Working as a police officer in Mexico

In the restroom of his office on the third floor of The Pentagon, Admiral Maxwell Therman hadn't even pulled up his pants when he quickly locked the door.

"F***! Charles, what are you saying? Have you had too much fake liquor, or is your brain short-circuited? A coup? With what?!"

He suddenly paused, then covered half his face with his hand and spoke softly, "Is it the gentleman from over there wanting us to take some action?"

Charles Grassley took a deep breath. He wanted to say yes, but Maxwell was no fool; he'd definitely contact Mexico.

He could only tell the truth, "I think Little Bush wants to kill the donkey the moment it leaves the mill."

"He's having me manage the CIA and is very concerned about my role as Senate Speaker. Perhaps it won't be long before he dismisses me. Similarly, do you think your position as Deputy Commander will be secure?"

"Moreover!"

"Don't forget, we both signed the 'Twelve Treaties'. Will Little Bush use us as scapegoats under the guise of public opinion?"

In reality, Admiral Maxwell Therman wasn't very brave. Being scared like this left him flustered and at a loss, "But… but he promised us."

Charles interrupted before he could finish.

"Buddy! A politician's words are like stinking farts, don't you know that?"

Maxwell, tense and sitting on the toilet, let out a fart, which made the atmosphere awkward, since they were politicians too.

"If we don't want to die like this, we can only fight with our backs against the wall."

"What if we don't succeed against Little Bush? Or, if we do take him down and his successor moves into the White House, what will our fate be then? The most important thing is that the Skull and Bones have control of The Pentagon. I have no power to command the troops, not even the police force."

Maxwell's tone gradually turned somber, and his mood wasn't good either. Suddenly, he asked, "We serve Mexico. We should ask Victor because, in terms of promises, he's better than Little Bush. He won't abandon us."

Charles had no better idea.

He could only agree with the plan.

After hanging up the phone heavy-heartedly, he sat in the chair in a daze, his eyes vacant.

Meanwhile, on the other side, as Maxwell pulled up his pants to make a call, he realized a problem only after stepping outside.

He hadn't wiped!

"F***!"

...

Colombia, Medellin.

The famous "Naples Manor" lay in ruins.

This renowned private residence of Pablo was destroyed in an airstrike.

The Mexican Air Force specialized in targeting such places.

The evening breeze, tinged with melancholy, blew over. From amidst the rubble and stone slabs on the ground came a tingling sound.

A lone figure sat hunched on a swing covered in leaves, swaying slowly, humming a Colombian nursery rhyme, looking desolate.

Tap tap tap~

The sound of hurried footsteps revealed the anxious face of Medellin's third-in-command, Carlos Ledher, who rushed over. Upon seeing Pablo sitting on the swing, he shouted excitedly, "Boss!"

"Why are you running around? You're still ill; I thought you were gone somewhere!" As he spoke, tears flowed.

The third-in-command of a world-class drug lord was now rejoicing as if he'd found a lost toy.

But who would have thought, the person sitting there was Pablo!

He was supposed to be just 44 years old, yet he looked like he was in his seventies or eighties, completely drained of energy and spirit.

Was it just because his whole family died…

Or because Ochoa, who had fought alongside him, had died…

Or was it that his cousin had betrayed him?

Yes...

It seemed tragic, but it truly was bleak.

But these were nothing compared to the suffering he had imposed on others before.

He who kills will be killed!

When news came that Ochoa was killed in Myanmar, the once-mad Pablo seemed cured of his madness, yet he became less talkative, preferring to shut himself away more and more.

He no longer participated in any Medellin dealings, just sat quietly in the yard.

His sudden disappearance today terrified Carlos Ledher, who searched frantically until he found him amidst the ruins.

Pablo, looking at the crying third-in-command, patted his head and gazed into the distance, "Do you remember what we first transported to the United States as the three of us?"

Without waiting for a response, he continued.

"It was television sets. We transported TVs and made our first fortune. We drank, we went to find girls, we dreamed about our future lives, we toasted, we swore we'd become big tycoons. But as our business grew, I felt no happiness at all. I don't even know why, but sometimes I felt empty..."

The third-in-command, Carlos Ledher, opened his mouth.

"Carlos, I'm going to die," Pablo suddenly said.

The other man widened his eyes, "No, boss, no way, your illness can be treated with medication; don't worry!"

Pablo took a long breath, smiled faintly, his gaze a bit dreamy, "I see Ochoa and my daughter waving at me, I see my father cooking my favorite pumpkin pie, I see them, gathered and waiting for me."

!!!!

"John! John!" Carlos shouted loudly for their bodyguard, John Jairo Villarquez, who came running over.

"Quick, take the boss to the hospital."

The two hurriedly lifted Pablo. He used to be very fat, but over the past year, his health had continued to decline, now weighing only a little over 110 pounds, and that for a grown man!