Working as a police officer in Mexico

Victor's live execution clearly caused a "backlash".

It was mainly just too disgusting.

Those despots in Africa don't count, after all, Niger has always been ostracized from the human race.

The Tijuana Governor's Office's external phone lines were jammed.

And it was all damn foreigners.

As soon as the young girl picked up the phone, the person on the other end started cursing furiously.

"Fuck! Tyrant! Tyrant! You will all be judged, God will not forgive you, you son of a bitch!"

After cursing, they'd hang up directly.

The young girl was so angry she was about to cry.

Casare just happened to be doing a round and saw her teary state, so he asked what was wrong. After she told him what happened, Fat Casare felt a bit of pity, cursed a couple of times, and then.

He told her to unplug the telephone line!

Nothing can escape "Physical Attack"; even later, in the age of information and internet, things like Pandas burning incense, "shockwaves", Troy viruses, and so on, they seem formidable.

But what then?

I unplug the network cable, and you've all got to call me daddy.

But Casare wasn't as calm on the surface as he appeared, he hurried back to Victor's office, "Boss, boss..."

He recounted everything that had just happened.

Victor, unimpressed: "Do you think the moon needs to care about the provocation of fireflies? The mouth is on them, if they want to curse, can we even block their mouths?"

Casare felt the boss was right, but still felt like the boss had no other choice.

If you've got the guts, let those protesting mob appear at the door. Let's see if Victor won't blast your brains out.

Keyboard warriors are really annoying when they hide behind their screens.

"Don't pay any attention to what others say, as long as we are strong enough, these rumors will cease to exist!"

The most important thing is to learn to pick sides.

Victor had already contacted the FBI, and while they said his actions were a bit much, they wouldn't damage US-Mexico relations.

It's just the mother of a drug trafficker, isn't it?

When their own FBI agent was tortured to death by a drug trafficker, no one condemned the trafficker, those people are just full.

Who would stand up for a drug trafficker?

Some people just verbally condemn Victor's inhumanity; after all, condemnation is also a business.

The only people he offended are the drug trafficking community, and since he hasn't stolen anyone else's interests, who would be so full as to actually stand up for him?

The world is a grassroots troupe; everyone hopes for a problem to occur on stage so they can stand below and jeer, but nobody wants to be the first to punch and kick the clown.

However, the FBI still hopes that Victor will be more gentle in his methods in the future.

After all, before the Soviet Union fell, the Yanks still needed some face, and they didn't want their own boy to become a great devil.

The words of his godfather, Victor would still listen.

If worse comes to worst...

just wear a hood next time.

Thump thump~

There was a knock at the door, then Jason Bourne walked in, handing a file to Victor, "Sir, Guzman has been hospitalized."

"Oh?"

Victor raised his eyebrows.

"An informant said that after Guzman's mother was slaughtered and he watched the live broadcast, he fainted and was taken to the hospital. We don't know his current condition."

"It's like heaven has opened its eyes, may he die of anger," Casare said cheerfully.

"If it were so easy for him to die of anger, he wouldn't be Guzman. But he must be having a tough time. Have the informant dig a bit deeper."

Jason Bourne nodded, "Should we send someone to the hospital...?"

Victor, with a furrowed brow, tapped the desk, contemplating, "No rush, what if it's a trick by him? Let's just wait and see."

"Maybe..."

"He's faking illness?"

In fact, Victor was overthinking it.

When Guzman was rushed to the hospital, and after the doctors completed a full-body check, a piece of news directly stunned Arturo.

"Brainstem hemorrhage?!" He glared at the doctor opposite him, who felt goosebumps from his stare and nodded, "Too much emotional fluctuation, caused cerebral hemorrhage."

Upon hearing this, the bodyguards standing next to him were all dumbfounded; they weren't highly educated, but they had heard of such a disease, and if it's too late, it's all over.

The boss is dying?

"Is there a cure?" Arturo asked nervously. He was scared. If Guzman passed away, what would happen to all his wealth?

To whom?

His eldest son had been killed, and the rest were still young. Even whether they could survive if he died was uncertain, considering Guzman had quite a few enemies.

As for brothers and sisters...

Just a bunch of good-for-nothings.

Does that mean he also has an opportunity?

With his heart racing, Arturo thought, could he "inherit" Sinaloa Group? If it were possible, even sending Guzman off would be okay.

After all, the taewon of the Great Korean Empire, who had frustrated "Dirt-Digging Immortal" Kuriyama Chūdō, a member of the "Nuclear-Inviting Immortals", to become the top graduate of the Military Academy, Li Yin, had to call his own brother "father" to become the Emperor, hadn't he?

If he could take the helm of Sinaloa, he too could call Guzman dad!

Arturo's mental drama was extensive and his expression was full of fear, insecurity, and indecision.

"Mr. Guzman was brought in on time, he won't have life-threatening issues... but," the doctor stuttered.

"But what! Who the fuck taught you to talk like that," Arturo, furious, went up and slapped the doctor so hard his glasses flew off, swelling his face with the impact.

"But he will be hemiplegic and mobility will be impaired. If he doesn't undergo rehabilitation, he'll be bedridden for life!" the doctor shouted, clutching his head.

!!!!

Hemiplegic?!

Arturo's mouth hung open, and seeing this, the doctor slipped away into the operating room.

The bodyguards looked at each other, somewhat at a loss, all turning their gaze to him.

Arturo took a deep breath, "Don't panic just yet, let's keep this a secret for now. Anyone who leaks it, I'll kill his entire family. Do you understand?"

The bodyguards stiffened and nodded eagerly.

"Go back and take out all the servants in the mansion, make it clean," said Arturo.

"What about here..." a bodyguard asked hesitantly.

"What are you worried about with me here?" Arturo raised an eyebrow, "Now get going!"

True, since they are cousins, it's natural to care when your own cousin falls ill.

The bodyguards hurriedly left the hospital.

This must not get out!

Otherwise, even if this slack organization doesn't collapse in an instant, at the very least, it would throw everyone into a state of panic.

After all, subverting one's superior is not a maneuver exclusive to the RB people.

Which drug trafficker has ever taken power cleanly?

"Big brother..." Carlos, who was standing nearby, suddenly called out, anxiety clear in his voice, "Cousin, what if he becomes paralyzed?"

Arturo fell silent for a moment, "As long as he's still alive, that's what matters."

"But what if Victor decides to attack now?"

"We'll send our cousin down south for recuperation. Tell God's Battalion to hold off, not to provoke that tyrant, and to temporarily suspend the conflict."

"Go south? Will cousin agree to that?" Carlos asked, furrowing his brow.

"He'll agree. We're doing this for his own good; he'll listen," Arturo said, looking at his younger brother.

Carlos looked into his brother's eyes, he wasn't a fool, and in an instant his eyes widened as if he had come to a realization.

"Brother... you!"

"Stop overthinking, Cou... Guzman is still alive."

Great, hearing about Guzman's paralysis has essentially laid all the cards on the table.

"Does he think I don't know how Hector died? He deliberately sent my second brother to Mexico City to his death!"

Carlos' breathing became rapid. He didn't have much affection for his incompetent second brother; his eyes reflected a glint of light followed swiftly by a savage gleam, "Should we...?"

"Kill him, and both you and I would be shot to pieces!" Arturo squinted, "Eight out of ten men in God's Battalion are loyal to him. What we need to do now is to take it slow. Guzman will definitely need to recover for a while, we can use this time to build our own forces."

"Sinaloa is still under the North American Drug Syndicate, we rely on Pablo. After Guzman goes south, you'll be responsible for looking after him. Remember, absolutely do not let him have contact with others. If he's ill, he needs to recover properly."

At the very least, a pontine hemorrhage requires several months of bed rest; these months are a perfect opportunity for us.

Controlling Guzman to command the respects of Sinaloa's powerful!

Arturo is ambitious too.

And what if people below start to suspect something?

Am I not Guzman's close cousin and trusted royal guard—would I rebel?

Cousin, you are merely observing from the shadows.

Just like the eunuchs who once ruled from behind the scenes.

"Understood. Even if he needs to take a shit, I'll make sure he does it lying in bed!" Carlos nodded vigorously, his expression grave.

When the wolf king is strong, no one dares to challenge him, but when he can barely walk straight, even a dog must bark a few times.

In Mexico, no big brother lasts forever.

Everyone yearns for the top spot.

If Guzman can do it, why can't I, Arturo?

"Now it's just the two of us brothers left. Beltran Leyva can become a name that spans the ages!"

Arturo muttered to himself.

...

Outside the city of "San Blas" in Sinaloa.

Two soldiers dressed in "Xiuhtecuhtli! (Drug Alliance Army)" uniforms carefully approached the river, carrying a bucket. One held a gun, scanning the surroundings vigilantly.

As one of them scooped up a bucket of water and was about to lift it.

A gunshot was heard.

Bang!

A flock of birds was startled into flight above the opposite riverbank.

The alert armed guard hadn't even reacted before seeing his companion's head burst open, the bucket falling to the ground and the water spilling out. The corpse leaned forward and fell.

Upon witnessing this, he ran for his life!

Dropping all his weapons.

Run!

Sniper!

He saw the hills. If he could just get there, he would survive. The desire to live had him run viciously towards it... Almost there. Almost there.

Bang!

A massive shockwave hit his back, breaking his spine, then a hole burst through his chest, and his body heavily collapsed to the ground.

"Simon! That's the seventh one."

In the woods, the spotter gave a thumbs up to a sniper lying on a small mound, praising him.

Simon Haye's face tensed into a smile as he pulled the bolt of his Barrett rifle.

"More are coming." The spotter observed through his binoculars, then suddenly said, "Wait!"

"They're waving a white flag, are they surrendering?"

"Surrender? Shouldn't they be raising their hands?" Simon Haye muttered.

"Those are French. Hold your fire for now, I'll report this." The spotter patted his shoulder and moved to the back.

But Simon Haye just lay still, looking through his sniper scope to see that the ones waving the white flag were two women?

They were clearly shocked when they saw the corpse, their faces filled with panic, continuously looking back.

The next second.

Simon Haye realized why.

A group of 4 or 5 armed men climbed over the other side of the hill, their weapons and equipment even more sophisticated.

"Los Zetas!"

That old rival!

Seeing the identifying tag on their uniform, Simon Haye murmured to himself, aiming at one of the taller figures.

He fired!

The shot was a direct hit.

The head was gone...

"The eighth one!"

...