754: Chapter 420: Get Ready to Be Beaten!
754: Chapter 420: Get Ready to Be Beaten!
September 14, 1991.
Two days before xican Independence Day, the trees and utility poles along the streets were draped with propaganda banners—and, of course, half-body portraits of General Victor.
The day was ant to symbolize the courage of the people resisting colonial rule; likewise, Victor had declared it as: Anti-Narcotics Day!
A day to commorate and mourn fallen Drug Enforcent Warriors.
To demonstrate commitnt, a batch of drug traffickers sentenced to death in the recovered state capitals, totaling 44,561 individuals, would be publicly executed simultaneously.
This was a plan announced directly to the public.
The xican National Anthem played daily, and anwhile, the ugly illegal constructions along the main roads were demolished, and even cent roads were paved overnight.
Armored military vehicles patrolled everywhere, occasionally stopping to interrogate pedestrians.
In the Fourth District, on “Pertz City Street,” a typical middle-class neighborhood, residents lived reasonably dignified lives.
At a twin villa located at No.
211.
The curtains were drawn tightly, blocking out any sunlight, while dim lighting cast an oppressive atmosphere.
In the ground-floor living room, faint glimpses revealed two n and a woman assembling firearms and preparing simple explosive devices.
“Boss, the corpses upstairs are starting to stink.
Should we chop them up and flush them down the pipes?” A White man descended from upstairs, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his brow furrowed as he asked.
“No.
The noise from flushing is too loud—it’ll attract attention.
Wrap them in a few more layers,” the woman replied, her voice coarse and grating.
The White man muttered sothing under his breath but ultimately complied.
“Now all we must do is wait and avoid any potential accidents.
Michael, did you get the parade tickets?” The woman turned to a pudgy man across from her, who looked utterly unremarkable, even baby-faced.
“Of course,” the man replied with a smug wave of his hand.
“Right in the middle of the parade—when the celebration hits its peak, boom.”
Michael made a hand gesture mimicking a firework explosion.
“We’ll send them all to et God!”
As he talked, he broke into a sick, deranged laugh, choking abruptly as so saliva went down the wrong pipe.
He coughed and dry-heaved violently.
Though they appeared harmless, the four individuals were operatives of Sri Lanka’s Tiger Organization!
Founded by Velupillai Prabakaran as a resistance movent, it had gradually devolved into a terrorist organization, with substantial global influence.
Especially in May 1991, when they assassinated India’s forr leader Rajiv Gandhi by using a female suicide bomber disguised as a flower bearer.
Rajiv Gandhi—while not a household na internationally—was the son of Indira Gandhi, herself assassinated, and the grandson of Nehru.
The assassination of such a prominent figure had shocked the world, drawing attention to the Tiger Organization.
After Velupillai Prabakaran received funding from the Southern Drug Dealer Alliance, he dispatched personnel to infiltrate xico, all under fake identities.
So even specifically flew to HK, then to Malaysia pretending to be tourists before entering xico.
Their goal: even if they couldn’t kill Victor, they aid to eliminate several high-ranking Governnt Forces officials.
All for reputation.
Velupillai Prabakaran’s ambitions were grotesquely distorted.
If the world underestimated , then let the world hear my voice.
The woman nodded in satisfaction and issued a few directives before suddenly hearing an alarm at the door.
Everyone instantly tensed, snapping their gazes toward the entrance.
They had set up a small device in the yard—any intrusion would trigger the alarm.
Boom!
A gunshot shattered the silence.
The door blew apart, blasted by a shotgun at close range.
“Freeze!
Police!!” ca the bellowing voice from outside.
The mbers of the terrorist organization imdiately grabbed the guns on the table and retaliated.
The pudgy Michael lit a Molotov cocktail, growling as he ran a few steps toward the door and hurled it.
Boom~
The doorway erupted into flas.
Two police officers, engulfed in fire, scread in agony as they stumbled out, rolling on the ground.
Their colleagues frantically stripped off clothing to extinguish the flas, but the fire seed to cling rcilessly.
“Shit!
The goddamn cops are here!
Quick—follow the plan!
Retreat, and if it cos to the worst, seize the kindergarten 100 ters away!” the woman barked, decisively leading the others in their escape.
Seasoned bandits like them had already anticipated scenarios like this.
Their modus operandi was always to maximize chaos and leverage.
They often chose hideouts near schools, hospitals, or governnt offices; if trouble arose, hostages were their fallback.
Yet it was baffling—why had the police tracked them down?
To avoid surprises, they’d killed the hoowners, reasoning that a sudden change of occupants would be too conspicuous.
Relying on the food supplies in the villa, they hadn’t interacted with the outside world.
Following orders, the others fought while retreating.
Outside, a “Weasel” airborne armored vehicle emblazoned with “Police” smashed through the wooden fence.
The turret pointed at the villa’s window, and the gunner inside opened fire!
Tutututututu…
Crash crash crash…
The table and walls were riddled with bullet holes.
The slowest runner, the pudgy Michael, took a bullet to the back of his neck, obliterating his head.
The intensified firepower was overwhelming, pinning down the terrorist operatives who could only cower like turtles.
Seizing the opportunity, the police stord inside.
Realizing escape was impossible.
The woman, in despair, clutched a bomb to her chest.
“Long live the holy war!!”
She detonated it, the blast blowing off the roof and sending a piece of the chimney crashing into the mansion next door—nearly killing its inhabitants, who were watching the commotion.
The Police Chief, leading the raid, grimaced.
“Chief, there’s one survivor,” soone reported.
His eyes lit up.
“Quick, take them to the hospital and request dical intervention—dammit!
If they want to die, I’ll make sure they regret living!”
National Palace.
Top floor.
Victor stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, cigarette in his mouth, gazing at the billowing clouds of smoke in the distance.
His face seed expressionless, but those who knew him could discern his anger from his eyes.
“Utterly revolting, like stirring shit,” Victor muttered, pausing briefly before adding, “Just as disgusting as drug traffickers.”
The terrorist attack had significant implications.
Victor could already foresee foreign dia reveling in linking the incident to “rebellion against tyranny.”
As long as Victor suffered, those bastards would be ecstatic.
Knock knock knock!
“Enter.”
Casare and George Smiley walked in side by side, exchanging glances upon seeing their boss standing by the window.
Both wore troubled expressions.
“General, law enforcent agencies raided 32 intelligence sites, killing 77 people and capturing three.
Of those, seven locations experienced explosions, resulting in approximately 100 casualties…”
“How many deaths?
Don’t bother ntioning casualties!” Victor interrupted irritably.
“Who asked for such vague reports?”
George Smiley lowered his head, scratching it awkwardly as he replied, “Thirty-sothing in total.”
Bam!
Victor slamd his foot onto the desk, producing a deafening noise.
Casare and George Smiley flinched, watching their furious leader, not daring to utter a word.
“Sri Lanka is utterly useless!
They can’t even eliminate their own damn terrorist organization!”
“Contact their ambassador.
We’ll help them resolve it,” Victor snapped.
George Smiley glanced hesitantly at Casare, who stepped forward.
“Boss, Sri Lanka doesn’t have diplomatic relations with us.”
“That’s not what I want to hear!”
Victor waved dismissively.
“Just tell them: either they deal with it, or we will—for them.
Otherwise, Sri Lanka’s interests in xico will be compromised.
We won’t guarantee their citizens’ safety within our borders.”
“We’ll deploy forces to eradicate the Tiger Organization.
What’s there not to agree on?
If they’re concerned about appearances, let them request aid through the Drug Enforcent Departnt.”
Victor had decided to make an example out of the Tiger Organization: kill the chicken to scare the monkeys.
Anything less, and they’d be emboldened to provoke him further.
“These terrorist operatives are like shit-covered maniacs flying around without underwear!” Victor grumbled.
Casare saw no choice but to nod.
His mind was now racing through strategies to intimidate Sri Lanka.
Victor ground his cigarette into the ashtray.
“Strengthen the vetting process for the celebration teams—I have only one demand: absolute security.”
“Understood!”
George Smiley straightened up and replied firmly.
“You can leave now.
Casare, stay behind,” Victor instructed.
George Smiley saluted and exited.
Once outside the office, he was drenched in sweat.
Unbuttoning his uniform collar, he cursed under his breath before summoning his subordinates at his own office.
“I made a guarantee to the General—ensure Independence Day goes smoothly.
Everyone, stay alert.
Anyone who makes lose face will lose their job.”
anwhile, back in the office.
Victor finally spoke in a weary tone.
“xico is turning into a haven for criminals testing their limits and seeking fa.”
Casare remained noncommittal.
“We need to bolster intelligence operations—mobilize the power of the masses.
Publicize the updated Spy Reward Law and get everyone involved.
Starting today, forbid carrying regulated knives on the streets.”
“What qualifies as regulated knives?”
“Blades over ten centiters.”
Such asures would be considered draconian in xico’s Western World.
But disobedience would only invite the wrath of the ‘Purple Egg.'”
Freedom and control are not mutually exclusive.
In a country of 130 million people like xico…
There were 130 million potential criminals!
Control them, monitor them!
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