Working as a police officer in Mexico

The attack on Georgia in Thailand caused a huge stir across the Yucatan Peninsula, where the Gulf Group controls Quintana Roo State, Chiapas State, and Oaxaca State!

Especially at this moment, some backchannel news surfaced, claiming that Arturo Desena had sold the target to the United Nations Drug Control Agency. The latter collaborated with local police for an operation and almost killed him.

This rumor was like throwing dry wood onto a raging fire, igniting the conflict between Los Zetas and the Gulf Group.

The only ones caught up in it… were the local merchants.

"Smash everything! Destroy it!" A short, stout man wielding a baseball bat, with a pistol tucked in his waistband, directed his men to vandalize a karaoke bar. The manager's legs were broken, twisted in a grotesque angle.

"I… I already paid the protection fee!!"

The stout man spat into the manager's face, "Who did you pay? Los Zetas? We're the Gulf Group! You paid the wrong people—who's protecting you?! Tell me, who the fuck is protecting you!!"

That's right, even going to a temple requires you to buy incense sticks.

And you paid respect to the wrong mountain.

He swung the baseball bat down forcefully as the manager stared at him in utter terror.

One strike knocked him unconscious. Two strikes made him spasm. Three and four strikes opened up blood that flowed more uncontrollably than a woman's period. Seven or eight strikes—his very soul seemed to have vanished.

"Boss, Los Zetas are here!" One of his goons bolted in from the entrance shouting.

"Scared of what? Fuck it, let's go outside!"

The man shouted, and dozens of his men rushed out from the karaoke bar to a street that was already a scene of devastation. Trash cans split in two, garbage littering the entire ground.

Across the road, another group of dozens was standing there, glaring back at them furiously.

"Boss, should we wipe them out? Damn it!"

"Not so fast. If they don't shoot, we don't shoot either—otherwise, we'll be the ones in the wrong!" the stout man lowered his voice, slightly tilting his head upwards. "Go ask them what they want."

One of his men nodded, then swaggered out pompously, pointing to the other side, "Los Zetas bastards…"

But before he could finish his sentence...

The opponents drew their submachine guns and unleashed a hail of bullets on the Gulf Group.

Rat-tat-tat…

The goon was shredded like a stray dog, his body riddled with bullets.

"Boss, they've opened fire! They've opened fire…"

The stout man, sensing danger, had already ducked behind a nearby pillar. One of his panicking lackeys shouted behind him, only to be slapped hard as he cursed, "I'm not fucking blind—fight back! Rally our men, rally the hell out of them!"

The two groups erupted into a gunfight on the streets of Oaxaca de Juárez...

This area was one of the Gulf Group's key base camps. The rallying call summoned trucks packed with drug traffickers who swarmed onto the battlefield. Though Los Zetas had fewer people, they were highly trained, working in perfect harmony—a testament to their U.S.-military training.

I might not be able to match Victor's firepower, but damned if I can't take you down!

"Don't go… Don't go out there!" At a nearby yard, a wife clung to her drunk husband. He'd had too much to drink, clearly furious, as he shoved her aside and climbed onto their trash bin.

Standing atop it, he raised his hand arrogantly.

"What are you afraid of? What the hell are you afraid of?!"

"Who can kill me?"

"Who can kill me!!"

Thud…

Before finishing his words, his body toppled off the trash bin, face down, hitting the ground hard.

The wife let out a shrill scream, rushing toward him, only to see he was already gone.

"Call an ambulance! Call an ambulance!!"

The shootout in Oaxaca de Juárez wasn't isolated—similar scenes were unfolding elsewhere. For a time, shops shuttered and civilians suffered...

Zero-cost looting began!

Groups of Black migrants stormed supermarkets, robbing and assaulting employees.

Most of these migrants were strangers trying to cross the Yucatan Peninsula to reach the United States. With the government forces controlling the North, their only option was to go through the drug traffickers here.

Over six hundred thousand people from various areas had piled into this region. Already plagued with poor law and order, the conditions had deteriorated further.

Near Guatemala in Palenque State, since the Southern Government hadn't deployed troops to guard the border, some tribal groups—or refugees—took advantage of the chaos to raid villages across Southern Mexico.

In an instant…

The South had turned into utter pandemonium.

"Boss, Boss, it's fantastic news!"

Early in the morning, Casare hurried into the room, unable to suppress his grin. As he opened the door, his head slammed into it, and he winced in pain.

"What's the matter? Did you get lucky or something?"

Victor, sipping his coffee, spotted him and chuckled.

Casare sheepishly rubbed his head, gritting his teeth as he replied, "Several southern states erupted into gunfights between Los Zetas and the Gulf Group. Shots were fired, plenty of people dead—it's a massacre. The drug scum tried their best to suppress local news coverage, but the situation is too massive—they can't bury it."

He shouted to the outside, instructing the secretary to wheel in a TV, grabbing the remote to switch it on.

A female reporter wearing a helmet appeared on-screen, with a horrifying backdrop of corpses scattered everywhere...

Victor straightened in his seat.

"Last night, Mérida Street in the Yucatan Peninsula became the site of a massive gun battle involving hundreds of people, resulting in approximately 170 deaths. Heavy weapons such as machine guns and rocket launchers were deployed. As you can see, the commercial establishments on both sides were completely obliterated..."

As the reporter spoke, the Walmart sign behind her suddenly fell to the ground, creating a loud thud that startled her into covering her ears and stumbling aside.