Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1751: 782: Time to Strike Back!

Capítulo 1751: Chapter 782: Ti to Strike Back!

xico City, Pri Minister’s Office.

The ashtray in front of Casare was already filled with cigarette butts, and he had just shattered a cup, its shards scattered on the expensive carpet.

An abstract of Jeff Bennett’s investigative report lay open on the table.

The boss had almost been taken out.

On his own turf, in broad daylight.

“The British…”

Casare gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles tensed.

Public evidence? Diplomatic protests?

That’s too civilized, too damn unsatisfying.

The other side played dirty, almost costing the Leader his life, so they must retaliate in the sa manner, tenfold, a hundredfold. The Leader can’t say such things openly, but Casare knows what to do.

That was his own boss, after all.

He picked up a satellite phone from the table, dialing an extrely complex number, the signal bouncing through nurous relay stations.

The phone rang a few tis and was picked up. There was no sound on the other end, just calm breathing.

“It’s , Casare.” Casare’s voice was hoarse, “Reinhardt, are you listening?”

“Pri Minister. I am.”

Reinhard Tristan Ogen, the spokesperson of the “Hydra” organization. When so things need to be handled in a “non-official” but “absolutely effective” way, finding Reinhardt and his team is cleaner and more ruthless than deploying a regular intelligence agency.

“You heard about the Leader at Belize Airport.”

“The Intelligence Bureau’s findings point towards London. It’s those suit-wearing bastards.”

Reinhardt was silent for two seconds, “What do you an?”

“I an the Leader is very angry.”

Casare enunciated each word, “But we are people with status, we can’t bark like mad dogs. Yet so must pay the price for their arrogance and despicableness, understand? We need to make them hurt, make them rember that any claws they extend out will be cut off.”

“Any specific targets?” Reinhardt asked directly.

“The MI6 Director, Sir Charles Walton, and maybe a Royal Family mber. Not a direct heir, but soone significant, soone who will make them ‘deeply regret’, like that Princess Alexandra who’s always ddling in sports and politics and cozying up to the Indians lately.”

Princess Alexandra, the Queen’s cousin, known for her “passion for charity and public affairs,” often making remarks considered as “representing the Royal Family’s certain inclinations” but not bearing formal political responsibility. She was also quite active in the Commonwealth Gas incident.

“Director Wadon, and Princess Alexandra.” Reinhardt repeated, his voice still steady, “Ti fra?”

Casare added, “This matter is Hydra’s own discontent, a ‘freedom fighters’ retaliation against colonial remnants, having nothing to do with the xican official stance. The Leader knows nothing of this, understand?”

“Completely understood, Pri Minister.”

“We will take action. Please let the Leader know so filthy rats will be cleaned out. Loyalty!”

“Good, the Leader won’t forget you.” Casare hung up the phone.

Europe, a neutral city, inside a suite.

Reinhardt put down the satellite phone. His desk was clean, with only an old-fashioned typewriter, a European railway titable, and a cup of cold black coffee.

He pondered for a mont, then dialed a number.

A deafening electronic music sound, mixed with laughter and clinking glasses ca through the receiver.

“Hello?” A male voice slurred with obvious drunkenness, with a woman giggling in the background, “Boss? It’s rare for you to find at this hour… wanna co over for a drink? The girls here are amazing, there’s a redhead, lips like roses dipped in blood…”

“Ethan, co back imdiately. It’s urgent.”

The music in the background lowered sowhat, as if moving to a relatively quieter corner.

“Now? Boss, I’m just getting ward up… What’s so important??”

“Imdiately.”

“Got it.” The voice on the other side sobered up rapidly, the earlier laziness disappearing, “Address unchanged? Forty minutes.”

“Unchanged.” Reinhardt hung up the phone.

About forty minutes later, the safe house door was pushed open.

Ethan Hunt swaggered in.

His brown hair was slightly disheveled, a roguish smile on his handso face. He wore a flamboyant light purple shirt, the collar open, with several bright red lipstick marks on his neck. He was carrying half a bottle of so champagne brand.

“Hey, Boss, look, trophy.” Ethan grinned, pointing at his neck and cheek, “Tonight was… wow, you should really get out and about instead of staying cooped up with these old relics.”

He nodded towards the typewriter and titable.

Reinhardt glanced at him, took a pack of tissues from the drawer, and handed it over. “Wipe off.”

Ethan took the tissue, didn’t wipe, rather sniffed at it exaggeratedly, “Tsk, industrial fragrance, nothing compared to the girls’ natural scent?”

He tossed the tissues back onto the desk, plopped down in the chair opposite Reinhardt, cocking a leg over the other, “So, what’s the big deal? Who’s got us ruffled?”

Reinhardt concisely recounted Casare’s request and the background of the Belize Airport explosion.

Listening, Ethan’s frivolous deanor gradually diminished.

Upon hearing the targets were the UK MI6 Director and a Royal Family Princess, he let out a whistle, but a glimr of excitent flashed in his eyes.