On the screen, CNN's news anchor was broadcasting the bombshell news in a serious yet slightly shocked tone.
When the words "Gilbert," "extradition," "xico," and "public execution" appeared in succession, the few sleepy remnants of the Cali cartel in the barracks instantly awoke.
"The xican Governnt spokesman confird that the legal proceedings against drug lord Gilbert will comnce imdiately. More shocking, however, is that Mr. Casare, a senior xican official, revealed to the dia earlier that to 'welco a brand-new year' and 'give the most severe warning,' the xican Governnt has decided to publicly execute Gilbert at the beginning of the new year using lingchi, an ancient and cruel Eastern form of capital punishnt..."
"Lingchi?!" A burly man with a scar on his face suddenly stood up, knocking his chair over with a loud noise, "What did they say?! ¡Mierda! (Shit!)"
Everyone's gaze focused on the silent figure in the corner of the room.
Chepe Santa Cruz, he sat in a worn wicker chair, gripping an almost empty bottle of tequila, staring intently at the TV, the flickering screen light reflecting on his face, with eyes sowhat similar to Gilbert's, which first showed disbelief, then were replaced by a surging rage.
"Italians..." Chepe's voice squeezed out from between his teeth, low, hoarse, filled with seething hatred and utter humiliation. "Hijos de puta traidores! (Treacherous sons of bitches!)"
He suddenly smashed the empty bottle in his hand against the wall! Glass shards and remnants of alcohol scattered, startling the people beside him.
The TV continued to broadcast the shocked reactions of the international community, experts analyzing the devastating blow to international anti-drug cooperation trust caused by Italy's move, and the uproar that xico's public announcent of using the "lingchi" inhumane punishnt was causing.
But Chepe couldn't hear a word of it.
His mind was filled only with the image of his brother being gagged, hauled away like livestock, shoved onto a plane, and the nearly "festive" expression on Casare's face as he announced the lingchi.
After the extre anger ca a bottomless despair and feeling of powerlessness.
Chepe suddenly stopped in his tracks, his back to everyone, shoulders trembling slightly, as he looked around the simple, stuffy, mildew-scented barracks, seeing faces similarly written with anger but unable to hide their exhaustion and fear.
This wasn't Colombia, not their storm-wielding turf.
This was the Golden Triangle, soone else's domain.
They were hiding here like stray dogs, barely maintaining themselves by selling the last bit of resources and making shady deals with local warlords, while constantly guarding against international police, local military, and other coveting forces.
Survival was already difficult, let alone revenge?
"Big brother," Chepe's voice carried a trace of choking that was not easily detectable, but was soon drowned by a deeper brutality. He suddenly turned, eyes blood-red: "Victor! Casare! And those damned Italians! I, Chepe Santa Cruz, swear! As long as I live another day, I..."
His harsh words abruptly stopped.
Because a subordinate, looking extrely grim, walked over with a satellite phone and whispered, "Boss, our last connection in Colombia just got cut. It was the governnt forces, cooperating with the Aricans. We... we're completely out of people back ho."
Deathly silence filled the barracks.
Chepe collapsed softly back into the wicker chair, running his hands deeply through his hair. He felt unprecedentedly small and hopeless.
Without strength, so words are just empty talk!
"We... we can't even give him a decent funeral... boohoo."
Victor made the drug trafficker cry.
Don't be a drug trafficker in your next life.
...
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