Alejandro certainly didn't make the call.
That would be too impolite.
And who would deliver the shit that far?
"Sonora has already dispatched troops to the border area, and the official documents also denounce us as murderers."
"Public opinion runs on a mouth. Aren't plenty of refugees coming over? Start a program and put them on one by one to speak, expose Sonora's situation. Crying? Who can't cry?"
"As for the battlefield, let caliber do the talking. Once I park artillery in front of their TV station, the only thing they'll be able to do is cheer!"
Victor flicked aside his nail clipper and blew the filings off his hand. "Issue a televised address. We condemn the Sonora government's collusion with drug dealers, and we'll lower flags across the state to half-staff to mourn the civilians who lost their lives."
Alejandro was not yet a seasoned politician.
How does that saying go?
What politicians love isn't their people, but the microphone.
But he was meticulous. Lowering his voice, he said, "I've found that a few big families in Baja California might be fanning the flames behind the scenes."
"They sent people to ask me to increase their say in government institutions, and that reforms to state-owned enterprises must not happen."
Mexico right now should be described as overrun by compradors.
In other words, great families controlling the economic lifelines are sucking marrow everywhere, lying on the rice bin so that the rice enough to feed hundreds of millions ends up devoured by a handful.
If they had no connection to drug dealers, Victor would stand on his head and eat shit. They might not dare go head-to-head, but backdoor tricks were routine.
There were even rumors that many officials who came to power and announced anti-drug drives died because of them.
"They wanted a few posts inside the Violent Terrorism Mobile Team, but I refused." At that, Victor perked up, straightened slightly, and smiled. "Oh? They want to lay hands on the police?"
Alejandro shivered.
"Maybe it's time to open those dog eyes wide and show them who's master."
"What are you going to do?"
Victor fell silent for a moment, eyes narrowing. "Do you think we need an intelligence agency?"
…
"This behavior is shameful! What government army in the world helps drug dealers kill their own civilians? I have a few photos from the scene here clearly showing uniformed government troops greeting drug dealers, very cordially! Since when can justice consort with evil? The Baja California government won't accept it, tens of millions of the people won't accept it, and justice won't accept it!"
On TV, the Mexicali Security Department's spokesperson thundered with righteous indignation.
Sonora border, inside the 36th Battalion.
Battalion commander Major Mark Antonio Barrera watched the other side's passionate speech on TV and found it laughable.
Civilians?
Do they have a voice in Mexico?
They're just a bunch of walking "pesos."
Drug dealers can extort them. So can the army. It once happened in Nuevo Laredo, a northwestern city near the U.S. border: five countrymen worked in town and were stopped by Mexican soldiers on the way home, ordered to pay protection fees.
Yes, protection fees.
They refused—after a day of hard work, they hadn't earned much.
Those soldiers shot them dead!
It was the local drug dealers who helped cover up the bodies. Their families discovered they hadn't come home and found them seven days later on a small hillside—already putrid.
That was just one case, but it fully showed:
For Mexican civilians, sometimes death is also a release.
"Commander, commander, people from Baja are here!" An orderly ran in shouting. "Right at the gate."
Major Barrera shot to his feet. "Move, let's go see!"
He hurried to the camp gate and saw about twenty Baja officers outside. The Humvee-mounted machine guns were trained on them, and there were even men shouldering rocket launchers.
His own men were cowering behind cover, and Major Barrera felt his face burn.
"Up, all of you, are those firewood in your hands? What are you afraid of!"
He walked up and kicked the nearest officer. The man fumbled his weapon and a few U.S. bills fell from his arms. He scrambled up to stuff the money into his pocket, grinning sheepishly.
The money was from the drug dealers.
You could still smell the stink of drugs on it!
Major Barrera's face darkened, but he was also afraid of getting shot at from the dark. He took a bullhorn from the orderly. "What do you want!"
"We've lost two officers on your side. We demand to search!"
"????"
Major Barrera was stunned. You lost someone—what's it to me? Am I a GPS? (It was already in service by 1964.)
He waved irritably. "Get lost. What you want isn't in here."
The Baja commander turned to the men behind him. "Are the marks in?"
The latter was marking positions on a precision map and reporting to the rear via a handheld AN/PRC-88 radio. He gestured to the commander.
"Go, pull out!" The commander took the men and ran, not leaving a single line behind.
That left Major Barrera a bit foggy.
Huh. Is my presence that imposing? Or is my momentum that strong? Two curses and they're gone. Sure enough, those Baja guys are all cowards.
"Commander, you're amazing. They didn't even dare talk back." The officer he'd kicked hurried over to flatter. Though Barrera felt something was off, he really couldn't figure it out. Hearing the flattery, he just grinned.
…
Ten kilometers away, in an open field.
A-19 field guns were neatly lined up, with dozens of officers crouched behind them. After receiving the front-line coordinates, the commander quickly had them adjust positions.
A total of 21 A-19 field guns, attached under the name of the Mexicali garrison in Baja. For now they were just being "borrowed."
"Target east 0-70. Close 23! Ready!"
"Fire!"
At the order, the commander clapped his right hand over his ear.
Bang-bang-bang~
Born in 1927, the A-19 was still hale in 1990. The ground shook three times under their recoil.
Shells flew toward their destination like arrows from the string!
With these, you just report approximate coordinates—after all, a shell's lethality is by radius.
122mm caliber!
Enough to clear all the trees around.
Major Barrera had just returned to his prefab, planning to grab some sleep, when a whistling pierced his ears—harsh and shrill.
The Mexican army hadn't fought for ages, barely even exercised, so naturally he didn't recognize the whistle of incoming shells.
He was still in a stupor when a shell slammed under his prefab.
It landed two meters in front of him.
Boom…
Major Barrera's eyes widened as the blast wave hurled him out. His body was torn to pieces!
The 36th Battalion felt catastrophe descend!
The entire camp was blown to hell.
Trees within the radius were also cut clean in half.
Such firepower blasted out a bare patch of open ground.
And two kilometers from the 36th Battalion was a gathering place for drug dealers. Many rushed out at the noise, able to see the rolling smoke in the distance and hear the explosions.
"Contact Barrera! Ask him what happened," the cartel leader said, face grim.
But if anyone answered that phone, it would turn into a horror movie.
(End of Chapter)
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