You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

It was six in the morning. The rain in Seattle had finally stopped, but the sky remained overcast, without a glimmer of light.

On the edge of the West Side, on 15th Avenue, there is a Mexican taco restaurant called "Old Aztec".

The shop's signboard is faded, and the shop itself is small, but every morning the rich aroma of tortillas and roasted meat wafts out.

In immigrant cities like Los Angeles or Seattle, top drug lord agents would never be foolish enough to spend every day in the same auto repair shop.

The saying "a cunning rabbit has three burrows" is a basic rule of survival.

The auto repair shop was used for handling bulk shipments and money laundering, while the basement of this taco shop served as a safe house for Maria to meet and process daily intelligence.

After all, hundreds or thousands of Latinos come and go from these cheap fast food restaurants every day. Even if FBI agents were to stare with their eyes wide open, they would not be able to distinguish from the surveillance footage who is a drug dealer and who is a cleaner who has just finished a night shift.

The pantry in the back kitchen of the taco restaurant is filled with the aroma of onions, cilantro, and aged cured meats.

Maria was sitting unceremoniously on top of a pile of frozen pork belly.

She had changed out of her oil-stained mechanic's clothes into a loose gray hooded sweatshirt, and her hair was casually tied into a bun.

She held a freshly made, steaming beef taco in one hand, chewing it with relish, and a bottle of cheap Corona beer in the other.

The heavy iron door to the storage room was pushed open, and Pablo entered, bringing with him the chill of the early morning.

His face looked somewhat pale, and there was still lingering shock in his eyes. Even his clothes had a few drops of mud on them that he hadn't wiped off.

"Big sister..."

Pablo swallowed hard, walked up to Maria, and lowered his voice as if afraid of disturbing something unseen.

Maria swallowed the beef in her mouth without even lifting her eyelids.

"What? Did you see a ghost? I told you to keep an eye on things in Eighth Street, and you fell into a sewer?"

Pablo shook his head, grabbed a bottle of mineral water next to him, and gulped down two mouthfuls before he could finally calm his breathing.

"It's scarier than seeing a ghost. Sister, your previous judgment was absolutely brilliant."

Pablo leaned closer and reported to his superior with lingering fear:

"I didn't dare get too close."

"The cops in the West District have all gone crazy lately. Before, you could get them to talk by giving them a few hundred dollars, but last night I had someone try to contact two familiar faces, and they didn't even dare to answer the phone. They just blocked me."

"So I had to pay a few drug addicts who were wandering the streets to pretend to be homeless and stroll around outside the police line."

Pablo took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly.

"The Pink Swan Club... is completely finished."

"Lamar's men, and Darrell's old gang, have all been wiped out."

"The drug addict I bribed saw with his own eyes that a refrigerated truck went back and forth and took away more than thirty body bags through the back door."

Maria paused for half a second while biting Taco.

She raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise flashing in her languid eyes, but quickly returned to calm.

"More than thirty? That little bastard Lamar really went all out. Darrell and his gang are useless too, getting beaten up like this by a bunch of drug-addicted idiots."

"Not all of it is from Lamargan!"

Pablo abruptly interrupted Maria.

"The drug addict said he saw several plainclothes officers come out of there, covered in blood and smelling of gunpowder."

"None of the patrol officers on the perimeter went in to fire; they were all taken down by those plainclothes officers. And..."

Pablo lowered his voice, a hint of fear in it.

"Tray is definitely dead. I saw his body being carried out through binoculars from a high point; there was a huge hole in his head."

"And Tyrone, that mad dog who manages modified cars, isn't he close to Darrell too?"

"I reckon they're dead in there too. Anyway, Darrell and Lamar's groups are completely wiped out."

Maria took out a Marlboro, put it in her mouth, and then remained silent for more than ten seconds.

She showed no sadness or anger at Trey's death, only somewhat disgustedly tossing the remaining half of the taco into the trash can.

"A fool is a fool."

Maria gave a cold laugh, picked up her Corona, and took a sip.

"I told him a long time ago to find his own way to survive. And what happened? Not only did he not survive, he also broke our Seattle line."

She turned to Pablo and pointed at him with the unlit cigarette.

"Now you understand why I scolded you before, right?"

"If I had listened to you and sent a few Sicarios (gunners) to back up Trey, do you think one of our brothers would be lying in a body bag being fed to the dogs right now?"

Pablo nodded repeatedly, his back already covered in a layer of cold sweat.

"Eldest sister is wise."

"If you hadn't stopped us, we'd probably be trapped in our beds by the FBI and DEA SWAT teams by now."

"These Seattle cops have absolutely no sportsmanship; they actually sent tactical squads to slaughter gangsters."

"When have Americans ever talked about martial virtue?"

Maria chuckled, jumped off the freezer, and brushed the ice crystals off her trousers.

"Tray is dead, so be it. He was just a piece of trash."

"However, Marcus is dead, Darrell and Lamar are dead, even a tough guy like Tyrone has fallen in. The Bloods are now completely disorganized in the West End."

Pablo asked with some concern:

"So what do we do next? The West District accounts for a third of our total shipments, and now nobody's buying them. Should we take advantage of the chaos and promote a minor leader to a higher position?"

"You're here again?"

Maria looked at Pablo like he was an idiot and slapped him on the head.

"Supporting someone to usurp power within a stable gang is called investment."

"To support your boss in a chaotic mess, where cops are red-eyed and biting everyone in sight, is tantamount to suicide!"

She walked to the sink in the storage room, turned on the tap, and washed her hands.

"Notify all distributors and smuggling routes to cease all large-scale transactions for the time being."

"Whether it's a few kilograms of cocaine or a whole box of methamphetamine, keep it all in the warehouse. Not a single gram is allowed to be sent to the West District."

Pablo was taken aback: "Supply cut off? What are we going to eat for the next two weeks?"

"Eat my ass!"

Maria grabbed a tissue to dry her hands, her eyes turning extremely cold and pragmatic.

"The Blood Gang is leaderless now. Those dozens of street thugs will fight each other like mad dogs over territory and supplies. We just need to sit on the sidelines and watch."

"Remember our rules: we're here to sell goods, not to wage war."

"Once their infighting is over, whoever can gain a foothold by stepping on the corpses of others, whoever can knock on our door with enough US dollars, we'll sell the goods to them. As for those Tom, Dick, and Harry who want to take advantage of the chaos to buy goods now..."

She snorted coldly.

"Just tell them to get lost. Sinaloa Group doesn't offer credit for its goods, and it doesn't invest in people who die."

……

9:00 AM, Seattle City Hall.

Mayor Douglas Reynolds' office is located on the top floor of the building, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the somber city skyline.

The office was furnished with heavy, handmade Persian carpets, and several abstract paintings, though seemingly incomprehensible, were priced extremely high. The entire room was permeated with an expensive and pungent woody cologne scent.

"Snapped!"

A copy of the Seattle Times, still smelling of ink, was slammed heavily onto the large mahogany desk.

The front page headline prominently featured the elegant and confident smiling face of Victoria Sterling, the West Precinct Chief.

The title, written in bold black font, read: "West Side Crackdown on Organized Crime, Pink Swan Club Night, Chief Sterling's Promise of Absolute Security."

Reynolds tugged at the $800 silk tie around his neck in frustration, his once neatly styled, sparse hair now somewhat disheveled.

"Can anyone tell me what the hell is going on?"

Reynolds braced his hands on the desk, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the two people standing in front of the desk.

"Victoria Sterling! The one who rose to power because of her dead father."