and tracks grinding over the blood-soaked ground with a teeth-grinding sound.

The soldiers, wearing gas masks and thick rubber gloves, began their work in silence.

They worked in groups of three, extremely efficient, their movements mechanical and numb, as if they were not dealing with human remains, but rather cleaning up a pile of broken debris.

Two soldiers grabbed a relatively intact body by the ankles and armpits and threw it into the truck bed like a sack of grain.

Another soldier skillfully used a long metal hook to pull a severed limb from the bushes and toss it onto the truck. Internal organs and bits of flesh were shoveled up, mixed with dirt and gravel, and thrown into the truck. Blood dripped continuously from the gaps in the truck bed, forming dark red streaks in the dust.

“This job is fucking inhuman,” a young soldier muttered, his gloves already soaked in blood and slick with grime. “Shut up, finish this and call it a day,” an older soldier beside him snapped, as he used a hook to pull a man’s upper body out of a pile of wreckage; the man’s eyes were still wide open in a daze.

"Just think of it as cleaning up a slaughterhouse."

The excavator roared loudly, its massive metal bucket not for digging, but for shoveling and scraping. It roughly pushed together the piles of corpses and viscous material on the ground, making it easier for the soldiers to load them onto trucks.

In less than half an hour, the valley entrance was completely cleared.

Apart from the large patches of dark brown stains on the ground that could not be removed and the lingering stench in the air, it was almost impossible to tell that dozens of corpses had just been piled up here. The truck bed was covered and tied tightly with tarpaulin, but the strong smell of blood still emanated from it.

Instead of returning to the barracks, the convoy, guided by an armored vehicle, drove along a bumpy mountain path into the deeper valley.

The destination was a pre-selected natural giant pit, more than ten meters deep, surrounded by barren rocks and sparse withered grass.

The engineering corps that arrived earlier is already busy here.

Two excavators were widening the pit, their engines echoing loudly in the empty valley.

When the truck convoy arrived, a group of soldiers had already gathered at the edge of the pit, watching expressionlessly.

"Pour it down!" The engineering officer in charge on site waved his hand.

The first truck slowly reversed, its rear facing the deep pit. The soldiers untied the canvas ropes, and the rear panel of the truck bed suddenly opened.

The corpses poured down like a mudslide, crashing into the bottom of the pit with dull, thudding sounds.

Whole or broken, men's, women's, old... they piled up, collided, and overlapped at the bottom of the pit, followed by a second cart, a third cart...

There were already quite a few below, which clearly indicates that people from other places were also transporting goods here.

One pit buried at least several hundred people; it looked truly horrifying!
"Pour on the fuel," the officer ordered.

Several soldiers carried oil drums and evenly poured the pungent diesel fuel along the edge of the pit onto the newly covered soil. One soldier lit a cloth soaked in fuel and threw it down.

"boom!"

Flames suddenly shot up, burning close to the ground, billowing black smoke that carried the distinctive stench of burning flesh and hair.

"Amen." A soldier subconsciously tapped his chest a few times, only to be slapped on the back of the head by an old soldier next to him. "Do you want to die? Amen my foot, don't mess around."

In Mexico, Jesus isn't exactly a forbidden word, but it's not exactly a compliment either.

The flames burned for a long time until the diesel fuel ran out, at which point they gradually died down. The excavator continued to work, covering the charred, steaming surface with more and more fresh soil, layer after layer, until the huge grave was filled and compacted.

Finally, the soldiers scattered some of the dry grass and pebbles they had brought on the leveled ground, trying to make it look as similar as possible to the surrounding environment.

After completing all this, the convoy and personnel quickly withdrew. The valley returned to silence, as if nothing had happened.

Only the forcibly disturbed and deliberately disguised land, and the lingering, strange smell of blood, fuel, and burnt flesh in the air, silently tell the story of everything buried here.

A few kilometers away, at a makeshift field disinfection station, soldiers participating in the cleanup work were lining up, repeatedly rinsing their hands, boots, and tools with a powerful disinfectant.

The young soldier who had been complaining finally couldn't hold back any longer, took off his gas mask, and ran to the side to vomit violently.

He vomited violently, as if he wanted to completely empty his stomach, along with everything he had seen and smelled that day.

The veteran walked over and handed him a water bottle, his face still expressionless.

"You feel better after you throw up," the veteran said, his voice betraying neither comfort nor reassurance. "You'll get used to it. Remember, we're just following orders to clean up the trash."

The young soldier took the canteen, rinsed his mouth, and nodded palely.

"But there are quite a few inside..."

Before he could finish speaking, the veteran interrupted him, "I know you'll say many people are innocent, but what's the point of whether they're innocent or not?"

“When those people grow up and learn that the Mexican government killed their parents, even if their parents were guilty, when they face hardship later in life, they will only blame society. These people are potential sources of social instability, so…”

"We can't put the danger off until later!"

The recruit opened his mouth, but finally nodded.

There's never any truth to the idea that surrendering means losing half the battle...

Only the victor is king, and the loser is a bandit!
In the command post, Commander Joffre received a report that "the first clearing point has been completed." He simply drew a small red cross on the corresponding location on the battle map, then moved his gaze to the next marked point.

"Continue," he said into the microphone, his voice calm and steady.

……

The Michoacán Mountains are home to approximately 100,000 ethnic minorities, including many tribes besides the Kola.

About 30 kilometers from the Sanchez Gorge, at a place called "Eagle's Beak," the terrain is even more treacherous. A reinforced platoon of soldiers, relying on rock and sandbag fortifications, has blocked off this narrow ravine. The atmosphere here is equally tense, with the soldiers silently checking their weapons and waiting for any potential "targets."

A group of about 20 mountain people cautiously emerged from the depths of the valley. They were in a similar state to the Kora people who had been cleared out of the Sanchez Valley. They were all emaciated and pale, many with obvious sores and signs of illness. They walked with difficulty. They wore a mixture of clothing, some in rough homespun cloth, while others had changed into tattered shirts and trousers common among lowlanders. Although there were patterns on their faces and exposed skin, they seemed to be different from the classic battle markings of the Kora tribe described in the intelligence.

Lieutenant Eladio, in charge of the Eagle's Beak Gorge blockade, raised his binoculars, carefully observing the slowly approaching group.

"Ready," he whispered into the walkie-talkie. A series of soft clicks of gun safety being released echoed across the position.

As the crowd drew nearer, Eladio frowned slightly.

He noticed that the group seemed to have a higher proportion of elderly people, women and children, and that their demeanor was less one of fanaticism or stubbornness than one of utter numbness and fear. More importantly, none of them carried any decent weapons, only a few old machetes used for chopping wood.

At this moment, a middle-aged man in casual clothes with dark skin, standing next to Eladio, who was a local guide temporarily recruited to help identify the characteristics of the Kola tribe, spoke hesitantly:
"Sir... wait, something's not right."

Eladio's gaze remained fixed ahead: "Something's not right?"

“Their markings, and the way that woman is decorated with feathers on her head, don’t seem like those of the Kora people. They seem more like… like the Tao tribe who live in the mountains further west.” The guide’s voice was uncertain, but also tinged with worry.

Eladio did not respond immediately.

At this moment, the group of mountain people had entered an open area with no cover, less than two hundred meters away from the position.

They saw the soldiers standing ready and the dark muzzles of guns. The ranks froze instantly, and panic began to spread. Some instinctively raised their hands, others knelt on the ground, crying out in heavily accented Spanish mixed with their native tongue: "Don't shoot! We surrender! We just want food!"

The child was held tightly in the mother's arms, letting out suppressed sobs.

On the battlefield, the soldiers' fingers were on the triggers, awaiting the final command.

The guide grew even more anxious: "Sir, there might really be a mistake! Although the Tao tribe isn't exactly obedient, they're not allied with the Kola. They rarely participate in armed activities, mainly because..."

Eladio turned his head sharply, interrupting the guide, and said directly, "No, you didn't see clearly, these are the Kola people."

The guide froze, his mouth agape, the words stuck in his throat.

He looked into Eladio's eyes and instantly understood. A chill ran from the soles of his feet to the top of his head.

He realized that whether or not to differentiate was completely unimportant. What mattered was the order: to "clean up" all the "garbage" coming down the mountain.

The tribal insignia, at this moment, is merely an "error" that needs to be corrected, and clearly, the lieutenant has no intention of correcting this "error."

The guide's throat bobbed, and his face turned pale. He lowered his head, avoiding Eladio's gaze, and in an almost inaudible voice, with a slight tremor, he echoed, "Yes...yes, sir, you're right...I was mistaken, it's...it's the Kora."

Eladio stopped looking at him, turned back to the walkie-talkie, and clearly uttered the instruction that had been repeated countless times:
"Target confirmed: Kola militants and their associates. Open fire freely and eliminate them completely."

The next second, Eagle's Beak Gorge was filled with the sound of gunfire like popping beans and desperate screams.

The bursts of M16 rifle fire and the sweeping fire of M249 light machine gun bullets easily tore through those frail bodies, and the blood splattered on the gray-brown rocks was particularly glaring.

Those who tried to escape were taken down after only a few steps; those who knelt and begged for mercy were accurately shot through the head; and the mother holding her child, along with the toddler in her arms, were both pierced by bullets, fell to the ground, twitched slightly a few times, and then stopped moving.

The area that once housed twenty or thirty lives is now filled with scattered corpses and an overwhelming stench of blood.

The gunfire ceased, and the brief silence on the position was shrouded in smoke and the stench of death.

Lieutenant Eladio stared blankly at the scene before him and said into the walkie-talkie, "Cleanup team, move in."

Same procedure, different location. Soldiers in protective suits silently stepped forward and began to throw these "Tao" or "Kora"—corpses that were no longer important—onto trucks like they were handling waste.

The guide stood beside Eladio, his body trembling slightly, unable to bear looking at the horrific scene before him.

He stared intently at the tips of his shoes, as if there was something extremely attractive there.

Eladio glanced at him and said calmly, "Remember, those who are trying to break through the military blockade here today are only the stubborn Kola militants and their protectors. There is no Tao, and there is no misunderstanding, understand?"

The guide nodded vigorously, his voice hoarse: "Understood, sir! Only the Kola people!"

“Very good.” Eladio turned around and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a law-abiding citizen. Come on, smile.”

The guide forced a smile.

? ? ? ?
...(An old saying—for peace and safety!)
(End of this chapter)