Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 727 The bottom line is really gone.

A specially modified train, like a silent steel behemoth, sped smoothly along the tracks from Mexico City to Cancun in the south.

In addition to the regular carriages, the train had five special carriages attached to the back. The middle carriage was empty and served as a buffer and tactical isolation zone. The second carriage was for the Secret Service guards, ready to deal with any emergencies. Victor, Casare, and their core members were in the third to last carriage, which had been converted into a mobile command center and luxury suite, both comfortable and safe. Further ahead were carriages for supplies and some of the accompanying staff.

Choosing the train over the plane was a consistent principle of Viktor's.

main…

It's too easy for accidents to happen. And basically, when a plane crashes, it's the end of the story. But when a train crashes, the few who get blown to pieces like Zhang the bandit leader are a minority.

The planes carrying the presidents of Rwanda and Burundi were shot down in 1994!
This also led to the Rwandan genocide that occurred that year.

Fly less, and you'll ascend to heaven more easily.

Victor sat on the large leather sofa, a Marlboro cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the unusual celestial phenomena outside the window, his brow furrowed.

Mexico should be spring-like all year round, but at this moment, rare sleet is falling outside the window, and lead-gray clouds hang low, as if they are about to crush the whole world, exuding a suffocating sense of oppression.

This unusual weather seems to foreshadow that this southern tour will not be smooth sailing.

After taking office, Viktor became increasingly convinced of some "vague" omens.

Maybe…

Is this destiny?
“Boss.” Casare’s voice came from behind.

Victor didn't turn around, but he saw Casarte approaching in the reflection of the car window.

Casare reported softly, "I've already confirmed with Cancun that the governor of Quintana Roo and other key officials will be at the train station to welcome you. In addition, to ensure everything goes smoothly, an advance security team from the military has already arrived by military aircraft and is conducting a final comprehensive inspection of the train station and its surrounding area."

Viktor nodded slightly and exhaled a puff of blue smoke.

He disliked surprise attacks, as they were neither appropriate for his current position nor likely to create unnecessary pressure and suspicion for those genuinely dedicated to their work. He believed that the governors he had personally promoted and screened were reliable, at least in terms of loyalty.

However, the local political landscape is often deeply entrenched; a governor may be able to control the government, but not necessarily the tentacles lurking in the shadows. (None of my business! I didn't say anything!!!)

“George,” Victor said, his voice steady.

The accompanying Interior Secretary, George Smiley, immediately stood up from his seat a little further away and came over.

"Sir, what are your orders?"

"During our trip to Quintana Roo, does the Ministry of the Interior have any more in-depth information about the area, especially Cancun and the surrounding region?" Victor asked. "Besides the official reports about peace and prosperity."

George Smiley had learned his lesson, and now he was well-prepared. He reported in a low but clear voice: "Quintanaroo, on the surface, is absolutely reliant on tourism, with Cancun being a world-renowned holiday paradise. It is close to the Belize border and has historically had a rather tough and rugged population. According to our Department of the Interior's statistics, in the past year since you took office and strongly promoted your policies, traditional large-scale drug import cases have indeed decreased significantly by more than 99.9%, and the pressure on local police departments and garrison reports has been greatly reduced."

He then changed the subject, his tone becoming serious: "However, there is one very unusual statistic that is increasing exponentially, and that is the number of missing tourists."

Victor finally turned his head. "Missing tourists?"

“Yes,” Smiley affirmed. “The disappearances are mainly concentrated in Cancun and surrounding popular tourist areas such as Isla Mujeres and Tulum. Most of the missing persons are single or group tourists from the United States, Canada, and Europe, especially young women. The official number of cases has tripled compared to the previous year, but this is only the number of reported cases. The actual number is likely much higher. Many cases are hastily handled by local police with excuses such as ‘may have left on their own’ or ‘encountered an accident by the waves,’ or are simply suppressed. Our Ministry of Internal Affairs believes that there is likely one or more well-organized criminal networks specifically targeting foreign tourists behind this, involving kidnapping, extortion, and even more heinous crimes such as organ trafficking or human trafficking. They are very cunning, operate covertly, and… seem to be protected by some kind of local protectionism, otherwise they could not be so rampant and difficult to prosecute.”

Casare, listening nearby, frowned as well: "Targeting foreign tourists specifically? Are these local thugs trying to ruin Mexico's tourism industry, or do they think that if foreign tourists die, get maimed, or disappear, they won't attract the same attention from our government as our own citizens?"

Victor tapped his cigar lightly in the ashtray, the ashes falling, but his eyes grew increasingly sinister.

"Tourism is an important source of foreign exchange for Mexico and also reflects the country's image. To touch this 'cake' is to undermine the foundation of the country," he said slowly.

"More importantly, under my rule, how dare some people be so lawless, treating foreign tourists like lambs to the slaughter? Do they think my knife isn't sharp enough, or do they think that the emperor is too far away for me to control them in the Caribbean sea breeze?"

"Tell the advance team to keep their eyes peeled when searching the train station. Also, get our people in Cancun moving. I need to see preliminary reports on these missing persons cases before I arrive, the more detailed the better."

“Yes, boss!” Casare and George Smiley replied simultaneously.

The atmosphere inside the carriage immediately became even more tense.

Outside the window, rain and snow continued to pound against the glass. Under the dim sky, the train seemed to be heading into an unknown vortex fraught with danger.

Victor sat back down on the sofa, picked up his cigar, and took a deep drag.

"It seems that the first stop of this southern tour will not be boring. I hope that our friends in Quintana Roo have prepared their welcoming ceremony, and I also hope that they... will not give me a reason to leave."

……

The news that Victor's upcoming southern tour would begin in Cancun was like a thunderclap from a clear sky, or a wildfire that instantly burned through the veil of civility on the surface of Quintana Roo's political scene.

The rumors that were circulating were enough to make anyone with a guilty conscience uneasy.

Inside the state government building, officials hurried about, exchanging knowing glances. The usually sluggish paperwork process seemed to have sped up several times overnight.

Hernán Morales, the Deputy Minister of Commerce of Quintana Roo, a middle-aged man who usually pays attention to his appearance, had disheveled hair and his forehead was covered with fine beads of sweat. He didn't bother to wipe them away. He practically ran through the marble-tiled corridor, not even having time to respond to his secretary's greeting, and rushed straight to the door of the Deputy Minister of Health's office on the other side of the building.

He didn't care about etiquette anymore and just turned the doorknob and pushed the door open.

Inside his office, Deputy Minister of Health Alfred Márquez stood with his back to the door, intently watching the large screen television hanging on the wall. A thrilling horse race was being broadcast live, the commentator's voice hoarse with excitement.

Marquez gripped the remote control tightly in one hand, while his other hand was clenched into a fist with veins bulging on the back of his hand. He muttered unconsciously, "Faster! Faster! Hurricane, overtake it! Damn it, overtake it!" "Marquez!" Morales watched this scene, a surge of anger rising to his head.

bet!
Bet your mother's head.

Marquez was startled and whirled around, his face flushed with the excited and impatient glint of a gambler: "Hernan? What are you doing? Can't you see I'm at a crucial moment?!"

His gaze couldn't help but drift back to the television screen, where the racehorse he had placed a heavy bet on, named "Black Hurricane," was overtaken by another horse on the last bend, ultimately missing out on the winner.

"Damn it!" Marquez slammed the remote control onto the desk in a fit of rage, the expensive device shattering into pieces. His face contorted with frustration and anger, he turned to Morales. "You'd better have something fucking important to do!"

Morales strode forward and grabbed Márquez's arm. "Important news? Rodrigo, have you lost your mind from betting on horses?! Haven't you heard? Leader Victor is on his way here, and his special train has already departed!"

Marquez paused for a moment, then irritably shook off Morales's hand, bent down and took a bottle of chilled beer from the small refrigerator on the ground, bit off the cap with his teeth, and gulped down a large mouthful.

"So what if he comes? He's a national leader, isn't it normal for him to inspect the local areas? We just need to prepare our reports and arrange our reception, right? Why are you all so flustered, like the sky is falling?" He wiped the foam from his mouth, unconcerned. "Maybe it's an opportunity. If we handle the reception well, we might even get promoted."

"An opportunity?! To move around?!"

Morales was so angry he almost laughed out loud. He pointed at Marquez's nose, his finger trembling. "Rodrig, wake up, you bastard! Do you know what we've done?! Do you think he's one of those central officials who just come down to the gate, take some bribes, and then turn a blind eye? He's Victor! Don't tell me you haven't heard a word about what Michoacán looks like now!"

When "Michoacán" was mentioned, Márquez's impatience lessened slightly, and a barely perceptible fear flashed in his eyes, but he remained defiant: "Michoacán is Michoacán. There's a tribal armed rebellion there. What is this place? It's a tourist paradise, the face of Mexico! What we do... can it be compared to those armed conflicts?"

"Different? Ha."

Morales lowered his voice, leaning forward almost to his face, "Tell me, if the fact that we colluded with those private hospitals to forge medical records, overstate medical expenses, and defraud the federal government of healthcare funds is exposed, will it cost us our lives? And this is just the appetizer!"

He paused, "And...where are those lone tourists we kidnapped to cater to our special clients, those Americans, Canadians, Europeans...? Hmm? Where did their body parts go? Where did all that money, that blood-stained black money, go?! Alfred Márquez, don't forget where all that money you lost betting on horses, all that mansions and jewelry you bought for your mistresses, came from?! Do you really think it came from your meager salary?!"

This series of questions struck Márquez's heart like a heavy hammer. His expression finally changed completely, and the hand holding the beer bottle began to tremble slightly uncontrollably.

Victor's "Operation Iron Broom" in Michoacán, with its extreme cleaning methods, had already terrified some people. Of course, despite the fear, business still had to be done.

That wasn't a just trial; it was a merciless physical erasure. They might have been able to console themselves before, thinking that the authorities were far away, or that their methods were discreet enough, but Victor came in person…

Who knows when this thunder will explode?

"Then...then what do you suggest we do now?" Marquez's voice was dry and hoarse, filled with obvious panic. "Those hospital directors who know the inside story..."

"immediately!"

Morales' tone was urgent. "Call the directors of those hospitals you control. Use any means necessary—threats or bribes—to make them shut their mouths! Destroy all original records involving... special supplies and fraudulent reimbursements. Leave no trace! Also, those doctors who carried out the acts, especially the ones in charge of the surgeries, immediately arrange for them to leave Quintana Roo State and lay low for a while. The farther the better. They are absolutely not allowed to return without my notification!"

Marquez swallowed hard and nodded with difficulty. "I...I'll call right away." He frantically searched for his phone.

Morales grabbed his hand, his eyes flashing with a fierce light, like a beast driven to the brink: "There's something even more urgent! You said before that Curry is keeping a batch of 'goods' locked up. How many people are there exactly?"

Márquez paused, his eyes flickering, seemingly reluctant to answer the specific number, but under Morales's intense gaze, he finally whispered, "About 100 or so. Most of them were brought from the beaches of Cancun and Isla Mujeres in the last two months. They're all backpackers with no connections, so their disappearances aren't likely to cause a major diplomatic incident..."

“More than 100…” Morales gasped. Although he was somewhat prepared, the number still sent a chill down his spine.

He closed his eyes, his mind filled with the scene of his entire family being killed. When he opened them again, all that remained was the ruthless action he had to take to protect himself: "They can't live anymore, Rodrigo, not a single one can be left alive!"

"What?!" Márquez nearly jumped up in shock. "All of it?! That's...that's all money! And dealing with it..."

"Is money more important or life?!"

"If you die, your 19-year-old wife will take your money and marry someone else."

“I…I understand…” Marquez’s will to survive overwhelmed everything. “Then get rid of them, get rid of them all. Cleanly and efficiently.”

"Has the location been chosen?" Morales pressed, needing to make sure everything went perfectly.

“North of the city…that abandoned limestone quarry in the north of the city is very deep. Nobody ever goes there to bury it or pour cement on it…” Marquez said quickly, clearly not the first time he had dealt with this kind of “trouble.”

"Find trustworthy people who can keep their mouths shut," Morales instructed. "Be quick. Victor's train will arrive by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. We must eliminate all obvious evidence before he arrives!"

"Okay, I'll make arrangements right away."

Morales watched as Márquez started making a phone call and breathed a slight sigh of relief, but his heart was still pounding in his chest.

He had said enough. Seeing a teacup on the table, he wanted to take a sip, but as soon as he opened it, a stench hit him.

"What is this?!" he demanded, his face grim.

Alfred Márquez's expression froze, his eyes flashing. "The brain marrow of an infant X, eating it can keep you young forever."

Morales' eyes slowly widened, then he covered his mouth and ran to the side.

"Fuck XXXX!"

……

(End of this chapter)