Working as a police officer in Mexico

The busiest ones tonight are definitely the journalists.

They're running from one scene to the next.

They had just been disappointed not to have figured out why Chris Farley was sent to the hospital when, lo and behold, news came that Victor had been attacked upon returning to his hotel.

They say he's dead!

Even his intestines and anus were blown out; the scene was extremely gruesome, with the body being incomplete.

A bunch of reporters then rushed to the scene as the FBI and local police set up the cordon.

The scene was too horrific to behold, with one car overturned by a dump truck, the A-pillar completely shattered, and in the car behind it, a body was being carried out, dressed in the attire of the United States Secret Service.

The body was riddled with bullets.

But this isn't what the reporters were after. Discover stories with empire

"Officer, is Mr. Victor dead?"

The grabbed FBI agent's face twitched, looking at the other party's excited expression, and took a deep breath, "No comment."

American journalists can't wait for a big scoop; if Bush died today, they would be laughing, at the very least the news would be hot, and they'd get their year-end bonus.

When Kennedy's skull cap flew off, there were those who scoffed, thinking a coconut had been cracked open.

The journalists who failed to get news were clearly dissatisfied, even going so far as to knock on doors, hoping to ask the neighboring residents.

"Wow! Such loud gunshots, my husband is deaf, and even he heard the crash and the gunfire," an old woman said excitedly, pointing to her husband in the wheelchair beside her, who was gesturing with his hands, mouth open, trying to speak, when suddenly... his dentures fell out.

"Did you see anything else?"

"Oh my, it scared me to death, how dare I look again? What if my head got shot off?"

The resigned reporter was about to leave when he saw a blond man with his girlfriend come over, standing right at the scene of the incident and shouting loudly, "Hey! Ladies and gentlemen, I have a tape in my hand, with everything that happened, who wants it? Highest bidder takes it! Starting bid is 2000 US Dollars!"

Have a look!

This is what you call business.

"I want it! I want it, give it to me!" a middle-aged reporter shouted loudly, quickly taking out his money to hand it over.

Seeing this, a colleague immediately shouted, "2500 US Dollars!"

"3000 US Dollars!"

"3500 US Dollars!"

The other tabloids, seeing this, quickly called their bosses to request funds.

Victor is even hotter than some Hollywood stars.

His temper and comments are always explosive.

Fellow journalists, roll up your sleeves!

Meanwhile, at the Wyndham Hotel.

Victor had received several "condolence calls," some from the United States and others from Mexico, and even Bush himself had called to say he would definitely look into it.

Upon hearing he was safe and sound, Cuauhtémoc let out a long sigh of relief, telling him seriously to take care of himself.

Then, hesitating for a moment, he mentioned that Kennedy had dispatched police to seal off the Spanish Office in Tijuana.

Victor raised an eyebrow upon hearing this, chuckling, "Kennedy has guts, I like that."

Cuauhtémoc rubbed his temples with a slight headache, moved the ashtray to one side, and leaned on the desk, "This is a serious diplomatic incident."

"Diplomacy? Not even close, the Spanish intelligence service is trying to overthrow me, there's been a rebellion on my turf!"

"What!"

Cuauhtémoc really didn't know this; after all, Tijuana is far from Mexico City in the south, and he had received a call from the Spanish ambassador saying the Anti-Drug Force had "immorally" surrounded the Office.

He was surprised to hear it.

Actually, it was mainly because he had been lucky, as all it should have taken was for the rebellion in Tijuana to succeed, and then the remnants in Mexico City would spring into action to bring Cuauhtémoc down, but without the anticipated support, the big move naturally couldn't be launched.

"He wants me dead, how can I let him live?" Victor said in a menacing tone, "I have to show that so-called King that now is not the time for monarchies, damn it."

"Victor, what are you going to do? Don't be rash," Cuauhtémoc asked nervously.

"It's nothing, just a few people dead, let the Spaniards come collect bodies tomorrow," Victor hung up the phone abruptly.

Right now, he was in a very bad mood, "I have been 'wronged' in the United States, Spain wants me dead, the gangsters want me dead, the drug traffickers want me dead.

****!

I'll see who dies first.

He didn't care if the Americans had bugged his room, even if they were listening and told the Spaniards, what could they do to Victor?

Could he have Victor wanted by the international courts?

"Call Kennedy."

Casare nodded busily, not daring to suffer his wrath, just listening to whatever the boss said.

Once connected, Victor took the phone and said directly, "I've learned about the situation in Tijuana, you should know I'm very angry, I have a bad temper, Mexico is not the Mexico of the past, anyone who dares to mess with us will have to pay, tell the boys, even Jaws in Tijuana needs to be fed, throw the Spaniards in."

"As for the other traitors..."

"I hope when I return, the city will be filled with shouts of my name."

"I understand," Kennedy responded gravely.

The message to come to the United States to clean up the gangs, Victor didn't say over the phone, he would deal with it upon returning.

Italy, at one time, relied on "Mexico's" thoughts to kill off the Mafia.

Victor would make the American gangsters understand what it means to "break twenty years of father-son relations with two baton swings" and "Three-page record shows father's name 50 times."

On the other end of the hung-up call, Kennedy frowned.

"Boss, what did the Director say?" the adjutant asked beside him.

"The boss said he's worried about Jaws at home being hungry."

????

The Director goes on a long trip and he's still damn concerned about animals?

"Tell James Ryan to throw the people from the Spanish Office into shark-infested waters."

The adjutant's face froze, damn, just as I thought, the Director, who could mistake a dog for a drug lord, wouldn't possibly care about how Jaws was doing at home.

Tsk tsk tsk…

Even if God converted to Buddhism, Victor would never change.

"Let them dress casually, like drug traffickers," Casare said.

"Understood!"

At this moment, in front of the Spanish Office.

James Ryan was eating instant noodles. He had drunk a bit of alcohol and his stomach was a little upset. He finished the noodles and even drank the soup in a few gulps, when he saw his police adviser running over, "Director."

"Go ahead."

The man leaned in and whispered in his ear.

James Ryan's eyes lit up, "Damn, I've been holding back a bellyful of fire; finally, I can take out those Spaniards."

"Cough, cough, drug traffickers, drug traffickers," the police adviser quickly corrected him, "I have prepared the clothes."

"Right, now I am Guzman! Detlef, take your officers to change into casual wear; today I'm taking you to let off some steam."

Another police officer standing nearby immediately responded.

Meanwhile, inside the Spanish Office.

The atmosphere was becoming increasingly tense.

The diplomat had made over a dozen phone calls. Back home, they said they would contact the Mexico side while those with close ties to Spain said they would help coordinate.

And then they just turned off their phones.

Damn it!

Could they be any more decisive?

The biggest pressure when you're surrounded is the mental strain.

Even the normally calm military officer was now looking tense, "No, Spain will not abandon us."

The diplomat was about to speak when shouts were heard in the hallway.

"Who are you! What are you doing? What are you doing!"n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Bang, bang!

Gunfire followed.

Both men's muscles tensed instantly, and soon, they saw a group of people rushing in.

"Director James Ryan? What are you doing?" the diplomat shouted, which baffled the intruders, but then the diplomat thought that if someone was looking to pick a fight, he would definitely recognize the key people from the Anti-Drug Force.

He might even sleep with their photos at night.

They even planned to pass off as Guzman.

It seemed, to no avail.

"Gentlemen, do you like seafood?" James Ryan asked with a grin.

...

The sky began to lighten.

Gradually, people started to get up early for work.

Many noticed that there were more police officers on the streets, armed to the teeth and watching the surroundings with sharp eyes.

At a breakfast stall.

The locals pointed at the patrolling officers and gossiped in hushed tones.

"You guys have no idea, my cousin is in the National Guard. We were playing cards last night, and he got called back suddenly; something big must have happened," a chubby man whispered to those around him while eating his cornbread.

"Camus, did your cousin say what happened?"

"Can you talk about Anti-Drug Force matters publicly? But I think it's no small matter. Think about it, how long has it been since gunfire last broke out in Tijuana? Drug traffickers and the Mafia, some fled and some died. Yesterday, they even deployed armed helicopters, buzzing over my house, scared me half to death," Camus shook his head.

Gossip is a natural instinct of ordinary people in all countries; the only thing that matters is not to become the subject of the gossip themselves.

"Enough, everyone, I don't want to be called in for interrogation over tea; let's not talk about this stuff," the stall owner said with an awkward smile.

The nearby breakfast crowd, mostly locals, heard this and cooperated, not talking about it anymore.

"This concludes our Tijuana morning news broadcast..."

The TV hanging nearby was showing the news, with the beautiful anchor just about to sign off when the director came running up to her, handing her a paper.

She looked at it, clearly startled, but then quickly composed herself.

"We just received news that, last night, a group led by Demetrius betrayed the anti-drug cause, attempting to take over the city hall and were shot on the spot by the Anti-Drug Force!"

"Starting today until August 17th, a nighttime military curfew is in effect. No entertainment venues are allowed to operate past ten o'clock in the evening!"

"No one is allowed on the streets past eleven o'clock at night; violators will face severe consequences!"

In just a few dozen words, the news was shocking.

Can 3 million people in Tijuana really be living under a "restricted" curfew?

Rebels last night?

What the hell, is this Mexico or Africa?

The people were stunned; could such things really happen in their own country? The last military coup in Mexico was in 1920; it's been decades since then, and they're still playing this game?

"Damn traitor, heartless as a wolf! Wasn't Mr. Victor doing fine? Rebellion? F***!" someone cursed loudly, with many others responding in kind.

All over the streets were people cursing and swearing.

But some, while cursing with their mouths, betrayed disappointment in their eyes. These ambitious figures would love nothing more than Victor's death.

With him gone, the structure would fall into chaos, and chaos brought the chance to profit.

There's a saying, isn't there?

The world is a makeshift stage, and everyone wants their turn to perform their grand play. Whether you can play a role depends on your ability.

Whether old stars will be pushed off stage by the up-and-coming wave also depends on your capabilities.

Don't get overtaken, and don't get dragged down.

Beneath the makeshift stage, you need to applaud and cheer. If you're not loud enough, the big shots on stage won't hear you, and you won't even have the chance to be a spectator.

So don't say Victor was too ruthless.

Anyone sitting in that position would be even more ruthless.