Working as a police officer in Mexico

Ratatatat!

Bullets rained down on the luxury car like a torrent of offspring.

No matter if it's a Mercedes, Lambo...

Dammit, they all turn into scrap metal!

Completely impractical.

Who knows why waste so much money, can't even stop a few millimeters of bullet!

Ah spit!

Trash!

That's why the sales are poor.

The troop carrier was focused fire.

Troops inside, still groggy and a bit weary, were instantly killed; the luckier ones who had been leaning against the outer side jumped out of the vehicle as soon as they heard the gunfire.

But talk about bad luck.

This one messed up, stubbing his front foot on the troop carrier's door, tumbled straight down, and his head hit the ground, neck twisted at an uncanny angle.

With bulging eyes, he couldn't have imagined he'd be so unlucky.

Probably no saving him now...

This is just...

So nonsensical.

The quality's like that of ragtag guerrillas.

Gather at the village entrance! Bring your own spears, shields, helmets, armor, and knives! The landlord will provide food!

Then the doors of the two vans suddenly opened, a Browning M2 heavy machine gun mounted on the doorway, spraying bullets at the roadside!

Bullets grazed past Rommel's scalp.

Luckily, his aide-de-camp Fedor von Bock pulled him aside; otherwise, he really would have died there.

A corporal holding an M72 LAW rocket launcher, took aim and fired within 3 seconds; the rocket screamed towards the van with its tail fins trailing.

The armed personnel operating the heavy machine gun, wearing sunglasses, were happily blasting away, thinking they were dealing with some petty thieves, but damn, a rocket flew out from the little woods!

"Ah~" He opened his mouth wide, and the glasses fell off his face. There was no chance to run, and all he could muster was, "omg!"

Boom~!

The van was blown into the air; of course, that's an exaggeration, it just turned into a fireball and crashed heavily onto a Porsche, flattening it from convex to concave, with the people inside not even managing to scream.

Rommel took out his whistle and blew it hard.

Fedor von Bock, his aide-de-camp, cried out and rushed forward with an M16. Following his lead, a line of soldiers got up from the ground and charged onto the highway.

Suddenly, over a hundred men charged out.

Who the hell could withstand that?

"We surrender! We surrender!" Four or five individuals knelt on the ground, tossing their weapons aside.

"Get down! Get down!" Deputy Company Commander Fedor von Bock shouted loudly, warily watching them.
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But their accent clearly showed they were from out of town, and coupled with Fedor's harsh tone, the few men were visibly nervous.

Gibberish!

Annoyed, Fedor von Bock pulled the trigger directly!

Ratatatat~

Mowed them all down.

"Fuck! Can't you speak Spanish?" He flipped off the corpses, still unsatisfied, and shot three more times into one man's head.

Much better!

See? Knowing an extra language can sometimes save your life.

"Deputy Company Commander, we've got a live one!"

Not far away, a private first class dragged a woman out from the Mercedes, pulling at her hair. She was crying and begging continuously, even kneeling and shouting on the ground, but luckily for her, she spoke Spanish.

"Don't cry..." Fedor von Bock offered a few words of comfort, but she kept sobbing, so he slapped her hard and twisted her hair viciously, shouting, "Shut up! You whore!"

"Cry again, and you'll be gang-raped!"

The woman, tearful and trembling, dared only sob softly.

The other soldiers were used to such sights; did you really think that Victor's soldiers were very patient?

"Who are you? Where are you from? Where are you going?" Fedor von Bock squinted and asked.

"I...I don't know."

Bang!

A slap!

"Give you one more chance!"

The woman's face was swollen from slaps, teeth knocked out, she really couldn't take it anymore, bursting into tears again, with blood in her mouth, "I really don't know!"

"Tough mouth!" Fedor went on to deliver a volley of slaps, turning her face blue and swollen.

After a dozen or so slaps, she was knocked out cold.

The platoon leader couldn't bear to look, "Deputy Company Commander, might it be... she really doesn't know."

Fedor von Bock raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the woman who looked like a pig's head, and kicked her in the stomach, "Doesn't know, and won't talk! Not honest at all!"

With his hot temper, he cocked his weapon and emptied the magazine into her.

"Waste of time!"

The officers and soldiers all fell silent.

This deputy company commander had reportedly been hit in the head by a shell during drug suppression operations; it seemed true it had affected his brain.

He cursed and walked back to Rommel, who was holding a set of documents.

Fedor von Bock glanced at the cover of the documents, frowning at a badge—a perfect circle with a gold ring around the edge and a blue background in the center.

In the upper half of the circle were the white letters of "CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY" encircling most of the perimeter, implying "Central Intelligence Agency," and in the lower half, a yellow ribbon with the red words "United States of America." Combined, they quite openly identified the institution represented by the badge as the "United States Intelligence Agency."

Well, the badge did look quite nice.

But why would the CIA show up so brazenly in Sinaloa?

Don't tell me about undercover work!

Does your undercover agent carry credentials?

And why so many luxury vehicles?

"CIA? These people are Americans? No wonder, I felt some disgust seeing them." Fedor von Bock exclaimed in surprise.