Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1343: 649: I Have Big Brother Victor! (Part 4)

Chapter 1343: Chapter 649: I Have Big Brother Victor! (Part 4)

The tracks crushed the rubble, and the armored vehicle smashed through the remains of the wall.

This ti, there were no complicated tutorials on street combat, no careful clearing of each building, only the simplest, most efficient, and most brutal way of advancing: paving the way with overwhelming firepower, crushing all obstacles with a torrent of steel.

The speed of the advance was astonishing.

In the central urban area of dellin, in a three-story building half-collapsed from a blast.

This was a temporary command point for the remaining forces of the “dellin Cartel” and one of the last strongholds struggling to maintain communication.

The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder, dust, and heavy blood.

The walls were riddled with bullet holes, and the ceiling was on the verge of collapse.

A dozen defeated troops crowded into a relatively intact corner, their faces sared with dirt, sweat, and deep-seated fear.

Their weapons were either damaged, or they had run out of ammunition, and their eyes held only numb despair.

A small leader with a scarred face, nicknad “Scorpion,” once a terrifying presence in this neighborhood, was now futilely hissing into a crackling radio: “Repeat! We are surrounded!”

His only response was the dead static noise.

“Scorpion” slamd the radio to the ground furiously, scattering parts everywhere.

He gasped for breath, his bloodshot eyes sweeping over his dejected subordinates, and he cursed hoarsely: “Fuck!”

Just then, the sound of tracks crushing stones and rubble ca from outside.

“They’re here… they’re here…” A young drug trafficker curled up in the corner chattered his teeth and trembled uncontrollably.

“Scorpion” rushed to the edge of a broken window and cautiously peered outside.

At the end of the street, a massive olive-green beast appeared.

It was the iconic infantry fighting vehicle of the xican Army, its thick armor covered with bullet scars and black marks from explosions, the machine gun turret atop it slowly rotating, its black muzzle surveying the ruins on either side of the street like the eyes of death.

Behind the war vehicle was a squad of xican soldiers in dark combat uniforms and full-cover helts, their movents swift and precise, their tactical formation tight, their guns continuously aid at corners that might hide danger.

“It’s… it’s the xicans! It’s Victor’s n!” Another drug trafficker saw them too, and it was as if his spine had been removed, as he slid to the floor limp, his gaze instantly unfocused, filled only with pure, indescribable fear, muttering incoherently: “It’s over… all over… they’re here… they won’t leave any survivors…”

The pride borrowed from the British was instantly battered beyond recognition.

“Scorpion’s” heart nearly stopped beating.

The terrifying impressions left by the xican soldiers from the previous fight, their precise sniper shots, rciless clearing, “efficient handling” of prisoners.

Instantly flooded his mind, suffocating him far more than the rumbling engines and tracks outside.

He had personally witnessed those who tried to resist or flee fall like wheat under the xican soldiers’ guns.

That declaration of “high-pressure policy” now beca the silent advancing torrent of steel outside the window, clearly delivering one ssage: surrender or be completely exterminated.

“Scorpion” jerked his head back, gasping for air, as sweat soaked through his tattered vest in a mont.

He looked around, the last traces of color drained from his subordinates’ faces. So began to sob quietly, so buried their heads deep between their knees, bodies shaking like leaves in the wind, others with vacant eyes as if their souls had left their bodies.

The little remaining will to resist promptly collapsed at the sight of that olive-green military uniform, leaving only primal fear of death and desperate recognition of the xican soldiers’ cold efficiency.

“Scorpion’s” voice was as dry as sandpaper rubbing together, with a trembling resignation, as if convincing himself, “Throw all the guns out… raise your hands high… let them see…”

Surrender might an death, but not surrendering now would surely an death!

What do you choose?

A few worn rifles and a few pistols were shakily tossed out the window, landing in the rubble-filled street with several dull thuds.

A dozen hands, stained with filth and terror, were raised high above the broken window and gaps in the wall, exposed to the cold air and the aiming sights of the xican soldiers.

“Those inside, co out, slowly, keep your hands where we can see them.”

This voice, like the final judgnt, caused the already ntally fragile drug traffickers inside, to have their psychological defenses completely collapse; those with the weakest ntal fortitude directly lost control, and the pungent sll spread in the air of despair.

This obstruction of the British in dellin…

Within 20 hours, once more fell into the hands of the xican and Colombian Coalition Forces.

…