Chapter 2038 - 842: Anti-Mexico (Part 4)

Alarcón's hand was trembling.

"Mr. Victor... regarding your ultimatum..."

Victor said nothing.

Alarcón took a deep breath.

"We... we are willing to hand over the murderer. Willing to apologize. Willing to compensate. But we need time—those killers, they have backing, we need time to capture them..."

Victor interrupted him.

"Mr. President, you have ten minutes left."

Alarcón was stunned.

"Ten minutes for what?"

The other end of the phone was silent for a few seconds.

"In ten minutes, my troops will enter Ecuadorian territory."

Alarcón's hand shook violently, and the phone nearly fell to the ground.

"Mr. Victor, you can't—"

"I can."

The call ended.

Alarcón stood there dazed, the busy tone buzzing in the receiver.

February 9, 1998, 5:00 AM.

At the border, the first brigade's armored vehicles started up.

Garcia stood in the command vehicle, looking at the invisible line ahead.

"Full speed ahead."

The convoy crossed the border line.

Gunfire erupted from the other side.

Sporadic shots, which quickly ceased.

Garcia picked up the binoculars.

The Ecuadorian forces were retreating.

Their commander, a colonel, stood next to a truck, shouting into a walkie-talkie. After a few shouts, he threw the walkie-talkie down, got into a vehicle, and retreated with his troops.

"Should we pursue?" the adjutant asked.

Garcia shook his head.

"No rush. Let's secure the border and wait for the reinforcements to arrive."

The convoy continued forward.

Five kilometers, ten kilometers, fifteen kilometers.

No significant resistance encountered.

The Ecuadorian forces kept retreating, it was a messy retreat, leaving things along the way: ammunition boxes, backpacks, even an out-of-fuel armored vehicle abandoned by the roadside.

As Garcia looked at those things, only one thought crossed his mind:

This damn well isn't an army.

February 9, 1998, 8:00 AM, Quito.

Alarcón stood by the window, looking at the gloomy sky outside.

The phone kept ringing. Calls from Ayala, from the military, from the parliament, he didn't answer a single one.

In the cabinet meeting room, a group of people were arguing.

General Acuña's voice was the loudest.

"The President must order a counterattack! The Mexicans have crossed the border! This is an invasion!"

Ayala's voice was softer but firm.

"Counterattack? With what? Our forces have retreated fifty kilometers without firing a shot!"

"That's a retreat! It's a strategic relocation!"

"Relocation? You call this damn thing a relocation?"

The argument grew louder.

Alarcón stood by the window, motionless.

He remembered that night thirty years ago, tanks rolling into Quito.

Now it was his turn.

Sinopiquiar stood in the mayor's office, watching the news on TV.

The news showed footage from the border: Mexican armored convoys passing through a small town, townspeople standing by the roadside watching, no resistance, no welcome, just watching.

His hand was trembling.

The phone rang.

It was Acuña.

"Sinopiquiar, are your people ready?"

Sinopiquiar took a deep breath.

"Ready."

"Good. Get started."

Sinopiquiar hung up the phone and said to the Police Chief standing next to him:

"Begin."

February 9, 1998, 10:30 AM, Guayaquil, San Anna District.

The second massacre began.

The police, armed with lists, knocked on doors from house to house.

When the door opened, people were dragged out.

Men were pinned to the ground, women were pushed against walls, children were picked up and tossed aside.

"Mexican?"

Asked a question, no matter the answer, the result was the same.

There were three hundred names on the list.

By noon, one hundred and twenty-three had been killed.

The bodies piled up at the corner of the street, forming a small mountain.

The blood flowed into a river.

When the video reached Victor's hands, it was 2:15 PM.

He watched it three times.

The first time fast-forwarded. The second time at normal speed. The third time in slow motion.

At the top of the mound of bodies was a child's face, five or six years old, rounded face, eyes half-open, mouth agape, as if asking something.

Victor turned off the video.

The room was very quiet.

Bramo stood beside, Casare leaned against the door, Bennett sat in the corner.

No one spoke.

Victor stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the sky over Mexico City was very blue, and the sunlight was strong.

He spoke, his voice calm:

"Notify the Department of Defense. Second phase."

Bramo hesitated.

"That's..."

"Full-scale assault."

Casare gasped.

"Boss, a full-scale assault—it's a war of destruction."

Victor turned around.

"They killed a hundred and sixty of us. A war of destruction is quite justified."

February 9, 1998, 3:00 PM, the border line.

The second and third brigades had all entered Ecuadorian territory.

Three brigades, twenty thousand men, three hundred armored vehicles, fifty helicopters.

Garcia stood in front of the command vehicle, looking at the newly received orders.

Second stage. Full-scale assault.

Target: Quito.

He put down the orders and picked up the radio.

"Attention all brigades, advance toward Quito at full speed. If you encounter resistance, eliminate it on the spot. If you encounter surrendering forces, disarm them. If you encounter civilians—try to avoid them."

Confirmation came from the various units through the radio.

He got into the vehicle.

"Move out."

The convoy started, kicking up a storm of dust.

February 9, 1998, 7:00 PM, Quito.

Alarcón sat in his office, listening to the movements outside.

The gunfire was getting closer.

Ayala rushed in.

"Mr. President, the Mexican forces have reached the outskirts of the city. Acuña's troops have been scattered, Gutierrez's forces have surrendered, we're finished."

Alarcón looked up.

"Sinopiquiar?"

"In Guayaquil. He's still there."

Alarcón was silent for a few seconds.

"Call him."

Ayala hesitated.

"Call him now?"

"Call."

Ayala dialed and handed him the receiver.

Sinopiquiar's voice came through the other end, flustered.

"Mr. President! The Mexicans have come! I need support!"

Alarcón said nothing.

"Mr. President! Can you hear me? I need support!"

Alarcón spoke, his voice very calm.

"Sinopiquiar, how many people have you killed?"

Silence from the other end.

"Every person you've killed is now looking at me."

Sinopiquiar's voice was trembling.

"Mr. President, I... I did it for the country..."

Alarcón laughed.

It was a bitter laugh.

"For the country. Fine."

He hung up the phone.

Then he stood up and adjusted his tie.

"Ayala."

Ayala looked at him.

"Yes."

"Prepare to resist."

Ayala was stunned.

"Mr. President—"

Alarcón interrupted him.

His expression was fierce.

"Do the Mexicans think they are the world's police?"

"Opposition to Mexican hegemony starts with me!"

The words were spoken with righteous spirit.

Whoever is overbearing, we oppose them.

...