Chapter 2050 - 844: Crush Those Restless Idiots!

Second Document: The extradition documents of Sinopiquiar. Effective the day after tomorrow.

Third Document: Latest developments in the CIA scandal. CNN just reported that Malcolm Turner has been suspended pending investigation. The White House Spokesman stated that if the allegations are true, those involved will be "dealt with according to the law."

He pushed the three documents aside.

Bramo stood next to him.

"Mr. Victor, there's one more thing."

Victor looked up.

"What?"

Bramo handed over a report.

"From Garcia. Over in Congo, remnants of the 'Black Sea Wolf' are active. They've lost their base in Africa and are moving towards Eastern Europe. In Kosovo, Cheku's troops are still fighting, their ammunition is running low, and they're searching for new suppliers everywhere."

Victor looked at the report.

"Cheku..."

He pronounced the name.

"That Kosovo Liberation Army man."

Bramo nodded.

"He has weapons provided by the Americans, weapons from 'Black Mamba', and now he's almost out. He needs a new backer."

Victor was silent for a few seconds.

"Tell Garcia to keep an eye on him. But don't interfere."

Bramo was momentarily stunned.

"Don't interfere?"

"Don't interfere," Victor said, "Let him fight. The longer he fights, the more chaotic Europe becomes. The more chaotic Europe is, the better our bargaining position."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the night sky over Mexico City was dark, and the stars were bright.

In the distance, traffic on Paseo de la Reforma moved slowly, in an orderly fashion.

"The issue in Ecuador has been concluded," he said, "But things are far from over."

He turned around.

"The CIA won't let this rest. 'Black Mamba' is still on the run. Kosovo remains a mess. Europeans are still hesitating. Americans are still angry."

He paused.

"But we have taken the first step."

"From now on, anyone who wants to challenge the Mexicans must first ask themselves—how long can their army hold us off? Will their allies support them? Are their citizens willing to die for their stupidity?"

Casare grinned.

"Boss, if your words reach Washington, those gentlemen are going to be furious."

Victor looked at him.

"Let them be furious."

He returned to his desk and picked up the extradition documents for Sinopiquiar.

"This person, bring him back and put him on public trial. Let everyone see the consequences of killing Mexicans."

He put down the documents.

"Tomorrow, the interim government in Ecuador takes office. The day after tomorrow, Sinopiquiar's extradition. The day after that, the special tribunal convenes."

He lifted his head to gaze at the night outside the window.

"One week from now, the whole of Latin America will remember one thing—"

"Mexico is no longer the Mexico that can be trampled at will."

February 14, 1998, morning, Quito, Presidential Palace.

The swearing-in ceremony for the interim government was simple.

No grand ceremony, no foreign dignitaries' congratulations, only a few dozen people stood in the courtyard of the Presidential Palace watching Urtado take the oath on the constitution.

Garcia stood by, representing the Mexican Military.

Urtado finished the oath, laid down the constitution, and looked at those present.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I know what state this country is in right now."

His voice was calm.

"The cities are occupied, the army is scattered, the government disbanded, and the people terrified. Our nation has just gone through a war."

He paused.

"This war was brought upon us by ourselves."

Some lowered their heads.

"Those killed were killed by our compatriots. The stores that burned were burned by our compatriots. The families destroyed were destroyed by our compatriots."

His voice began to tremble.

"How can we blame the Mexicans?"

No one spoke.

"We can't," said Urtado, "We can only face reality, face the consequences of our actions."

He took a deep breath.

"So, starting today, we have to do two things. First, prosecute those who killed. Second, rebuild this nation that we destroyed ourselves."

He surveyed the scene.

"The Mexicans say they don't interfere in internal affairs. They helped us catch the culprits, and the rest is for us to handle."

"Then we will handle it ourselves."

"Starting today, Ecuador starts anew."

February 14, 1998, afternoon, Guayaquil, San Anna District.

A small monument has been erected on the street corner where bodies once lay.

The names are carved on the monument.

One hundred and twenty-three names.

The first, Diego Espinosa, three years old.

The last, Jose Luis Hernandez, sixty-seven years old, the elderly man who ran a bakery for thirty years.

An old woman stood in front of the monument, looking at the names.

Her hands were shaking.

She was Jose Luis's wife. That day she ran out, trying to pull those people away, and was pushed to the ground. She watched them pin her husband down, wave their machetes, and blood spilled all over.

She survived.

For what purpose?

To live and see these names etched on the monument.

She squatted down, reached out her hand, and touched the name.

Jose Luis Hernandez.

Her husband.

She remembered the first time they met, she was only nineteen, he was twenty-two, selling bread at a market in Guayaquil. She went to buy bread, and he gave her an extra one, saying "You're too thin, eat more."

Now he's gone.

Her tears fell, dripping onto the monument.

A Mexican soldier stood next to her.

The same young soldier who had accompanied the elderly man to sweep the street that day.

He watched the old woman, watched her cry, watched her touch the name on the monument.