Working as a police officer in Mexico

US-Mexico Border.

Below Santiago, a small town named Crested Butte with a total population of about 1,700 people.

The nearest border line is only about 600 meters away!

One can even see many Mexicans selling things through the separation fence.

On that side, Americans donned in new clothes; on this side, Mexicans with hunger in their belly waited for a kind person to feed them. A wire fence divided humanity into two kinds.

As for those Runren wishing to cross over, Victor believed in... out of sight, out of mind. If you want to go, then go, as long as the US border police let you through.

Just like Castro's "Mariel boatlift incident."

But don't you dare traffic drugs!

If you do, the patrolling police here might just put you down!

"Hey, Ross, try this—my mom made this bread for me, I saved a piece for you." An American white boy leaned against the wire fence, extending the food in his hand.

"Little Lyle, you can't reach through there, that's illegal."

A pot-bellied American cop came over with a smile, tapping the boy's hand with a baton, "If you stretch your hand through here, Victor on the other side will chop it off!"

Frightened, the white child's face turned pale.

"Hey! You fat pig, Mr. Victor would never bully a child." The Mexican kid on the other side had a wild streak, flipping the bird at the cop.

Angered, the American cop wanted to hit him.

"Make way, make way~"

It was at this moment a horn sounded, and everyone looked toward the sound, seeing more than a dozen police officers escorting over twenty drug traffickers to an open area.

These people, all hooded, trembled as they were pressed to the ground.

"Gentlemen, ladies, in the border areas of Baja California, there will now be a regular game: on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, drug traffickers will be hanged; on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, public hammerings will be conducted. Sundays will be random. Today, 22 drug traffickers will be subjected to hammering, as a warning to those who are considering drug trafficking!"

"Victor, watch closely!"

A police officer with the rank of Senior Police Sergeant shouted loudly.

"Carry out the execution!"

Then, one saw a burly cop with a hammer standing behind a drug trafficker, whirling the hammer and smashing it down hard. That head... tsk, tsk, tsk, was more of mush than diarrhea.

The warm blood splashed onto a nearby drug trafficker, causing him to convulse with fear.

But the next second, his head was also smashed open.

On the border line, the small vendors and residents on both sides were unusually quiet.

"Don't look, go home quickly." The American police were a bit queasy themselves, chasing away the locals, as they watched the drug traffickers' bodies strewn across the ground, muttering, "Savage tyrant!"

"Hey! Your blood better not flow over here, or that's illegal too," he shouted hoarsely.

The Mexican police, with a broom in hand, swept the blood back.

This was actually one of Victor's tactics for revenge.

You oppose my drug prohibition, do you?

Then I'll kill in front of you every day.

Of course, this was just one of the smaller measures. You, CIA, push me, and I, Victor, cannot swallow this humiliation!

You say I drove a suicide bomb truck to Langley and blew up your headquarters, to be honest, Victor is still a bit fearful, for if it really exploded, what would welcome him would be missiles.

After all, that's the homeland.

But I will mess with your North American Branch!

July 21, 1990.

Costa Rica. San Jose!

Bordering Canada to the north and the Gulf of Mexico to the south, with the Pacific Ocean to the west and the Atlantic Ocean to the east, this country contains the Caribbean Sea and has no police or military forces; Uncle Sam is in charge of the entire defense.

Quite a few American agencies have their North American branches established here.

Flap, flap~

Doves in the central square were flapping their wings, circling in the sky.

The CIA's Senior Assistant for North America, Mario Hamilton, was driving a convertible with his lover, basking in the sun and casually chatting about some fancy boudoir secrets.

"Do you want some ice cream?"

His lover nodded with a smile, "Of course."

Hamilton pushed the car door open and walked over to the ice cream truck. Speaking to the attendant wearing a clown hat, he said, "Two cones, please."

"Do you want a 7.62 or a 12-gauge?" the Clown asked.

Hamilton was taken aback. Since when did ice cream cones come in these models? But suddenly sensing that something was amiss, he was about to speak when he saw the Clown pull a shotgun and point it at his head, "Sorry, time for some 'bean curd brain'!"

He slid the cover down.

Pulled the trigger.

Boom!

Half of Hamilton's head was blown off, his body jerked, and he crumpled to the ground.

The CIA's Senior Assistant for North America was dead!

"Aaahhh!!!"

Shrieks filled the square along with crowds fleeing in terror. The Clown, shotgun in hand, vaulted over the ice cream cart, pointed at his terrified lover, and yelled, "Ma'am, please get out of the car!"

Frightened stiff with her limbs numb and pupils dilated, she shook uncontrollably.

Clearly short-tempered, the Clown sneered at her dallying, "Then let me help you."

Bang!

One shot and she was gone. He opened the door and dragged the body out.

He flipped open a panel and found a passage permit, perfectly timed as a silver-gray motorbike rode up. The Clown got on, spotted the approaching duty personnel, and fired at them. He raised his middle finger and shouted, "Long live the Sinaloa Group!"

Roar~

Twisting the throttle, the motorbike's exhaust blasted noise as it sped away.

"A shooting in the central square!"

Weaving through traffic, the Clown's wide-open mouth caught the wind, creating a gurgling sound.

Looking through the rearview mirror, the Knight yelled, "Jeff Bennett, what the hell are you doing!"

"Drinking the Northwest Wind! Keeps the belly full," the Clown shouted back.

Damn it!

There's no sane person in the Mexico International News Department.

After riding the motorbike for about seven or eight minutes, they reached "Mitchell Street", a hub for foreign offices in San Jose, and turned into an alley, spotting a white van.

The Clown casually tossed the permit into the van and saluted in the Roman style, "Hey!"

"God, nutcase," the driver cursed, while his companion in the passenger seat shrugged, "What normal person goes by the nickname Clown?"

"Gentlemen!"

"It's our turn now."

"The Minister's orders, rush in there, kill anyone from the CIA you see!"

"Boss, what if we don't know whether they're from the CIA?" someone from the back asked.

The co-pilot, a captain, was stunned before turning his head, "Idiot! Then make them take off their pants and count their rings!"

Count rings where?

The rebuked team member shrank back.

"Remember, we are now Sinaloa's gunmen, we serve Guzman!"

"Yes, sir!"

The van with 'Renovation Company' written on the side headed towards the North America CIA branch building. Sentries still stood at the door, but they were relaxed.

This was North America, Uncle Sam's turf; who would cause trouble here?

Even the KGB wouldn't make trouble out of nothing. They had serious internal issues and didn't have much time to provoke, with the main point of contention still being in the Middle East region.

So when they saw a strange vehicle approaching, they just came over to knock on the driver's window and ask.

"Sir, we are a cleaning company, here to help with the trash, this is our pass." The driver smiled and handed over the pass given by the Clown.

The sentry glanced at the six or seven men in the back, all wearing black work clothes that didn't show dirt, then eyed the steel stamp on the document and waved them through with a gesture of his hand.

American security... how to describe it?

In the 80s and 90s, flying in the United States, they wouldn't even check your carry-on, especially for women, or rather, women dressed sexily.

Strict security only came after the Millennium, when there were frequent flyers in the sky.

"We just got in so easily?" a team member in the back said in disbelief.

Americans are too arrogant!

"Follow the plan, place more bombs in the CIA's bathrooms."

The vehicle stopped in the office area, and a group of people got out carrying various tools and rushed into the CIA office building.

"Hey~ What are you doing?"

Just as they were about to go upstairs, a male worker came out of a room and called out to them.

"We are here to clean."n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

"Why wasn't I informed?"

The team leader signaled with his eyes to two members who approached, saying, "How could you not know, isn't this your contract?"

One covered his mouth and jerked a knife into his neck, while another quickly knelt to clean the blood off the floor and dragged the body into the office to stuff it into a filing cabinet.

"Head downstairs in three minutes, move out!"

In pairs, they split up and proceeded, one pair per floor, knocking on office doors and pulling out the silenced pistols from the buckets, shooting their targets swiftly and accurately.

But the operation couldn't be said to be entirely smooth.

Bang, bang, bang!

Gunfire suddenly erupted along with a scream, "Murder! Murder!"

The captain planting bombs in the toilet cursed and glanced at his watch as he walked out, seeing four or five people crowding in the corridor, looking like ordinary CIA employees.

He drew his gun and fired, several employees fell, and he went up to fire again.

"Retreat! Retreat!" shouted a companion at the stairwell corridor.

A group of people rushed downstairs while alarms started blaring in the entire building.

The military police outside heard the noise and rushed over, arriving just as the "cleaners" were coming out, immediately engaging them in a firefight.

"Clear the way!" shouted an agent, pulling an RPG from the vehicle and firing at the military police's cover in the flowerbed!

Whoosh~

Boom~

Tile fragments flew everywhere, and many military police were blown away.

"Get in the van!"

Two agents jumped in the van and started firing their assault rifles, suppressing their pursuers.

"The bombs, set off the bombs!"

The co-pilot captain pressed the button.

Boom, boom, boom!

The CIA building's two sides erupted in flames as a corner of the building exploded, screams of agony filling the air.

The van smashed through the roadblocks, tires screeching black drifting lines on the pavement, escaping before the pursuers could catch up.

The CIA North America building was bombed!!

This news instantly shocked San Jose, then radiated out to North America and the rest of the world.

The high-ranking officials in Costa Rica were so scared that their legs trembled.

Local TV stations went to the scene but were blocked from entering.

…

"Local time July 21st, an explosion occurred at the CIA North America building, currently resulting in up to a hundred casualties. According to informed sources, the armed individuals involved were well-coordinated, with good combat training, and it is not ruled out that they were an act by hostile forces," said a dark-skinned female reporter, talking into the microphone facing the camera.

Pfft~

Jokingly known as the "Clown," Jeff Bennett opened a can of Pepsi, the gas bursting out. He lay on the couch, watching the ruins of the CIA building on TV, and felt extremely relieved.

He was a formal employee of the Mexico International News Department, part of the Special Operations Group, commonly known as the ones who did the dirty work!

Ding, ding, ding~

The landline phone beside him rang. He took a sip of his drink and picked it up, "Hello~"

"Buddy, well done, the boss thinks you did great."

"Does that mean a raise?" Jeff Bennett asked.

Jason Bourne on the other side took a deep breath. Why did subordinates always want a raise? Couldn't they have other demands?

Faith!

Faith in drug prohibition, darn it!

"You're temporarily in charge of special operations in Colombia, Costa Rica, Panama, Nicaragua, Honduras, and El Salvador. Your salary will double on top of the current basis."

Jeff Bennett's eyes lit up, almost jumping on the couch, "Are there other requirements? Otherwise, the boss wouldn't suddenly promote me and give me a raise. He's not sending me to my death, is he?"

A fast-track promotion usually meant a suicide squad, right?

"Go assist Ethan Hunt in Colombia."

"What happened to him?"

Jason Bourne fell silent for a moment before saying, "He's been quite weak recently, working a bit too hard."

"???"

What did that mean?

But clearly, Jason Bourne didn't want to elaborate, changing the subject, "By the way, what's the follow-up on the CIA building incident?"

"Don't you worry!"

"My exclusive story has already been mailed to the television station in Costa Rica."

"Guaranteed to make a splash!"

...