Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 299 Female Anchor

Outside Los Mochis, Sinaloa.

Under the pitch-black night, there was a desolate wasteland.

A few sparse palm trees stand on the cracked soil.

A breeze blew by, and the leaves made a slight rustling sound as they rubbed together.

In this desolate open space, there stands a rusty warehouse.

The roller shutter door was tightly closed, as if it hadn't been opened for many years.

Two industrial lamps hung from the roof, illuminating the center in a stark white light.

The surrounding area was shrouded in deep shadow.

Salazar was strapped to the only metal chair.

His shirt was covered in thick blood plasma, the buttons were popped off, and his chest was covered in bruises.

The straps were pulled into the wrists and wrapped around the armrests, and the legs were similarly secured.

His eyes were bloodshot, his lips were cracked, and his breathing was short and erratic; he was on the verge of fainting.

Jim stood opposite him, propping a broken laptop up on a plastic box.

As he clicked, the screen lit up, and blue and white light shone on Salazar's ferocious face.

That was a YouTube video.

The title is quite sensational.

"[Real Drug Cartel Funeral Gunfight] Two Minutes of Bloodshed! (Original Audio, Uncut)"

In the thumbnail, pews are overturned inside the church, the ground is covered in crimson blood, and corpses lie strewn everywhere.

“Take a look, Miguel,” Jim said softly.

Salazar's eyelids twitched, and he tried to turn his head to the left.

“Take a look at it.” Jim tapped the screen.

This time, Salazar simply closed his eyes and let out short, labored breaths through his nostrils.

Jim wasn't angry; he turned back and smiled at Zhou Yi.
“You know what, John, I really think I could be a photographer.”

"Damn, this is much easier than I thought."

"Getting millions of views is a piece of cake."

"That's why they say any white person with a camera who knows how to adjust filters can call themselves a 'photographer'."

Zhou Yi stubbed out his cigarette and stood up from the ground.

"I have to say, this is truly a racist world."

Jim let out a strange laugh.

"It doesn't matter anymore." He closed the laptop and stuffed it back into his backpack.

Anyway, our employer just sent a message saying that 'he' is very satisfied.

"Of course, it could also be 'her'."

"Heaven and earth bear witness that I am a good person with a strong sense of gender equality."

"And then?" Zhou Yi moved his slightly numb legs a little.

"Then, 'he' or 'she' is willing to give an extra 100,000."

"Let's keep shooting some more of this 'creative' stuff."

"Look, rich people are really fucking perverted."

"Who are we, Twitch streamers?"

“Of course,” Jim grinned. “The guest performers are quite high-profile.”

"To make 'Dad' or 'Mom' happy and give them more pocket money, I need to continue to put some creativity into Mr. El Gato today."

Salazar was just feeling relieved that he had a moment to catch his breath.

However, upon hearing this, I couldn't help but shudder.

Sweat streamed down his neck, tracing the wound and leaving itchy, burning marks.

He tried to shrink back, but was firmly locked to the chair.

My shoulder joint was forced to its limit, and I felt a sore, pulling sensation.

Jim's shadow stretched longer and longer under the light, looming over everything.

Salazar's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

It feels like air is stuck in the middle of the trachea; I can't exhale it all out, nor can I inhale it.

Suddenly, he felt a chill in his crotch—

I'm not sure if it's cold sweat or something even more embarrassing.

“Quiet down,” Jim whispered, crouching down in front of him.

"You're a smart person, and you can speak English."

"Smart people know how to survive."

"And all you have to do is film the second video."

"That way, you will be free."

"No," Salazar's voice was hoarse and barely audible, "Don't do this."

"What do you want? I... I can provide money? Goods? People? I..."

Jim reached out and covered his mouth.

“No, no, no, we don’t want anything,” he said.

"I just want to see you say 'Viva CJNG' in front of the camera."

"That way, we can all go home sooner."

Upon hearing this, Salazar shook his head violently, ignoring the pain, and struggled desperately.

"No." He finally managed to open his mouth, pleading tremblingly.
"No. It really won't work. Everyone will die, not just me." "I can't. Please, anything else."

"Do you think you have a choice?" Jim sighed helplessly.

As soon as she finished speaking, she pressed down on the wound on his thigh and started moving again.

Salazar was doing much better.

Suddenly feeling a sharp pain, his legs immediately straightened.

With drool at the corner of his mouth, his eyes rolled back, and he almost fainted.

Zhou Yi scrutinized the man's disgraceful behavior, and after a long while, lit another cigarette.

"Stop messing with him, just give him the medication," he said. "There will be other problems later."

Jim turned and glanced at him.

“Well, I was going to go with the old-fashioned approach,” he shrugged, “just to reminisce about the good old days.”

"But, since you said it—"

Jim released his grip, bent down, and took the prepared syringe from his bag.

"—Then let's do it your way."

He reached out and pinched Salazar's jaw, turning his head to the side to avoid confrontation.

Next, use your thumb to feel around the outer thigh to find the thickest upper outer part, which avoids major blood vessels and allows the drug to enter the circulation more quickly.

The next second, the syringe was slowly pushed in.

“Done.” Jim pressed his fingertip against the needle hole.

"Now, we wait."

Sure enough, in less than two minutes, Salazar's breathing began to become longer and shallower.

The muscles lose support, the head sways slightly, and the eyeballs move more slowly and less frequently.

"Okay, let's start with something simple."

Jim patted his cheek gently, as if teaching a child to speak.

"What's your name?"

Miguel Salazar.

"You're a member of the Sinaloa Cartel, aren't you?"

".right."

“Good, that’s right.” Jim switched to a casual tone.

Where is your hometown?

Guanajuato.

"Is it hot there in the summer?"

"It's hot, like the sun is burning."

When was the last time you went back?

"A year and a half ago."

Zhou Yi watched from the side as Jim, as if having a conversation, gradually steered the questions from his hometown, his mother's name, and his friends' nicknames to the daily operations of the gang.

The medication impaired Salazar's short-term memory processing ability.

Slow to react and almost no defensive capabilities.

Ten minutes later, his eyelids felt like they were filled with lead, and even speaking became increasingly difficult.

Zhou Yi walked behind the camera, raised his chin, and gestured for Jim to step back.

“Miguel, do you know where El Mayo is?” he asked.

".have no idea."

"Where is El Chapo?"

"Nobody knows."

Zhou Yi remained expressionless, only adopting a gentler tone of voice.

"What does Mario Lopez Valdes, the governor of Sinaloa, have to do with you?"

This time, Salazar paused briefly, his vision blurred, and his lips moved slightly:
"Yes, we gave him a lot of money to help him get protection in the election."

"Is he close to El Mayo?"

"It was...Vescala who contacted me first after he lost the election."

Zhou Yi narrowed his eyes, nodded slightly, and gave his seat to Jim.

Jim walked behind the camera, his smile becoming even more genuine:
"You're a good boy, aren't you, Miguel?"

".yes."

"So what should a good child say?"

He held up a piece of white paper with large characters written on it.

Salazar opened his eyes groggily, and after a long while, he managed to read it out haltingly:

“.VivaCJNG”

“.Viva Cártel de Jalisco Nueva Generación”

"Good boy."

Jim smiled, drew his pistol, and cocked it with one hand.

boom!
The bullet pierced through Salazar's forehead, and his head snapped back.

Blood and brain matter splattered on the corrugated iron wall behind them, a mixture of red and white.

　The actual interrogation was quite complicated. Under the influence of drugs, the interrogators would exhibit confusion and contradictions in their statements. However, to avoid any suspicion of padding the word count, I have kept it brief. I ask for your understanding, dear reader.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)