Chapter 1307: Chapter 634: Let Your Nonsense Fly Away with Your Cover
Villarquez wanted to shoot again, but the crossfire from the 141th Special Battalion finally caught his exposed moment!
“Puff puff puff!” Several bullets viciously drilled into his body, and the tremendous impact slammed him against the wall.
He groaned, blood rapidly stained his tactical vest, but he didn’t fall, his eyes burning with crazed fire, still trying to lift the gun barrel.
At that moment, under the cover of the 141th Special Battalion members, Carlos struggled to get up from the ground, somehow managing to obtain a small yet powerful sawed-off shotgun!
His face was a mixture of intense fear and hysterical madness as he let out an out-of-tune roar at Villarquez, who was leaning against the wall, covered in blood, just a few meters away, “Die! John!”
BAM!!—!
The shotgun roared at close range, deafening!
At such close distance, unless you are Iron Man.
The dense steel pellets, like the sickle of death, instantly enveloped Villarquez’s upper body! The massive impact sent his body flying backward, crashing heavily onto the devastated floor, leaving a terrifying radial splatter of blood and flesh on the wall.
The air was filled with smoke, the acrid smell of gunpowder and heavy stench of blood mixed together.
Villarquez lay in a pool of blood, his body convulsing violently, his chest almost blown apart. His bloodshot eyes stared incredulously, unwaveringly at Carlos’s direction, making wheezing sounds from his throat, seemingly still wanting to question, but life was rapidly ebbing away.
Carlos gripped the still-smoking shotgun, his whole body shaking like a leaf, his stomach churning as he looked at Villarquez’s tragic state. John McTavish, leading the 141th Special Battalion, walked coldly to Villlarquez’s side, confirming he posed no more threats, then tersely reported into the radio: “Target eliminated.”
He glanced at the shattered Carlos, with no warmth in his eyes: “Mr. Carlos, the transaction is complete, your head, temporarily safe.”
He emphasized the word “temporarily.”
Carlos’s legs gave way, collapsing to the ground, the shotgun clattering into the pool of blood with a dull thud.
In the safe house, only the dense smoke, the smell of blood, and a deathly silence remained. Villarquez’s eyes, not closed in death, seemingly continued to silently curse the betrayer.
Carlos sat slumped on the cold, blood-stained floor of the safe house, Villarquez’s wide-open eyes seemingly branded into his soul.
He was somewhat… somewhat afraid!
The Medellin Cartel will not forgive a traitor, his only way to survive is to wholly defect to the Mexicans, exchanging with the submission of Medellin’s “order” for his own survival.
Under the watchful eyes of the Mexican Special Forces members, ones of almost an escorting nature, Carlos was led to a relatively intact room deep inside the safe house.
There was a piece of equipment here directly connected to the Medellin Cartel’s internal emergency broadcast system. His hands were still shaking violently, barely able to hold the microphone, cold sweat dripping from his forehead, Villarquez’s gaping chest wound flashing before his eyes.
He took a deep breath, using all his strength to suppress the urge to vomit, leaning closer to the microphone. His voice, through the loudspeaker, instantly spread to key areas, hideouts, and radio networks controlled by the Medellin Cartel:
“All… all Medellin brothers… I am Carlos Leder!” His voice carried an unmaskable tremble and falsely composed calmness, “Listen! On orders of Medellin’s acting boss, I command you to put down!”
The broadcast was followed by a burst of ear-piercing static noise, as if the whole city gasped in shock.
“Resistance… is futile!” Carlos nearly shouted, filled with a hoarse desperation, “Put down your weapons! Put them down! The Mexican Army has control over the situation! I… I guarantee with my honor, lay down your arms, come out of the cover, they will ensure your safety! No trial! We… we still have a chance for negotiation! Stop the bloodshed! For the sake of your families, lay down your arms!”
“Honor?! Carlos Leder! You filthy traitor! Swine! Do you still have honor?!”
Almost as the broadcast ended, another voice erupted with extreme fury on another channel of the internal communication, overshadowing the remnants of Carlos’s voice.
It was “Black Panther” Estrada, a branch under the Medellin Cartel, controlling several key drug production and armed strongholds in the west of the city.
“Brothers! Don’t listen to this pile of crap talking nonsense! He sold himself to the Mexicans! He betrayed us all! Estrada’s voice was filled with frenzied hatred and incitement, guarantee safety? Bullshit! Don’t you already know what kind of bastard the Mexican Victor is? Abandon illusions, prepare to fight!”
“Traitor Carlos! Do you want to trade the blood of brothers for your miserable life?! Dream on!” Another vicious voice joined in, from a faction leader controlling the northern transport lines.
“Pick up your guns! Fight these Mexican bastards!”
“Take down that bastard Carlos!”
“Fight our way out! Medellin will never surrender!”
…
Carlos’s broadcast was like a spark thrown into boiling oil, instantly igniting the massive powder keg of Medellin.
Carlos’s public “surrender” call did not quell the resistance, but instead ignited the fiercest opposition.
Dozens of large and small factions, armed groups, those already dissatisfied with Carlos, or simply bloodthirsty and combative desperados quickly found an outlet to vent.