Working as a police officer in Mexico

Santa Fe de Bogota, Cabrera district.

This is an affluent luxury area.

Living here are high-ranking officials, wealthy celebrities, and even many drug traffickers who have villas here.

The notorious Colombian Big Drug Trafficker Gonzalo Rodriguez used to live here, with the nickname "Mexicans," responsible for the militia branch under the Medellin Cartel, he was the confidant among confidants.

Well...

It was just last year, on December 15, 1989, that he was killed.

What does this imply?

Serving as Pablo's lapdog gets you killed quickly.

The head of Colombian Security, Carlos Yeras Restrepo, now around 60, with his reading glasses, was carefully wiping down a Winchester Defender 1300 shotgun, next to which bullets were propped up.

He had a "verbal" conflict with Pablo, dispatched soldiers to enforce a curfew strictly, and tried to maintain the facade of order.

But...

A laughable scene ensued, after Major General Isaac Asimov was killed, the parliament immediately pinned all the blame on him, stripped him of his position as Security Chief, and even withdrew all his bodyguards from around him.

It was completely groundless.

Has the Colombian Government Forces' lack of combat capability been a matter of just one or two days?

When have they ever hardened up?

But Restrepo smelled a conspiracy.

When he returned home, he dismissed all his servants, and he sent his son's family outside of Colombia, to Tijuana, Mexico to take refuge with Victor!

He was very lucid, aware that only a mode of "kill, kill, kill" could thoroughly eradicate the drug traffickers. In the United States, if you have no money, nobody will protect you. Moreover, there are many local gangs, drug syndicates, and black criminal organizations in the United States; they operate on money. Going there, one could get killed tomorrow.

In Tijuana...

Victor was watching over Mexico!

Himself?

Have you ever seen a fleeing Security Chief?

CNMD!

Behind Restrepo, a photo hung on the wall, showing his younger self, around 21 years old, in military uniform, his eyes revealing aspirations for the future.

Knock knock knock~

There suddenly came a knocking at the door.

Restrepo's hand paused, his breath halted abruptly, a sharp glint flickering in his murky eyes.

He flicked the Winchester Defender 1300 shotgun, staring intensely at the door. The knocking settled into silence, which seemed more like the oppressive calm before a storm!

peng!

peng!

Sure enough, after a few seconds, someone outside started kicking the door with great force.

CNMD!

Mr. Restrepo cursed quietly, Colombians were quite irritable, even extreme within the tumultuous Latin American region.

As everyone knows, there are three kinds of tempers: an Indian in heat, a drunken Russian Bear... and the brutes from the Silver Triangle.

He rushed to the door and decisively pulled the trigger!

12-gauge shotgun shells.

Hmm...

The door was blown open with a chilling blast, impacting the person on the other side as well—after that shot, clutching their abdomen, they moaned in pain outside but still had the decency to shout at others.

"Take cover!"

Restrepo took advantage of the situation to kill, but didn't forget to return to the dining table to relight the cigar he had left smoldering in his mouth.

Colombians!

Romantic.

He burst out of the room with the shotgun, which actually startled the gunmen outside into hesitation.

"That bastard Pablo dares to want my life?!"

"Where are his men?!"

The minister cocked the shotgun and heard another unlucky soul who hadn't reacted in time—a burst!

At close range, the shotgun was a "brain splatter machine"—one hit and the victim made no sound. Anyone making a second noise after that was definitely seeing ghosts.

The remaining gunmen scrambled to hide behind cars, not daring to lift their heads.

But the shotgun's magazine only held seven rounds.

Once they were done, it clicked!

Restrepo instinctively pulled the trigger again, but only the sound of an empty chamber clicking back responded. His heart sank, and as he looked up, he saw the gunmen standing, emptying their magazines at him.

Bang bang bang!

He must've been hit by more than 20 bullets; even athletes would shake their heads at that.

He fell heavily to the ground!

And he really kept his eyes open.

The skies over Colombia are really beautiful!

I'm so tired!

Finally, I can rest properly...

"Cut off his head! Mr. Pablo said, throw his head onto the government building!"

The once dignified Colombian security chief, though now preceded by "former," died so disgracefully!

Like many former security chiefs in Mexico, after retiring or resigning, they would fly to the United States overnight, not just to enjoy life but, most importantly, to avoid the "assassination" by drug traffickers.

You're useless now!

What's the point of keeping you around?

Professional ethics?

Drug traffickers don't have a damn ethical baseline.

These gunmen were clearly experienced, carrying Restrepo's head into City Hall and even honking the horn at the military police guarding outside.

Seeing "North American Drug Syndicate" written on the side of the assailants' vehicle, the government forces dared not utter a word, just looked at each other.

"Hey!"

The drug trafficker in the passenger seat poked his head out, whistled arrogantly, and when the gaze of all the military police was on him, he directly threw Restrepo's head on the ground without even a bag wrapped around it!

That's really cheap!

The head rolled into the middle of the road...intimidating everyone.

"In the future!"

"The daylight of Colombia belongs to us as well!"

...…

Mexico. Tijuana. Discover hidden content at empire

Outside the newly opened "Anti-Drug Education Exhibition," there was a huge crowd.

It's a local museum that had been renovated, with oppressive grey walls on the outside. Upon entering, you could see a phrase written by Victor at the entrance.

"We, are the guardians of the azure!"

To transform the values of the next generation, Victor mandated that all schools, factories, and government departments under his control must visit, while it was voluntary for others, with free admission.

How could they charge for such a museum with profound educational significance?

It fell into the PYZ.

To turn around the values of the next generation, Victor had really invested heavily.

Every day, when the museum was open, more than 20,000 people visited, and they even had to start restricting numbers.

However, some people didn't have to queue.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

For instance...

Members of the "Victor Sect" from the United States, there were 32 of them, all of whom were either White or of Asian descent.

Uh...

Sometimes you have to marvel, niggers are possibly maybe could be... good people, right?

Anyway, they weren't very keen on this kind of "righteous" cause, caring more about getting things for nothing.

Ptui!

The "Victor Sect" people's lodging and boarding were all covered by Victor, who also wanted to use them to expand his influence in the United States.

A blonde, blue-eyed tall...very tall... female guide was introducing the exhibits to them.

"This is a gold skull found in the Tijuana Cartel; DNA technology revealed that the skull belonged to a drug enforcement officer. After his sacrifice, those drug traffickers brutally dismembered him and covered his skull with a layer of gold leaf as a trophy."

"Under Mr. Victor's leadership, after we defeated this evil organization, we contacted his former teacher, who told us that after his sacrifice, his family also suffered retaliatory strikes from the traffickers, all..." the female guide said with a cry in her voice at the very end.

This is definitely what Victor taught.

So fake!

But some people really fell for it, at least the younger guys were listening seriously.

"Mr. Victor wants to ensure people remember this spirit and the police officer who dedicated himself to Mexico, he specifically left this here, everyone!"

"Sacrifice isn't scary, what's scary is being forgotten!"

"Mr. Victor does not allow a hero to bleed and cry."

Clap clap clap!

As soon as he finished speaking, the surrounding crowd started to applaud.

"Long live Mr. Victor!"

Who knows who shouted, but then that voice echoed wave after wave, filling the entire hall with cheers of long life?

The people of the "Victor Sect" looked at each other, a bit constrained.

But in the end, they joined in too.

And not far away, "by chance," a journalist passed by and captured this entire scene.

That hanging around his neck was a work pass.

"Mexico News Department!"

...