Chapter 2044 - 844: Crush Those Restless Idiots!

February 10, 1998, ten in the morning, the Colombia border, an abandoned farm.

Sinopiquiar was pinned face-down in the mud, his cheek pressed against the freezing earth, his nose flooded with the stench of rotten leaves and livestock manure.

He tried to struggle, but the foot on the back of his neck was pressing too hard, nailing him to the ground like a spike. He heard his own ribs creak—he didn't know if they had snapped, or if it was just the illusion of being crushed.

"Don't move."

The man standing on him was speaking Spanish, but with a strange accent.

A Mexican.

Sinopiquiar's heart clenched violently.

"You… you can't arrest me…" His voice squeezed through his teeth, hoarse beyond recognition. "This is Colombian territory… you have no law enforcement authority…"

The man standing on him let out a short laugh.

"Law enforcement authority?"

The foot pressed down even harder.

"Mayor Sinopiquiar, you illegally entered Colombian territory last night. We are cooperating with the Colombian Government in cracking down on cross-border crime. You are under arrest."

Sinopiquiar tried to shout for help, but the moment he opened his mouth, a wad of rag was shoved into it.

He was dragged up like a dead dog and thrown into an unlicensed van. The door slammed shut, and darkness swallowed everything.

The vehicle started moving.

A jolting dirt road, the roar of the engine, and a few men nearby talking in low voices—he couldn't make out what they were saying, only caught a few words now and then: "Quito," "Presidential Palace," "Mr. Bennett."

Bennett.

Sinopiquiar closed his eyes.

He had heard the name before. Head of the Mexico Counterintelligence General Bureau, Victor's shadow, the man in the rumors who killed without blinking.

It was over.

February 10, 1998, two in the afternoon, Quito, the Presidential Palace underground garage.

Garcia stood in front of a black van, watching the side door slide open.

First they threw out a suitcase—black, brand-name, zipper open, revealing stacks upon stacks of US Dollar inside.

Then came Sinopiquiar.

When they dragged him out, his legs were too weak to support him, his whole body collapsing to the ground like a puddle of rotting sludge. His face was caked with mud and blood, his left eye swollen shut, his right eye wide with terror as it stared at everything around him—the dim lights of the underground garage, the armed Mexican soldiers, and the middle-aged man standing in front of him with a completely expressionless face.

"Mr. Sinopiquiar."

Bennett spoke, his voice very calm.

"Welcome home."

Sinopiquiar was trembling all over.

"You… you're Bennett?"

Bennett nodded.

"I rushed twelve hours by plane just to see you."

He squatted down so that he was level with Sinopiquiar.

"Do you know how many people you've killed?"

Sinopiquiar shook his head desperately.

"I didn't… I didn't kill anyone… those were… were spontaneous actions by the people…"

Bennett looked at him without speaking.

That gaze made Sinopiquiar's whole body go cold. It was not anger, not hatred—it was calm. Like looking at a chicken about to be slaughtered.

"Spontaneous actions by the people."

Bennett repeated the phrase.

He stood up and nodded to the men beside him.

"Take him up."

Sinopiquiar was dragged into the elevator.

As the elevator rose, he watched the floor numbers tick past one by one: B1, B2, B3… No, that wasn't right, they were going up, 1, 2, 3—

"Where are you taking me?"

No one answered.

The elevator stopped at the fourth floor.

The doors opened onto a long corridor, doors lining both sides, all tightly shut. At the far end of the corridor, there was a half-open door, a dim yellow light spilling out from inside.

Sinopiquiar was dragged through that door.

The room contained only a table, two chairs, and a lamp. The lampshade tilted downward, flooding the area around the table with harsh white light, leaving everything else in darkness.

They forced him into a chair. His hands were tied behind his back, his feet fastened to the chair legs.

Bennett sat opposite him, picked up a file, and opened it.

"Mayor Sinopiquiar, Mayor of Guayaquil, former Governor of Guayas Province, behind-the-scenes financier of the Quito Patriotic Front, political ally of General Acuña."

He read slowly, every word like a nail.

"On February 5, 1998, you ordered the Guayas Province police to conduct 'identity checks' on Mexican citizens. During the checks, one hundred and twenty-three Mexican citizens were killed, their bodies piled up on the streets of the San Anna District."

Sinopiquiar's face turned even paler.

"On February 6, 1998, you organized and funded the anti-Mex march in the San Blas District. During the march, thirty-seven Mexican citizens were killed, forty-two were injured, and nineteen went missing."

"On February 8, 1998, you spoke by phone with General Acuña, planning a second round of cleansing of Mexican citizens when Mexican troops closed in on Quito. There were three hundred names on the cleansing list."

Bennett closed the file and looked at him.

"Do you acknowledge any of this?"

Sinopiquiar's lips were trembling.

"I… I'm a mayor of Ecuador… my duty is to maintain…"

"I asked if you acknowledge it."

Sinopiquiar shut his mouth.

Silence.

The lamp hummed overhead.

Bennett stood up and walked to his side.

"Mr. Sinopiquiar, do you know how many children were among those three hundred names?"

Sinopiquiar said nothing.

"Sixty-two. The youngest was three, the oldest fourteen."

Bennett's voice was still as calm as ever.

"Do you know what that three-year-old boy's name was?"

Sinopiquiar shook his head.

"His name was Diego Espinosa. His parents ran a small restaurant in Guayaquil. When the three of them were killed, his mother was holding him in her arms. The two of them were burned into a single lump."

Sinopiquiar's tears came.

It wasn't remorse. It was fear.