Chapter 1315: Chapter 638: There Are Always Those Who Fear Nothing
The headlines of global media are like a powder keg ignited:
The New York Times: “Medellin Evaporates: Colombian City Disappearance Sparks Global Panic, Mexico’s Deafening Silence!”
BBC: “Millions of Lives in Suspense, Medellin Vanishes, Victor’s ‘New Order’ Casts Shadow Over Latin America!”
Figaro Newspaper: “Humanitarian Disaster? National Crime? Medellin Mystery Challenges International Conscience!”
Al Jazeera: “Ghost Town in Satellite Images: Medellin Empty, Mexico Faces Unprecedented Pressure!”
On the television screen, eye-catching headlines roll, accompanied by blurry so-called “Medellin periphery anomaly images” or old footage of deserted streets.
Experts in the studio argue till their faces turn red, fear spreading across the globe through airwaves.
The participation of celebrities and opinion leaders pushes public opinion to a boiling point:
A Nobel Prize in Literature laureate posts a long article on social media condemning: “Medellin, the soul city of Colombia, ruthlessly erased! Victor must answer! This is a violation of civilization!”
The accompanying picture is a shattered heart symbolizing Colombia.
The chairman of a renowned international human rights organization issues a strongly worded statement in Geneva: “Regardless of the reason, disappearing a city and its residents is an unforgivable crime against humanity! The Victor regime must be completely isolated and sanctioned!”
Diplomatic pressure is like a landslide.
The Mexican Ministry of Foreign Affairs building is brightly lit all night, protest notes piling up like snowflakes.
In front of the embassies in Mexico, protest crowds hold signs high, journalists’ cameras pointed at tightly closed doors.
The world seems to have only one voice left: Victor must explain!
Of course, no one believes there’s no unseen hand driving this situation.
But in that familiar office at the National Palace, Victor remains calm, having seen all kinds of major situations before, dismissing it as mere bluster,
“Beep—Beep—Beep—” A red phone on the desk, directly connected to the core command chain, rings, its tone strikingly abrupt in the silence.
Victor raises his head, his gaze falling on the handset.
He doesn’t immediately answer, letting it ring twice more, then calmly picks up the receiver, placing it to his ear.
“It’s me.”
On the other end, Casare’s voice comes through, “Boss, a message has come back from the Medellin frontline troops, the initial checks in the area are complete.”
Victor’s gaze remains fixed ahead, only his fingers tighten slightly around the receiver.
Casare continues, “It’s being confirmed that there are persons with substantial ties to the Medellin drug cartel, including key members, armed militants, drug manufacturers, money launderers, protectors, and the core of their families, as well as young adults deeply involved in trafficking, but these 48 hours aren’t enough.”
“Boss, this time… we’re really being ‘besieged’!”
Victor falls silent immediately, then calmly says, “What good can come from shouting for the drug trafficker?”
Too damn extreme!
“How many clean ones are left in Medellin?” Victor asks.
“Very few, Pablo had many die-hard supporters locally, and he often did favors for these poor people, so many are tied to him in various ways.”
Casare pauses as he says this, his voice slightly trembling, “Boss, I feel we’re about to make it into the history books.”
Victor frowns tightly, not saying a word.
Meanwhile, in Medellin.
On the outskirts, in the Nameless Canyon,
The air is filled with the smell of gunpowder, earth, and an overwhelmingly thick stench of blood.
Days ago, this was one of the clandestine routes controlled by the Medellin drug cartel, now it has turned into an execution ground.
The jagged rocks on both sides of the canyon cast long shadows in the dim light.
A group of emotionless soldiers in Mexican uniforms, like herding cattle, are escorting groups of ragged, hands-tied-backwards people toward the bottom of the canyon.
Among them are fierce-faced armed militants, dead-eyed drug manufacturers, well-dressed yet mud-covered “finance officers,” and many who appear to be ordinary young men, but their files or family ties have been marked as having “substantial ties to the drug cartel.”
Crying, swearing, and desperate prayers echo in the narrow valley, bounced back by the cold rocks, forming a suffocating resonance.
“Please! I was forced! I know nothing!” a young man sobs, legs weak, barely able to stand, dragged by two soldiers.
“You Mexicans! You’ll die a horrible death! Victor is the devil!” a scar-faced man roars, trying to resist, only to be struck hard on the face with a rifle butt, blood splattering, teeth falling.
Fear spreads like a plague among the crowd.
People lose control, the smell of urine mingling with blood; some stare blankly as if their souls have already departed; others struggle hysterically, resulting in more brutal beatings.
The soldiers silently carry out their orders.
They push these “associated persons” to a relatively open depression at the canyon’s bottom, ordering them to kneel, facing the rock wall. A row of black gun barrels rises behind them.
“Ready—”
The command is as emotionless as ice.
“No—!!!”
“Mom!”
The pleas and final cries are drowned out.
“Fire!”
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Dense gunfire erupts in the canyon, deafening. The
sound of bullets tearing through flesh is relentless, blood misting instantly, staining the gray-brown walls red, swiftly pooling into thick, dark red streams on the ground.