Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1586: 732: What the Hell Are You Doing?!

Capítulo 1586: Chapter 732: What the Hell Are You Doing?!

Ti: January 15, 1996, Night

Location: Maine, north of Portland City, “Hope Creek” xican labor enclave.

The na “Hope Creek” is ironic; there are no streams here, only muddy roads and low, crowded wooden shacks housing hundreds of laborers and their families from xico.

They ca chasing the “Arican Dream.”

This is a historical leftover; xico has had frequent conflicts in recent years, including the drug war, and these people ran out during those tis.

Sothing happened in xico, so of course they ran to the United States, where else could they go? Africa?

Inside a small tavern at the edge of the community, voices filled the air.

But unlike usual, the n gathered here tonight weren’t workers looking to relax after a long day’s work with a beer; they were n with fanatical eyes.

They were mbers of the local and surrounding areas of the “North Arican White Brotherhood,” primarily composed of disillusioned farrs, unemployed workers, alcoholic gamblers, and pure racist thugs.

Just like many civilian organizations, what kind of quality can you expect from those who join civilian organizations?

If I set up a shady business, what kind of high-end clientele could I attract?

Isn’t that the logic?

A few days ago, Little Bush’s speech about “rebuilding Arican glory” was like a spark landing on their pile of grievances and prejudices.

“That Texas kid’s right! Arica is ours! Look outside, our jobs have been taken, our wealth stolen.” A burly man nad Brock with a thick face guzzled a shot of whiskey, slamming his glass onto the wooden table with a thundering crash. He was the main agitator of this action.

“Those xicans, they shouldn’t be here!” Another tall, skinny man, nicknad “Nail,” agreed, nervously wiping the blade of a hunting knife.

“Talk is cheap without action, right?”

Brock’s bloodshot eyes scanned the more than 20 accomplices present, “We need to show them sothing! Let those brown-skinned guys know who’s in charge here, tonight, let’s turn Hope Creek into Despair Valley!”

Alcohol, extre thoughts, and dissatisfaction with reality mixed together, plus the societal atmosphere, damn!

It’s all these xicans’ fault.

If it weren’t for Victor’s drug war, if it weren’t for Victor and Arica fighting, would these people be unemployed?

At 11 p.m., the rain intensified.

Several worn-out pickups and sedans turned off their headlights, ghost-like, they silently drove into the outer areas of the “Hope Creek” community, their engines’ low growls masked by the rain.

The car doors opened, and muddy boots stepped onto the ground.

“Rember! Quick and decisive!” Brock growled, pumping the action of the Remington 870 shotgun in his hand, producing a crisp and terrifying “click” sound.

Brock aid at the nearest wooden house’s window and pulled the trigger. “Boom!” The massive power of the buckshot instantly shattered the window and its fra, glass and splinters flying everywhere, inside, won’s screams and children’s cries erupted.

The other thugs went wild too.

They rushed towards the houses with faint lights, smashing doors with gun stocks, kicking down fragile door panels, and then firing at the panicked figures inside.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

“Ah—!”

“Please! Don’t!”

The sounds of gunshots, cries, pleas, and the thugs’ maniacal laughter and curses quickly intertwined, drowning out the rain.

Flashlights’ beams flickered in the darkness, illuminating distorted, terrified faces and splattering blood.

An old man just opened his door to see what was happening when a shot struck him in the chest, staggering backward and falling.

A young couple tried to escape through the back window; the husband was shot in the back with a shotgun, collapsing into the mud, while the wife was dragged back, stabbed through by the thugs amidst her screams.

Children hid under beds, trembling, listening to the devilish footsteps and the screams of their loved ones outside.

Rainwater mixed with blood gathered into pale red streams on the muddy ground. The heavy scent of blood began to perate the air, even the cold rain couldn’t wash it away.

In a relatively sturdy house at the community center lived Juan Martinez, a forr veteran of the Old xican Army who had retired due to injuries and sought a living in the United States.

PS: He was actually driven away by Victor.

As soon as the gunfire started, he was jolted awake. He quickly woke his family, instructing them to hide in the basent, then dragged a heavy wooden box from under the bed.

Inside was a well-maintained vintage M4 carbine, along with several rows of clip bullets.

“Stay in here, no matter what, don’t co out!”

Juan told his wife and children, took a deep breath, he had experienced war, knowing that against beasts, only blood could pay for blood.

Besides…

Damn it, I can’t beat the regular xican Army, but I can’t handle you little punks?

It’s like, the captain’s army was crap during the civil war, but going to Southeast Asia, no bragging, sweeping through Thailand, Myanmar, Vietnam, the Philippines, and Malaysia was no big problem, right?

Back then, those little brats said Bald was garbage, couldn’t even beat those “country bumpkins,” but when they really took action, hey, have to admit, Bald survived, damn he’s aweso.

It’s just that the opponents are different.

Lee Chong Wei was often called second, but he’s second in the world, not second in the neighborhood.

Juan quietly moved to the window, seeing the shadows and rampant violence outside, anger burned in his chest, he saw the neighbor’s old man lying in a pool of blood, saw the thugs dragging a young girl out of her house…