Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 734 What the hell are you doing!
Time: January 15, 1996, night

Location: Hope Creek, a Mexican-American working-class neighborhood north of Portland, Maine.

The name "Hope Creek" is ironic, as there is no creek here, only muddy roads and low, cramped wooden houses where hundreds of Mexican laborers and their families live.

They came in pursuit of the "American Dream".

This is a legacy issue. Mexico has had frequent conflicts in recent years, including the war on drugs, and these people actually fled during that time.

If something happens in Mexico, of course people will run to the US. Where else would they run to? Africa?
A small pub on the edge of the community was bustling with noise.

But unlike usual, tonight's gathering wasn't for workers finishing a hard day's work and relaxing with a beer, but for a group of men with fervent eyes.

They are members of the “White Brotherhood of North America” in the local area and surrounding regions, primarily composed of disillusioned ranchers, unemployed workers, alcoholic gamblers, and outright racist thugs.

Just like many non-governmental organizations, do you think that if it's a non-governmental organization, what good stuff can you expect from its members?
If I open a brothel, what kind of high-class prostitutes can I get?
Is this true?
George W. Bush's speech a few days ago, "Rebuilding America's Glory," was like a spark that landed on their tinderbox of resentment and prejudice.

“That Texas kid’s right! America is ours! Look outside, our jobs are being stolen, our wealth is being taken away.” A burly man with a face full of scars, named Brock, took a big gulp of whiskey and slammed his glass down on the wooden table with a loud bang. He was the main instigator of this action.

“Those Mexicans, they shouldn’t be here!” another tall, thin man nicknamed “Nail” chimed in, nervously wiping the blade of a hunting knife.

What's the use of just talking without doing anything?

Brock's crimson eyes swept over the twenty-odd accomplices present. "We need to teach them a lesson! Let these brown-skinned bastards know who's in charge here. Tonight, we'll turn Hope Creek into Despair Valley!"

Alcohol, extremist ideologies, and dissatisfaction with reality all mixed together, plus the social climate—holy crap!

It's all the Mexicans' fault.

If it weren't for Viktor's anti-drug campaign, if it weren't for Viktor fighting the war with the United States, would these people have lost their jobs?

At 11 p.m., the rain intensified slightly.

Several dilapidated pickup trucks and sedans, with their lights off, drove silently into the outskirts of the "Hope Creek" community, their engine roars drowned out by the sound of rain.

The car door opened, and pairs of mud-covered boots stepped onto the ground.

"Remember! Quick and decisive!" Brock growled, pulling the pump of his Remington 870 shotgun, producing a crisp and terrifying "click."

Brock pulled the trigger on the window of the nearest cabin. "Boom!" The immense power of the shotgun shattered the window and frame instantly, sending glass and wood chips flying everywhere. From inside came a woman's screams and a child's cries.

Other thugs also went berserk.

They rushed toward the dimly lit houses, smashing doors with rifle butts, kicking open flimsy door panels, and then firing at the panicked figures inside.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

"what--!"

Please! No!

Gunshots, cries, pleas for mercy, and the rioters' laughter and curses mingled together instantly, drowning out the sound of the rain.

The beam of the flashlight swayed wildly in the darkness, illuminating horrified, distorted faces and splattered blood.

An elderly man had just opened the door to check the situation when he was shot in the chest and staggered to the ground.

A young couple tried to escape through the back window. The husband was shot in the back with a shotgun and fell into the mud. The wife was dragged back and stabbed by the mob while screaming.

The children huddled under the bed, trembling, listening to the demonic footsteps and the screams of their loved ones outside.

Rainwater mixed with blood, pooling into pale red streams on the muddy ground. A heavy stench of blood began to permeate the air, which even the cold rain could not wash away.

In a relatively sturdier house in the community center lived Juan Martinez, a veteran of the old Mexican army who came to the United States to make a living after being discharged due to injury.

PS: Actually, he was driven here by Viktor.

He was awakened as soon as the gunshot rang out. He quickly woke his family and told them to hide in the basement, while he dragged a heavy wooden box out from under the bed.

Inside was a well-maintained old M4 carbine and several rows of stripper clips.

"Stay here, and don't come out under any circumstances!"

After speaking to his wife and children, Juan took a deep breath. Having experienced war, he knew that when facing beasts, the only way was to fight fire with fire.

and…

I can't beat the Mexican regular army, but I can't beat you little punks?
It's like this: the battalion commander's army was trash during the civil war, but when it went to Southeast Asia, without exaggeration, it could easily sweep through Thailand, Myanmar, Vietnam, the Philippines, and Malaysia, right?

Back then, those little brats called Baldy trash, saying he couldn't even beat those "country bumpkins," but when they actually got to it, hey, I have to say, it's amazing that Baldy survived.

That's why the opponents are different.

Lee Chong Wei is often referred to as the runner-up, but he is the second in the world, not the second in his neighborhood.

Juan quietly moved to the window and saw the shadowy figures moving outside and the rampant violence. Anger burned in his chest. He saw his elderly neighbor lying in a pool of blood, and he saw thugs dragging a young girl out of the house...

Juan quickly loaded the bullet into the rifle and pulled the bolt.

Just then, two thugs spotted the house, which appeared to be uncleaned, and walked over, cursing as they went. One of them raised a pistol and pointed it at the door lock.

Juan did not hesitate.

He aimed and pulled the trigger!

"Bang! Boom!"

The thug with the gun fell to the ground, a burst of blood erupting from his chest.

The other thug was stunned and hadn't reacted when a bullet came flying in, piercing his shoulder. He screamed and fell to the ground.

"There are people inside! They have guns!" the fallen thug shouted hoarsely.

In a nearby house, a young man, his eyes reddening, saw Juan's actions, grabbed his double-barreled shotgun used for self-defense, and pulled the trigger from the window at a rioter who was setting fire outside.

In another corner, several laborers who had been hiding picked up shovels and axes and, taking advantage of the moment when the rioters' attention was drawn by the gunfire, pounced out of the shadows and began to fight with them while roaring.

Despite the haste and rudimentary weapons, the instinct for survival and the anger of being driven to the brink of despair unleashed astonishing power in these laborers who had been accumulating resentment.

The workers must have a lot of grievances.

Using their familiarity with the terrain, they moved between houses, shooting at or throwing objects at the rioters from behind windows and doors.

The rain intensified, further reducing visibility.

The community turned into a chaotic killing field, and the mob's previously smooth slaughter was thwarted, resulting in casualties.

As "Nail" rushed into a house, a man hiding behind the door slashed his neck with a machete. Blood gushed out like a fountain, and he collapsed, clutching his wound in disbelief.

Brock was both shocked and furious. "Leave no one alive!"

He roared and fired wildly with his shotgun in any direction that made a sound, sending wood chips and broken bricks flying everywhere.

Juan, relying on his veteran experience, took down three thugs in succession, but his position was also exposed. Brock and several others surrounded his house, and bullets rained down on the walls.

"Come out! You Mexican bastard!" Brock roared from outside.

Juan leaned against the wall, panting heavily, and muttered to himself, "Damn it, those Americans are bastards just like Viktor!!!"

He took a deep breath of the damp air, thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood, and checked the bullets in his rifle one last time, his eyes resolute.

The scene was horrific.

The streets and in front of houses were littered with corpses, some of them those of rioters, but mostly those of Mexican-American laborers and their families. Rainwater mixed with blood, and thick smoke billowed from burning houses.

Horrible!

Under intense pressure from the White House, the Hope Creek massacre case saw the swift arrest of more than a dozen members of the "Brotherhood of White Americans," including Brock, who were directly involved in the massacre, in an attempt to quell the situation.

The diversity of races fully demonstrates that the technology for preventing miscarriage is very good. On the same day that the arrest was carried out, Cynthia Watkins, a state congresswoman from Maine known for her radical conservative views, put on a highly inflammatory performance outside her office in the capital, Augusta.

She invited reporters from several local television stations, and in front of the cameras, she had a mannequin with the words "illegal immigrant" written on it placed on a chair.

Councillor Cynthia has a great figure. Well... she used to be a local escort, and then she ran for councillor and actually got the job. She's known for her boldness.

Facing the camera, she spoke eloquently, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are in the midst of a war, a war for our way of life, for pure American blood. Tolerance? Diversity? Those are just excuses for the weak!”

As she spoke, she drew a Glock 19 pistol from her waist, smoothly cocked it with a "click," and pressed the muzzle directly against the back of the dummy's head.

"What we need to deal with these parasites eroding our country, these Mexican Americans who refuse to integrate and even attempt to usurp our rights, is not lengthy legal trials, but this!"

"boom!!!"

The deafening gunshots echoed along the edge of the state capitol plaza.

The dummy's head was instantly blown apart by the immense kinetic energy of a 9mm pistol bullet, sending filler flying everywhere.

Congresswoman Cynthia, holding a still-smoking pistol, pointed it at the camera with a mixture of paranoia and shrewdness. She shrieked, "See? This is the most efficient way to solve things! Clean house, defend our home! White blood and civilization must not be defiled!"

These remarks and this shocking scene greatly inflamed already simmering racist sentiments.

In Maine, discriminatory remarks, threats, and sporadic acts of violence against Mexican Americans and all Latinos are escalating.

It arrived on the afternoon of January 16th.

First, an unverified message suddenly spread rapidly: "A devout white Christian family in Auburn, consisting of five people, including three young children, was robbed and brutally murdered by a group of Mexican criminals! The children were all killed in such a terrible way!"

The details of the message are vague and the source is a mystery, but the content is extremely impactful.

Despite attempts by calm individuals to investigate, it was discovered that the police had not received any related reports, and the so-called "Aubin Town family annihilation case" was completely fabricated.

But the truth is irrelevant at this moment; people only want to believe what they want to believe.

Human nature is inherently evil!
2 p.m., Augusta, in the "Foothill Neighbourhood," a predominantly Mexican neighborhood.

A medium-sized supermarket called "Aztec Market," run by Mexican immigrants, was operating as usual when suddenly a dozen men wearing white hoods, with only their eyes showing, and carrying rifles, shotguns, and clubs, jumped out of a vehicle.

"For the dead children!" "Go back to Mexico!" they shouted, and began smashing the supermarket's glass doors and windows without saying a word.

The shop owner, a Mexican man in his fifties named Katie, rushed out in a panic to try and stop them: "Stop! What are you doing?!"

"Bang!" A gunshot rang out in response, but it wasn't aimed at him. A thug fired a shot into the ceiling, causing screams from the customers inside the store.

"Give me all the money! And everything of value!" The leader of the thugs pointed a gun at Katie.

"No! You can't do this!" Katie's eighteen-year-old daughter, Maria, rushed out from behind, trying to protect her father and the family shop.

“Little Mexican bitch!” another thug cursed, seemingly enraged by Maria’s resistance, and raised his hand to fire a shot at Katie.

Blood blossomed from Katie's chest as she staggered and collapsed. "Daddy!!!" Maria screamed in anguish, rushing toward her father.

"boom!"

Another gunshot.

Maria's screams stopped abruptly, a bloody hole appeared on her forehead, and she collapsed limply beside her father.

The daughter's death was like the collapse of the last dam.

The rioters completely lost their last shred of pretense, and stormed into the supermarket, shouting wildly as they began indiscriminately beating, smashing, looting, and burning.

The surrounding shops, those owned by Mexicans or of Latino descent, were all devastated. Cries, gunshots, smashing, and maniacal laughter mingled together, plunging the entire neighborhood into hellish chaos.

Augusta police quickly arrived at the scene after receiving a report. However, after some police cars stopped, the officers who got out, seeing the chaos before them, did not immediately stop the rioters.

One of the officers even said into the walkie-talkie, "Boss, things are out of control. It's those 'White Brotherhood' guys 'executing justice.' Should we wait and see?"

Before he could finish speaking, in another police car next to him, a young policeman looked at the smashed shop and the corpse lying on the ground, a hint of pity flashing in his eyes. He was about to step forward when his partner, an older policeman with a fierce face, grabbed him.

The older policeman lowered his voice, "Don't get involved, kid. These Mexicans deserve it. If the higher-ups don't want to get involved, why should we be the ones to stick our necks out?"

He even took out a cigarette, leaned against the hood of the police car, and coldly watched the rioters set a furniture store on fire, the flames reflecting off his expressionless face.

Some police officers not only failed to stop the violence, but also tacitly approved or even indirectly participated in blocking the streets to prevent people of other ethnicities from coming to the rescue.

The news quickly reached the 133rd Infantry Battalion of the National Guard stationed outside Augusta. This battalion was also suffering from unpaid wages, and the soldiers were full of resentment. In addition, the morale of the troops was already unstable due to the influence of local extreme public opinion.

When rumors of "white families being wiped out" and distorted reports of "Mexican riots in the city" reached the military camp, the atmosphere inside exploded instantly.

"Damn it! Those Mexican bastards killed our men, the cops are all useless!" A sergeant major named Jackson kicked over the chair in front of him. He was a well-known hardliner in the battalion and a sympathizer of the "White Brotherhood".

"Brothers!" Jackson shouted to the equally agitated soldiers who had gathered around him, "The government isn't paying us, and the police are useless! Are we just going to watch those bastards who stole our jobs and are now killing our fellow citizens get away with it? Are our guns just sticks?!"

"No!" dozens of soldiers roared, their eyes red.

"What are you waiting for?!"

Jackson raised his M16A2 rifle. "Come with me! Let's go into town and 'maintain order'! Make those guys spit out our stuff!"

In the chaos, a group of about forty or fifty soldiers, armed and shouting, rushed toward the armory, wanting to get more ammunition; some even tried to drive away.

"Halt! What are you doing?! Get back to the barracks immediately! That's an order!" A duty officer rushed over upon hearing the news, spreading his arms to block the armory door. He was pale-faced but tried to maintain discipline.

Jackson stopped and looked at the young officer with a cold gaze. He recognized him; he was a "rookie" who had just graduated from military academy.

"Lieutenant, move aside."

"Sergeant Major! I order you! Disband your men immediately!" The lieutenant forced himself to remain calm and raised his voice.

Jackson's facial muscles twitched, and he abruptly raised his M16, aiming it at the lieutenant's chest almost without hesitation.

"boom!"

The crisp sound of gunfire was particularly jarring within the military camp.

The young lieutenant looked down in disbelief at the bullet hole gushing blood from his chest, then looked up at Jackson, before falling straight backward.

"Who else wants to block our way?!"

Jackson, gun muzzle puffing smoke, roared at the other stunned officers and the few soldiers who still tried to stop him, "Get out of the way if you don't want to die! Don't block our way from making money!"

This shot shattered the last vestiges of order in the military camp.

After the initial shock, more soldiers were swept up by a frenzied herd mentality and a desire to plunder, joining the ranks of the rioters. They drove military trucks, jeeps, and even armored personnel carriers, smashing open the base gates and roaring into the already infernal city of Augusta.

Grab it.

Military pay was everywhere.

Military rations were everywhere.

……

On the special train in Quintana Roo, Victor sat with his legs crossed, a summary document on the progress of the investigation into the mine incident between his fingers, his face growing increasingly grim as he flipped through it.

The highest-ranking "person in charge" mentioned in the document is merely a deputy official in a region. This tactic of sacrificing a pawn to save the king is an insult to his intelligence!
He slammed the file down on Adenauer's face. "Damn it, are they trying to protect each other?"

Governor Conrad's legs trembled, and he almost knelt down. Just then, Casare, Kennedy from the military, and Anatoly Lunacharski, the nominal president of Mexico, all walked in hurriedly at the same time.

The simultaneous appearance of these three giants must mean something's wrong.

Viktor swallowed back the rebuke that was on the tip of his tongue. "Conrad, I'm not satisfied. Get out and investigate again. I need to see heads that will give me some peace of mind. Otherwise, you can throw yourself into that mine pit!"

Konrad Adenauer trembled with fear, cold sweat instantly beading on his forehead. He hurriedly bent down to pick up the scattered documents, repeatedly replying, "Yes, yes, Leader, I will reinvestigate immediately and give you a satisfactory explanation!" Then he practically ran, clenching his buttocks as he fled the suffocating carriage.

The carriage doors closed again.

Victor's gaze swept over the three core members in front of him, finally landing on Casare: "Tell me, what's the matter that made all three of you come here together? Has the sky fallen?"

Casare took a deep breath, stepped forward, and said in a heavy voice, "Boss, we just received urgent intelligence. A large-scale racially motivated massacre targeting our Mexican compatriots has occurred in Maine, USA. Preliminary estimates suggest the death toll has exceeded a thousand, and the unrest is still ongoing, so the number is likely to rise."

Victor frowned.

Kennedy, dressed in military uniform, had already stepped forward.
"We cannot stand idly by while our compatriots are slaughtered overseas. I suggest that we immediately dispatch a naval task force to the Gulf of Maine and reach the waters off Maine. We must use the strongest possible stance to tell the Americans, and the world, that the life and legal rights of every Mexican citizen must be respected and protected! Mexico's dignity cannot be trampled on!"

Victor looked at his old buddy. "What's your real thought?"

The principle of "punishing even those far away" is certainly a matter of national integrity, but self-interest is also acceptable.

Kennedy paused for a moment, then said, “From a strategic perspective, Maine borders Canada, which is rich in resources and has huge market potential. We can, and must, use this extremely serious ‘anti-Mexico’ incident to turn the crisis into an opportunity. Under the pretext of protecting our citizens, establishing a safe zone, and pursuing accountability and compensation, we can fight for the right to station troops or have a military presence in Maine! This will be a strategic nail driven into the east coast of North America, and its significance is no less than when we took Texas!”

President Lunacharski, though playing a largely symbolic role, nodded solemnly: "General Kennedy's proposal, though radical, aligns with the fundamental interests of our nation and the emotional needs of our people. Leader, in terms of international opinion, we now stand on the moral high ground."

Since it's not easy to be a good person, of course I should hold onto it.

Viktor pondered quietly.

About two minutes later.

"Lunacharsky".

"I'm here."

"Immediately issue the strongest diplomatic note to the U.S. federal government in the name of the government, using extremely strong language, condemning this as 'a state-sanctioned act of genocide against the Mexican people,' demanding that they immediately take all necessary measures to stop the atrocities, punish the perpetrators, and provide full and public compensation for the loss of life and property of our nationals! At the same time, send telegrams to the world, exposing the human tragedy that has occurred in Maine."

"Yes!"

Kennedy.

“Leader!” Kennedy stood ramrod straight.

"Your proposal is approved. The military will immediately formulate a plan. Form a task force, carrying Marines and necessary support troops, and complete the assembly within 24 hours. Head towards the Gulf of Maine. Remember, be quick and decisive!"

"Understood! Promise to complete the task!"

"Casare, you are responsible for coordinating all government departments, activating all propaganda machinery, and creating a wave of support for our compatriots overseas. At the same time, on the international stage, unite all forces that can be united to exert maximum pressure on the Bush administration."

"give it to me."

The three men accepted the order and quickly left the carriage.

Viktor picked up his cigar again and took a deep drag.

"Maine...Canada..."

"With the right to station troops, is Canada far behind?"

……

George W. Bush had a noticeable blister on the corner of his mouth, and his swollen gums made his speech somewhat slurred, but this did not affect the intensity and "creativity" of his curses at all.

"Cynthia Watkins, that brainless, stupid bitch! All she thinks about is blondes and big boobs, she has absolutely no political sense! Can't her pig brain tell when to perform and when to fucking shut up?! Shooting in this sensitive time? Why doesn't she just shoot her own stupid face in the mirror?! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!!"

He grabbed an exquisite gilded pen holder from the table, intending to smash it, but he held back halfway up and finally just slammed it heavily onto the thick carpet with a dull thud.

He paced back and forth in the office like a caged beast, his chest heaving violently.

"It's because of so many self-righteous idiots and so many bastards who have no bottom line for votes that this country has become like this! Democracy? Freedom? To hell with it! These people don't deserve such beautiful words! They're hopeless, absolutely hopeless!"

One king leading four fools—who can manage that?
Tell me, how do you lead a team like this?
He felt a deep-seated weariness and powerlessness, and the absurdity of sitting in the highest position of power yet finding himself unable to maintain even the most basic order almost consumed him.

He slumped back into his chair, rubbing his throbbing temples hard with the heel of his hand; his blood pressure was about to explode.

Just then, the office door was flung open, and Chief of Staff Karl Rove practically jogged in, clutching a newly received telegram tightly in his hand.

George W. Bush raised his bloodshot eyes and looked at his most trusted assistant's panicked expression, his heart skipping a beat.

“Tell me, Carl, what bad news is it now? Is it that those 'White Brotherhood' lunatics aren't satisfied with killing anymore and have started eating people? Or has the National Guard of some state declared independence? Damn it, I really hope aliens have invaded, at least that would unite our damn country for five minutes!”

Karl Rove, panting heavily, forced a bitter smile—more like a grimace—on his face upon hearing the president's despairingly sarcastic remarks.
"Mr. President, the aliens didn't come, but the Mexicans did."

George W. Bush didn't react immediately, or rather, subconsciously refused to react, "What do you mean?"
Karl Rove handed over the telegram. "It's from the Atlantic Fleet. We've just received urgent intelligence: a Mexican Navy task force consisting of amphibious assault ships, destroyers, and frigates has left their home port on the Yucatan Peninsula and is transiting the Florida Straits at full speed, heading northeast towards the Gulf of Maine!"

George W. Bush grabbed the telegram, his eyes fixed on the text and the marked flight path predictions.

He crumpled the telegram into a ball and slammed it against the wall.

"That son of a bitch Victor! He's been waiting for this opportunity! That damned opportunist, he's trying to use this to get his foot on the east coast of North America!!"

"Maine Bay...Maine Bay..."

Bush frowned. "Go and call the defense minister."

"Should we retaliate?" Chief of Staff Karl Rove asked softly. "The army may not always obey orders."

Bush took a deep breath and plopped down in the chair.

I really want to go back to being a fisherman, carefree and without a worry in the world.

They're all useless.

……

(End of this chapter)