Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 634 - 375: Left Baga, Right Siba, In the Middle is a Big Wangba!_2

The matter was quickly reported to the Tijuana Governor's Office. Victor flew into a rage and sent George Smiley to the scene, while Guard Commander Joseph Xiafei went to the hospital to visit Goebbels.

Squeak, squeak~

After driving the heavy pickup truck backward, the two Mercedes-Benz cars mashed inside finally emitted screams, a total mess.

Light rain began to fall from the sky.

George Smiley declined the umbrella offered by his subordinate.

"Damn, if I can't handle this, do I get rained on?"

"Go back home and farm!"

"Officer, Mr. Goebbels' secretary and bodyguards are dead," a member of the rescue team reported.

George Smiley nodded, "Did those drivers say anything?"

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"The driver of the rear vehicle said he fell asleep and didn't see the car in front; the driver of the front vehicle said he just didn't like being behind..."

"Fell asleep, huh."

"Come on, take him to the interrogation room. I want to see to what extent he was 'asleep!'"

This incident was clearly a premeditated assassination.

Victor was detestable, but his security level was too high, so they could only target some of his subordinates. Military figure number two, Kennedy, had been attacked twice, once even by gunfire; Casare faced four attempts, but that guy was lucky, not a scratch.

His close partner Cuauhtémoc almost made it to the death tally.

Tsk, tsk, tsk...

People outside would relish tearing their flesh, drinking their blood, knocking their bones, sucking their marrow, laying on their skin, and plucking their hair!

Mainly, it was because of the big deals Victor was involved in.

Especially notable was the death of the head of the Shin Bet Intelligence Department and the director of Mossad, which made the already stingy Israelis even more dissatisfied.

Not taking revenge would be unusual.

According to unofficial history: "Jesus, while walking by the roadside, merely said, 'Wow, this squid smells really stinky.'"

Then they killed him.

Before dying, he left a testament: "Damn your immortal guts!"

Of course, these are all unofficial histories.

In the underground interrogation room of Mexico's "News Bureau" intelligence agency.

An execution room.

A man was tied up, his eyelids gone, forcibly ripped open with hooks, "You said you fell asleep, right? Now let's keep those eyes wide open."

If not for the rise and fall of his chest, you'd think he was dead.

A masked employee approached and administered adrenaline.

"Can you speak properly now?"

The man was tough, constantly insisting, "I don't know, I really fell asleep."

"Take him to see room no. 3," the interrogating officer's face darkened, and two people shoved him into the adjacent room with a glass wall, inside which was a large furnace.

"Turn on the external audio."

A staff member inside gestured an OK and pushed a button. Sounds of crackling flames could be heard, along with a man's pleas and screams.

"This is an uncooperative drug trafficker…" The employee beside the driver continued explaining; the next second, the drug trafficker was forcibly stuffed into the furnace.

The man struggled vigorously, but it was futile. Flames consumed him from below, and soon engulfed him completely, his screams transmitted through the speaker.

The driver's body trembled.

Click!

A hand landed on his shoulder, startling him.

"This is the most lenient torture method because you only need to be burned to death, but we have others, you know. Have you heard of Eastern cooking? We have a hot pot, put the person inside, light a fire below… tsk tsk."

You could feel the man trembling intensely.

Bullshit, who wouldn't be scared!

The hand on his shoulder squeezed a little harder, barely exerting any pressure, and the driver's psychological defenses instantly collapsed.

"One hundred thousand dollars, they gave me one hundred thousand dollars to kill someone!"

"Who…"

"Japanese trading companies!"

...

As everyone knows, after World War II, the Japanese moved to the Latin American region, particularly to Brazil, where their influence and population grew very vast, exceeding 1.5 million at one point!

In Brazil, they acted as the "Settlement Team," buying land and then safeguarding it very discreetly. Yet, those who were discerning could sense their sinister intentions, as their reputation during World War II was quite terrible.

Apart from Brazil, they actively cultivated their reputation in other places, having industries in Venezuela, Canada, Colombia, and Mexico.

One form was through business associations.

In Mexico, there were also about 50,000 Japanese, mainly clustered in a Japan Street in the northwest part of Tijuana, characterized by Japanese architecture, cuisine, and goods, offering Japanese restaurants, tea ceremony experiences, shopping, and other services.

It also involved some fringes.

There was a unique product called "Divine Servant Girl," which previously referred to displaced girls who could be taken home for some money. However, it evolved into a term for women in special professions.

Right, prostitution is illegal in Japan, but there's a loophole. You can negotiate a price with a girl, take her out for a meal, and then book a room—that's called a "date," purely exploiting a bug.

The same goes for Turkey, where there are streetwalkers. Due to the risk of being stoned to death, you must first go to a church and register for a marriage before selling, and then bring her back for a divorce after the deed. These are the tricks of the trade. (I wouldn't tell this to just anyone.)

Selling sex is illegal in Tijuana. Victor doesn't allow it. If it were legal, the protection for women would be completely gone, and many women would disappear.

But for every policy from above, there's a countermeasure below. The Japanese are experts at finding loopholes, and this Red-light district is no exception, attracting many foreign tourists.

Yamamoto Keisuke stood outside smoking a cigarette, crouching down. Noises of moans and groans came from inside, soon coming to an end. After three or four minutes, a tall White man walked out, and on seeing him, gave a thumbs up.

He bowed, laughing nervously as he watched the man walk away, then he went inside to see a woman lying naked on the bed.

"Where's the money?"

The woman pointed to a stack of US dollars on the nightstand, her face greedy as she snatched it up.

"Honey, I don't want to do this anymore. These foreigners are too perverted," the woman whispered. "Let's go back to Japan."

"Go back? We haven't made enough money yet! Wait until I earn some more. It's not like you're tired, just lying there and moaning is all you have to do."

The woman lowered her head, her resistance clear.

Yamamoto Keisuke frowned, stuffed the money into his pocket, and pinched her chin with a warning tone, "I'm telling you, you'd better cooperate, or else, hmm…"

The woman shuddered as if recalling something, and nodded vigorously.

The man nodded in satisfaction, "Alright, I'll go find another customer for you. Have some water."

With that, he stepped out the door, humming a tune cheerfully, anticipating another round tonight. But just as he opened the door, there stood two policemen.

"Show me your ID."

Yamamoto Keisuke's expression froze. He didn't have any ID; he was a stowaway. He glanced outside, where dozens of policemen stood, checking everyone.

What's going on!

Why are they suddenly checking IDs?

As he stood there puzzled, two elderly Japanese men in kimonos hurried over with smiles, bowing deeply to the officer in charge.

"Officer, what can we do for you today?"

"Verify residency!"

The elderly Japanese looked at each other, troubled, "Sir, we… we've met your Santos Director. We have a good relationship with him… maybe you could…"

"Santos?"

The elderly man's face lit up as he nodded, but the next words chilled them to the bone.

"I don't know any Santos, and take a good look at what this emblem is!" The policeman turned and pointed to a badge on his arm.

It was a Phoenix head Calara eagle, its gaze sharply surveying its surroundings.

"Thirteen Protectors!"

It looked too damn similar to a regular police uniform.

The two elderly men panicked.

The leading Protector pushed them aside, hands on his hips, "Yes, today we came to make trouble. Don't make this hard; you should clearly state our principles, regardless of life or death!"

The legs of the two elderly men trembled.

"Now, anyone who can report crimes in the Red-light district will be dealt with leniently! Anyone?"

Yamamoto Keisuke shrank back, ready to play turtle and hide, thinking at worst he'd be deported. But what did 'Thirteen Protectors' mean, and why did those two elders look so scared?

He had just arrived and was still clueless.

Just as he decided to play it low, Yamamoto Keisuke suddenly heard a voice from behind, "Sir, I report someone for human trafficking and drug smuggling!"

The words "drug smuggling" immediately drew all the policemen's attention, all turning to look.

Yamamoto Keisuke's legs trembled, and he turned fiercely.

"Don't talk nonsense, you filthy woman!"

"I'm not talking nonsense, he… he even bragged to me about doing something big, about assassinating a significant figure!"

...