Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 304 Narcomensaje
The previous chapter has been slightly revised.
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With the accelerator pedal pressed to near its limit, the low roar of the eight-cylinder engine tore through the night sky.

Ismail Zambada sat in the passenger seat, his fists clenched, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

He tried to steady his breathing, but his chest was still heaving violently.

All of this happened too fast and too suddenly.

The meeting was conducted under tight security and in secrecy, keeping even the main leaders of the square in the dark.

But the gunshots rang out without warning.

In the blink of an eye, his men were all killed or wounded, and Valdes also disappeared.

At this moment, only two bodyguards remained by his side.

One of them was driving, while the other was curled up in the back seat, holding an AK and staring out the side window.

The wind rushed in through the cracked rear windshield, but it couldn't dispel the strong smell of blood.

“Mire, jefe,” the driver’s voice trembled from the bumpy ride, “to the safe house in San Ignacio, or…?”

"Do not."

Zambada coldly rejected the man's suggestion.

"The information was likely leaked from within, and the outpost has long since become a trap."

He gritted his teeth, his mind churning with countless thoughts.

I know the night roads of Culiakan all too well.

But now, familiarity hasn't brought him a sense of security; instead, it's made him realize:
They are being forced into some dangerous corner.

"ese cabrónahíahí viene."

(That bastard... he's caught up.)
The next second, the bodyguard's report came on from the back seat.

Zambada was so frightened that his hair stood on end, and he quickly turned his head to look.

In the darkness, two beams of light undulated, like hunting dogs chasing their prey from afar.

“Shake them off.” He took a deep breath and commanded as calmly as possible.

The driver gritted his teeth and shifted gears, the engine roaring as it climbed higher.

They ran several red lights in a row, their tires scraping against the newly paved asphalt.

In just a few minutes, the pursuers seemed to have been completely left behind.

The tense atmosphere only eased slightly at this moment.

Zambada was about to speak—

Suddenly, a pickup truck came hurtling in from the side.

It darted out almost into the blind spot, hitting the right front wheel directly in the front bumper.

The impact was so strong that he was thrown to the left and almost flew out of the car window.

The light in my line of sight was sliced ​​into countless fragments.

Asphalt, railings, starry sky. Then, the airbags deploy.

Boom!
After an unknown amount of time, as consciousness gradually returned, Zambada felt a chill all over his body.

He forced his eyelids open and found himself lying naked on the rough cement floor.

Above us was a pitch-black sky.

The faint chirping of insects could be heard in my ears.

Immediately afterwards, two dark figures appeared in my field of vision.

He approached slowly under the streetlight, his face obscured by shadows.

It's them.

Today's killer.

Zambada was terrified, but he kept his lips tightly pressed together, trying to regain some initiative through silence.

The cement floor is cold and hard.

He used all his strength to suppress his trembling, not wanting the assassin to see his fear.

Jim looked him up and down for a moment, then chuckled softly.

"Read it aloud." He raised the cardboard in his hand and threw it at the man with a thud.

"Just point it at my friend's camera."

Zambada struggled to lift his head and finally saw the words printed on it.

"No," he said hoarsely, he hesitated for a long time, then shook his head repeatedly, "That's impossible."

“That’s good.” Jim shrugged. “Now there are martyrs in Mexico too.”

He turned to Zhou Yi and asked, "What do you do in a situation like this in Afghanistan?"

“Sometimes, we use medication.” Zhou Yi knelt down and gently pressed on the man’s lower abdomen.

But more often than not—

Before he could finish speaking, a knife was plunged into his groin.

In an instant, a dull pain exploded like lightning, as if a hot iron had been plunged into my internal organs. My back arched, and a tingling sensation shot from my sciatic nerve to my heels.

Zambada could no longer hold back, and a scream of uncontrollable pain escaped from his jaw.

At the same time, a pistol was violently inserted, pressing down along the base of the tongue and into the throat.

"Mira bien, leeso te desuello vivo y te corto la verga para que te la tragues."

(Read carefully, or I'll skin this human body alive, cut off my penis, and make you swallow it.)
The air was cut off, my nasal cavity swelled, and tears flowed uncontrollably.

Pain and lack of oxygen caused congestion in the iris, and the heartbeat sounded muffled and deep.

Reason told him that speaking up would bring relief, but anger held his tongue firmly in check.

Just before he was about to faint, the pistol was drawn.

Zambada suddenly thrust upwards, spitting a mouthful of blood onto Zhou Yi's chest.

Jim was startled at first, then laughed incredulously.

Zhou Yi, without changing his expression, loosened his grip, drew the knife with his other hand, and sheathed it back into his waist sheath.

“Since Mr. Zambada doesn’t like communicating like civilized people,” he paused, “then let’s do something barbaric.”

Upon hearing this, Jim grinned and took a sealed box out of his black waterproof bag.

The cap was opened, and the pre-loaded glass syringe lay in the middle.

The syringe contained a clear, pale yellow liquid, the oil-based base shimmering faintly under the light.

"Ketamine, capsaicin solution, a small amount of succinylcholine, amphetamine."

Jim was reciting a menu.

"You'll feel every nerve burning, but unfortunately you won't have any strength at all."

"The downside is that it's not very humane."

"The benefits are—"

He bent his knees and half-squatted, pushing the needle into the muscle. "You'll stay awake for a long time."

Four o'clock in the morning.

Piojo pushed the tattered shopping cart he had stolen from the mall, walking along listlessly.

The ground under the overpass was uneven, and the puddles reflected the dappled lights.

Suddenly, he heard intermittent creaking sounds coming from above.

It was as if something was being suspended and swayed back and forth by the wind.

Piojo stopped abruptly and looked up.

A rope hangs down from outside the guardrail.

A man hangs at the end, swaying constantly, his shadow shifting on the bridge pier.

Seeing this, Piohau couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.

It's probably another threatening message from a drug cartel.

This time they were relatively gentle; they didn't cut it up and leave it on the street.

However, he soon realized something was wrong.

The streetlight shone in front of the person, and the words on the cardboard seemed different from usual.

Piojo squinted and took half a step forward.

—I am Ismail Mario Zambada Garcia
They call me "El Mayo"

—I confess, I trafficked drugs, I killed, I betrayed my men.

—I repent that I created this corporation that destroyed my beloved motherland.

Most importantly, I am a terrible father.
—I have a son who's so stupid he won't shut up.
I would give my life to apologize to everyone.
——ATTE: Cártel de Sinaloa
The wind swept by, and the cardboard kept thumping against my chest, making a dull thud.

At the same time, the man who was being hung up slowly raised his head.

His eyes were bloodshot and his pupils were constricted.

His lips were torn, and his mouth opened and closed, uttering indistinct words.

Sometimes it sounds like cursing, and sometimes it sounds like crying out to the void; it's hard to hear clearly.

Piojo couldn't help but shiver, as if he had been doused with a bucket of ice water in the dead of winter.

He staggered backward, his heel hitting the metal sheet, and he fell to the ground with a thud.

It was very quiet and peaceful around us.

The next second, a weak plea sounded above my head.

"Call the state troopers."

Before he could finish speaking, the voice was replaced by a series of shrill screams that sent chills down one's spine.

Half a day later, the man finally mustered the strength to speak again.

Tell Vero you'll get paid.

(End of this chapter)