Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1051 - 539: No War in Mexico

Chapter 1051 -539: No War in Mexico

“The artillery rained down like hail, the earth trembled, and our lives flickered like candles in the wind.” — “No Fighting on the Western Front”.

The streets of Medellin were still alight with thick smoke.

Pablo’s favorite café was also reduced to rubble.

People spontaneously went to the ruins to carry out those buried underneath; some were unrecognizable…

This airstrike affected an area of more than 150 square kilometers. Of course, it was scattered, not comparable to Berlin during World War II, nor to Li Mei’s barbecues.

Li Mei: Boss, sprinkle some salt on the wound!

The estimated number of casualties is expected to exceed 800 people.

After all, it was night.

You could hear the cries of relatives throughout the streets and alleys, as reporters walked through the streets, lightly stepping on burnt-out building materials, shattering them into dust.

Suddenly, a gaunt young man ran towards the camera, startling the group of reporters. Standing in front of the lens, he gritted his teeth and said in Spanish, “The great Pablo will bring us revenge!”

“Victory belongs to Pablo!!”

The crowd around also came close, shouting, and without knowing who started it, a shout of “Revenge! Revenge!” was raised.

Then everyone responded one after another.

“Quick, record this scene.” The reporter leading the BBC team had eyes shining.

Even more excited than when he found out his wife gave birth to a black baby.

“This is called public opinion. Victor is a butcher; he is resolving in a civilized society.”

But the young companions following him scoffed, uninterested.

There will certainly be condemnation, at most some token criticism, but you want them to get involved?

Impossible!

At the Bodezine Villa in Medellin, located by the Bolse River, this villa was built by the mad Pablo Escobar at a great expense because of his daughter’s birthday. He even spent 14 million US dollars to custom-make a life-size solid gold figurine placed next to a 2 million-dollar fountain…

Of course, now you can’t see it anymore.

They have all melted.

This was Pablo’s mansion, and naturally, it was also a key bombing area.

Who can withstand cluster bombs?

Even Ultraman would have to cry out loud.

At this moment, Pablo was kneeling on the ground, holding a charred Mickey Mouse toy, his entire body trembling, suppressing his emotions, and then, amidst the fearful gazes of everyone, he raised his head and laughed, “Hahaha…hahahaha…hahaha.”

“Boss.” Medellin’s number two, Ochoa, changed his expression. The doctor had already diagnosed him with a mental illness, unable to withstand too much stress, and now…

Sure enough, they saw Pablo grab a MAC-10 submachine gun from a drug trafficker beside him and start shooting at the surrounding underlings!

Rat-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!!

Many who didn’t have time to react were shot to the ground, clutching their legs and crying out in pain.

When the gun pointed at Ochoa, he felt a chill all over his body, even the hair on his tailbone stood on end.

Ochoa seemed to see his parents coming for him; oh, his father had been shot to death in chaos.

Anyone ever held at gunpoint knows, when you’re targeted, you feel like peeing.

Click! Click!

Red-eyed Pablo strained to pull the trigger, but the bullets had run out.

“Boss!”

Ochoa quickly shouted, only to see the murderous look in the other’s eyes clear up, then he loosened his grip, clutched his head, and knelt on the ground, wailing loudly.

The expensive suit was all covered with dust.

Ochoa breathed a sigh of relief. Looking at Pablo’s devastated appearance, he felt bad too. That cute little girl would call him “uncle” every time she saw him and even invite him to visit her doll collection room.

Now…all blown away!

Pablo poured immense affection onto his daughter named Manuela. In winter, because she once said she was cold, he burned 4 million dollars for warmth.

Pablo even told Ochoa that when his daughter turned eighteen, he planned to build a massive amusement park in her name, where every child in Colombia could play for free every day.

Yes…very rich, incredibly rich.

But now it has all come to an abrupt end, his daughter is gone… his wife Maria Victoria Henoa was in the United Kingdom recuperating because of an illness.

Ochoa slowly approached, pressing on Pablo’s shoulder. He didn’t know how to comfort the childhood friend who grew up with him; he could only say, “We need to retaliate. We will make Victor suffer the most painful harm!”

Pablo just lay on the ground crying as if he hadn’t heard.

Drug traffickers… have daughters too.

Ochoa squinted his eyes, his face filled with rage, “Victor is too despicable!”

Harming an innocent child!

…

“Innocent?”

Propaganda Minister Goebbels looked at the reporters below, frowning slightly, “No, no, no, her father used drug money to buy her new clothes and toys, built on others’ suffering. She enjoyed the benefits, so her death came without complaint.”

The female reporter below, dissatisfied with his sophistry, shouted, “She’s just a child!”

Goebbels leaned back slightly, revealing his double chin—he had been eating very well lately—and spread his hands, “So, we only bombed her. If she grew up and got involved in drug trafficking, we would bleed her out, hang her upside down on a balcony, and let eagles eat her.”

“The youngest victims at the Grand Commercial Plaza were only eight months old. Their deep-seated resentment, we cannot forget, nor will we forget. Reconciliation with drug traffickers is never possible; either they die, or we die!”

“The Mexicans are ready to be condemned by the whole world, but we will not stop our anti-drug efforts.”

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