Working as a police officer in Mexico

I don't know if there are any good cops.

But as for the ones sitting here, every single one of them would have shit pulled out of them that damn well deserves a bullet, and a grenade on top of that to blow it all to hell.

The loyalty to the crown and country is practically written on Victor's forehead!

Could he be a bad guy?

It's just that the drug traffickers don't understand his hard work and dedication. How much better would it be if you all just lined up and let Victor mow you down with a burst of gunfire?

The Mexican drug lords were caught completely off guard by two pieces of news in a row!

Especially the death of Gallardo.

That marked the true end of an era!

"The big three of Guadalajara have all been taken out by Victor, right?" Juarez boss Aguilar muttered softly beside them.

Being a cop himself, he of course understood what an achievement this was.

It's like... planting potatoes in Siberia and then finding out that the potatoes actually bloomed... cherry blossoms?

Should be about the same.

Abrego's expression was equally solemn; only as Mexicans did they understand the achievement that Victor had accomplished.

Pablo and the people of the Cali Cartel actually knew Gallardo too.

The Colombians' KKY business was formed in collaboration with him at that time, and they had quite a good personal relationship. When Gallardo was captured, it was said that Pablo had even considered dispatching people to bust him out during the trial.

But alas... the distance was too great, so they called it off.

The atmosphere gradually stiffened...

When Miguel, the bigmouth, was about to keep talking, his brother Gilbert next to him pulled him back and glared at his little brother, whose mouth just wouldn't stay shut.

"After the Emmisi Steel Factory fell, there's virtually no barrier left in Sonora State. If Victor continues to move south, Sinaloa State will soon be engulfed in the flames of war,"

Guzman took a deep breath and analyzed the situation calmly. His gaze swept over everyone, "Then the territories we can control will become fewer and fewer."

"By then, another section of the US-Mexico border will be lost, our transportation routes will be cut off again, and the money each of you puts in your pocket every year will be several billion US Dollars less at the very least."

The cleverness of Guzman was that he did not place all the benefits on himself; he distributed them among everyone. Sinaloa was his stronghold; his mother and ancestral grave were still there.

He was still supporting several mistresses.

Telling them to help him fight Victor, they definitely wouldn't put in the effort, but mention losing a few billion, and they'd be instantly enraged!

After the Caribbean route was cut off by the Americans, the Colombians could only rely on Mexico for transportation, and both parties' interests lay along the same line.

Lose a few billion US Dollars?!

Take that money to Las Vegas in the United States, do you know what kind of treatment you can get? You could live like an Emperor, just make a phone call and any starlet you want will climb into your bed at night.

Bang!

Miguel slammed his hand forcefully on the coffee table beside him, and all the big bosses turned to look at him, "This cannot happen! Kill Victor!"

"Right, bro?"

His mistress needs to eat.

His sports car needs fuel.

Gilbert, with a furrowed brow nearby, slowly nodded his head, "The narcotics ecosystem in North America has been ruined by him. Is he moving history in reverse? What's he want, to be the Emperor of Mexico, the dictator of North America?"

"That's absolutely impossible, rest assured, we from the Cali Cartel will support you with all our might; we must overthrow this tyrant Victor."

"The Medellin Cartel as well," Pablo chimed in, not wanting to be left behind. He wiped his nose with a US dollar bill, which then, sticky with yellow fluid, he threw into the trash can.

This... is getting rather heated.

"Tomorrow at the new Justice Building, I plan to invite journalists to witness the founding of the North American Association!"

Fuck!

Calling reporters?

Playing it that big?

All present were shocked at his statement. Are you kidding me?

We are... villains, for crying out loud.

"Isn't this too high profile? The Americans might not be too happy about this," Gilbert thought carefully that it might not be a good idea. Isn't it better to make a low profile fortune?

But Miguel, with a fierce look on his face, was very excited. He was slightly mad.

It's a sort of domineering syndrome; nobody can argue with him except his big brother. Once in a bar, because of drinking, a bar girl mocked his alcohol tolerance, and then...

He brutally murdered her in front of a hundred people.

How brutal?

So brutal that even if it were written out, it would need to be censored.

In the end, he was arrested by the police, but was released after being held for only a few hours. And that's just the tip of the iceberg of his actions; once, in front of the media, he shouted boldly that "Colombia should be ruled by our brothers."

Arrogant and high-profile!

The polar opposite of his big brother.

His brother was notoriously... low-key.

Indeed, from one egg two different people can emerge.

"Bro, what's there to be afraid of? The Americans...we're already trafficking drugs, why fear them? Aren't they just the CIA, DEA? Just kill them off!"

"We've had surveillance on people from the American embassy in Colombia..."

Miguel blurted out carelessly on the side.

"Shut up!" Gilbert shouted angrily.

Frightened, Miguel began to shiver, and seeing the furious look on the other's face, he obediently closed his mouth. As a child... Miguel was frequently beaten, and back-talking meant a slap in the face—after the worst incident, he couldn't tell his ass from his face.

He's not afraid of anyone, except his own brother.

Gilbert felt the urge to strangle Miguel. Was spying on the American embassy something you could just blurt out?

He looked at the others, who all stared back at him with strange expressions. He forced a smile, "He's young..."n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

"He's 40, right?" Pablo, with a mean streak, said sarcastically on the side as he saw Miguel being scolded like a dog.

Hmm, a 40-year-old child.

Gilbert's face turned green.

Guzman, watching from the side, noticed something was off. Why were these Colombians so "discordant" internally?

"It doesn't matter if the Americans are happy or not, what matters is that we are happy. They'll hit us whether we keep a low profile or not. If we stand out, they'll just put in more effort, so what? The United States is so close to Mexico, anyone who wants to strike us, we'll kill their whole family!" Abrego's eyes turned sinister, which was quite frightening.

Damnit!

Another madman.

Guzman glanced at Aguilar, the speaker from Juarez, who looked worried. They exchanged looks.

He even began to feel a tinge of concern for the future of the North American Association.

"As long as we are ruthless enough, the Yanks aren't that scary. Haven't I killed enough CIA agents?" Pablo shrugged his shoulders and declared in a conclusive tone, "That settles it then, I'll take care of the matter with the journalist."

"I hope your choice is the right one!" Gilbert said.

"My ability ensures that I am always right, whatever I say 1+1 is, that's what it is." Pablo grinned.

In this heavy atmosphere, the "bigwig meeting" adjourned.

"I hope I'll hear about Javier Dominguez's death tonight, Guzman," Pablo said.

Shorty nodded, "No problem, his whole family will gather in heaven tonight."

"Need our intel?" Miguel turned his head, "We can find out which woman's room he's hiding in."

"I can handle it," Guzman forced a smile.

Walking out of the room, he saw Arturo standing outside. When Arturo saw him, he ran up, "Cousin."

Guzman nodded and hesitated, then stopped, "Arturo."

"What's wrong?"

"The Emmisi Steel Factory was breached by Victor. Everyone inside is dead, Alfredo... was in there too."

Arturo's expression went from shock to bewilderment, then his eyes widened in disbelief. His body swayed.

Guzman reached out, intending to catch him.

Suddenly a cry of alarm came through.

"What! Salsedo is dead?!"

Miguel held his phone, his face full of astonishment, followed by a stream of curses. The two brothers hurriedly left.

Guzman furrowed his brow, the engineer is gone?

Killed?

...

Botero Museum.

It's one of the must-visit places in Bogota.

It's known as Colombia's famous "one street," beside the museum there's also the famous local "human sculpture," where all are real people.

So, many curious tourists come here.

Plenty of vendors set up their stalls here, too.

Salsedo, wearing a newsboy cap and a coat, weaved through the crowd, his eyes scanning the surroundings.

Just as he decided to approach the familiar fried banana stall, he suddenly got blocked by a figure.

"Sir, would you like a balloon?"

Before him stood a clown, with a face painted so... oddly, as if it were crying and laughing at the same time.

"No thanks!" Salsedo frowned, waving his hand, wanting to leave, but the clown grabbed his arm, "Sir, if you don't want a balloon, maybe you could buy something else?"

"I'm also selling fried potatoes. Come have a look."

"No! I don't want any, don't bother me!" Salsedo said harshly, attempting to break free, but the clown's grip was tight, like pliers, not letting go, dragging him over by force.

The two men pulled and tugged at each other in the street, but no one came closer, instead looking on with strange expressions.

"Take a look, support the business, it's not easy to make money these days."

Salsedo, unable to shake him off, could only nod, "Alright, alright, let me go, let me see what else you have."

"There's fried chicken wings, and fries. Oh, and there's another good thing, take a look at this." The clown beckoned him closer, pointing to the fryer.

Salsedo frowned and leaned in, his body not yet steady, when suddenly a hand pushed down on his head from above!

His entire face was stuffed into the fryer!

With a sizzling sound just like frying sticks.

"Aaah!!"

Salsedo waved his hands furiously, knocking everything nearby over. Many tourists were around, and everyone was shocked by the scene, frantically fleeing, with trash cans overturned.

"Let's add some seasoning!" The clown chuckled, pouring chili powder vigorously into the fryer.

Salsedo's flailing fists hit the clown's chest. As soon as the hand on him let go, he broke free, his face... a mess of decay!

He cried out in agony and knelt on the ground. Who could endure such pain?

"Fries are up!"

The clown smiled, the outcome uncertain.

He grabbed a handful of bamboo skewers and started stabbing Salsedo's neck back and forth, his moves decisive and ruthless, making his neck and face look like honeycomb coal.

He drew his last breath.

He was one of the more gruesomely killed.

The clown, still not satisfied, chuckled, pulled out a grenade, yanked the pin, and stuffed it into the victim's clothes. Then he covered his ears and ran away with high steps, making strange noises as he went.

This... didn't seem like a normal person.

Boom~!!!

Gone... blown to bits.

...