Chapter 118 Any treaty without the gentleman's signature is just a pile of scrap paper!
"Fire!"
Zolf Sherman's command was merciless.
But such was the nature of the drug war.
In a 2017 anti-drug operation in Chiapas State, drug traffickers did just that, arming the farmers who worked for them and sending them charging at the military and police.
They even prepared cameras on the side.
This directly resulted in the death of 19 military and police officers.
Pick up a weapon, and you're a drug trafficker!
But the members of the Counter-Terrorism Mobile Unit weren't recruits from the system; they were starving paupers just a few months ago, given food by Victor.
Facing these people, they couldn't bring themselves to pull the trigger; they even started stepping back.
Zolf Sherman's face changed, he kicked a gunman out of the way, snatched the Ultimax machine gun from his hands, and swept it across the approaching crowd.
"They're drug traffickers! Drug traffickers! Drug traffickers!"
As the bullets fired, the muscles of Zolf Sherman's face quivered with each shot, his voice turned into a roar.
A middle-aged man with red eyes plunged a manure fork straight into the neck of a trainee officer, the stench of blood and dung instantly filled the officer's nostrils as he stared, eyes wide, at the person in front of him...
Those who grow drugs for drug traffickers are drug traffickers themselves, aren't they?
An officer who had survived the "Mexicali Drug War" now lay dead beneath a manure fork.
The sound of screams made all the officers shudder in an instant.
Finally, someone picked up their weapon and fought back.
Bullets swept through.
"Drum!" Zolf Sherman shouted to his machine gun assistant, who quickly pulled out a drum from his tactical vest and handed it to him.
The former expertly tapped slightly; the empty drum fell, and the new one snapped right into place.
"Charge! Annihilate the drug traffickers!" Zolf Sherman cried out as he led the charge into the valley with the machine gun.
Seeing his sinister trick was useless, the drug lord turned pale with fear upon seeing the police charge and hurriedly signaled the artillery position to fire!
"Boss, this is going to blow us up too," a subordinate said, eyes wide, voice trembling.
There were a lot of relatives out there.
The drug lord, long stripped of his humanity, kicked the subordinate away and snarled, "If we lose the valley plantation, do you think any of us can survive?"
The subordinate shuddered, a flicker of fear in his eyes.
Guzman was famously cruel to his enemies and even more brutal to his own people. During Godfather Gallardo's era, he was known for his ruthlessness.
In charge of Sinaloa logistics, anyone who failed to ship the goods would be personally killed by him, along with their families.
If they lost such a large plantation, damn it, wouldn't Guzman kill them without a chance of rebirth?
The drug-trafficking artillery forces, having received the order, the leader busily directed the traffickers to load, but the guy he had kicked earlier was obviously a bit... stupid.
That guy... loaded the shell upside down!
And then, damn it, the chamber exploded!!!
Screams of agony erupted all at once.
A civilian helicopter appeared in the sky, its side emblazoned with: Grupo de periódicos mexicanos (Mexican Newspaper Group)!
Someone was seen holding a camera and filming from above.
Beneath them, the valley floor was scorched black.
Hundreds of drug traffickers, their bodies engulfed in flames, screamed as they rolled on the ground; but the flames eagerly invaded their mouths, burning them from the inside out.
"This is too cruel!" The photographer, unable to hold back, began to vomit, his headphone cord dangling amidst the foul smell in the air.
However, the female reporter beside him remained calm. She swallowed hard, "This... this is a massacre!"
"Against whom?" a colleague asked.
The female reporter was at a loss for words. She certainly couldn't say it was against drug traffickers, but still, she pointed down and said, "There must be many drug traffickers' relatives down there. Are they guilty? These police killed them without a trial; isn't that a crime?"
Her colleague looked at her as if she was an idiot.
Has she been f***ed silly by sleeping with the bosses?
"Can you go accuse Victor of this?"
The female reporter was so angry that she trembled, snatching the equipment from the photographer's hands to capture the scene—she felt a responsibility to show it to everyone.
...
Brave and his companion, Freckles, were bound. Seeing the white phosphorus in the sky, both men's eyes bulged.
"Damn it, Brave, they have white phosphorus rounds. Is this the police? Or the army?"
Brave's face was a mixture of black and blue, and the pain from his body made him groan involuntarily.
"You see that's white phosphorus rounds?" The Senior Police Sergeant holding them came over, squinting at Freckles.
Brave sensed something was off with the man's mood.
"No s***, I have eyes!" Freckles, his hands bound, spat.
The Senior Police Sergeant chuckled.
He drew his dagger and plunged it straight into the Freckles' eye!
"Aaaaahhhhhhh!!!!" The intense pain made Freckles scream uncontrollably, rolling on the ground.
"F***! F***! What are you doing?" Brave was shocked by the scene, listening to his companion's howls of pain, "We are Americans!"
"Americans?"
Following the incident with Qiqi, Americans indeed received a certain special treatment in Mexico.
"But you also are drug traffickers, aren't you?" The Senior Police Sergeant said with a smile, stepping on the writhing Freckles, his gaze fixed on Brave, "What was that you said it was just now?"
Brave's face turned green.
F***ing madmen!
This was more terrifying than any armed fighter he'd seen in the Middle East.
"What is it! Answer me! Idiot!"
Brave trembled and blurted out, "Pepsi!"
...