Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 455 - 311: Everything is destined; nothing is controlled by us!

How fast can an American reporter run?

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When Richard James Curl was carried out, the doorway was packed with people, even reporters climbing up the pipes to grab the scoop.

"Mr. Clark, is the deceased CIA Director Richard?" a blonde bombshell asked the emerging FBI chief, thrusting the microphone forward.

Dressed in an outfit that was quite "ambitious," Clark glanced over; the reporter gave him a meaningful look, their eyes locking.

What a spectacle...

Dogs in heat!

"Sorry, I cannot disclose that." Clark’s eyes flickered, his words evasive, signaling his staff to load the body into the hearse.

The reporters didn’t give a damn; they were convinced it was the CIA big shot, swarming in, some even trying to pull off the sheets.

An FBI youngster tried to intervene but was held back by a seasoned colleague who gave him a knowing look.

With the boss standing there, arms crossed, why rush in?

That would just embarrass the CIA!

When the sheet was pulled back, Richard James Curl’s "green" face was suddenly exposed to the crowd.

The relentless barrage of shutter clicks filled the air.

The news swept across the world in no time.

Tijuana Victor Hotel.

It stood 76 stories tall, one of the tallest in Northern Mexico.

Previously under the Tijuana Cartel led by the Benjamin brothers, now seized, it catered to foreign guests.

The 73rd floor was the nominal top, the three floors above were off-limits, mainly for the Governor’s Mansion’s inner circle.

Donald Rumsfeld, resting in a 100-square-meter suite, frowned at the TV broadcasting the cause of Richard James Curl’s death.

"According to sources, the CIA Director died on top of his mistress, from taking a drug that ruptured his brain vessels due to stimulation..."

Even the TV station’s spokesperson struggled to suppress his laughter, his lips more uncontrollable than an AK47.

His own people found it unbearable.

The CIA Director, a top US official, dying in such an embarrassing way?

Donald Rumsfeld, who always prided himself on his image, now felt his face flush with discontent, he kicked the coffee table and turned to his deputy commander, also the American strategist Nicholas Trance, "You could put a dog in the CIA’s spot and it’d do the job, but not actually a dog. Old Bush only uses his bifocals to look at money, nothing more."

Watching him criticize their leader, Nicholas Trance could only force a smile.

The old defense minister was known for his short temper, disliking contradiction.

Many didn’t understand why Donald Rumsfeld could be so domineering, citing his belief that "air force" was the future, suggesting that no matter how impressive artillery was, it couldn’t beat aerial bombings.

This laid the groundwork for the US Military’s warfare pattern for decades.

And he was too capable; there was no opposition to him in The Pentagon.

Rumors suggested the military would prefer Donald Rumsfeld as Defense Minister.

The following officials paled in comparison!

"Hey, hey, hey, what are you doing? Guards, guards..."

Just then, shouts and indignation erupted outside, followed by curses.

"Go see what’s happening," the old defense minister commanded, brow furrowed, sending the accompanying official outside.

They found two US officials pinned to the ground by burly guards, while a waiter stood by, pointing and ranting.

Other Americans from the rooms gathered, perplexed.

"Hey, what’s going on, what are you Mexicans doing? Let go!" someone demanded angrily.

To their surprise, the guard pulled out a gun, barking, "Don’t move!"

Enraged, the waiter spread open a poster saying, "You Americans have no manners, tearing down our General’s portrait!"

The Americans looked at each other, bewildered.

This wasn’t a big deal.

They’d even cursed the president in public, so what’s the problem now?

"According to the laws of Northern Mexico, they’re suspected of desecrating a leader!"

Finally, the pinned Americans panicked, yelling, "Help! Help! Help!"

Donald Rumsfeld, still in his room, emerged with a somber expression.

How many times had he said not to provoke trouble in Mexico the American way?

Wasn’t this asking for trouble?

"They have diplomatic immunity, and... they’re members of the negotiation team, you’re damaging international relations."

"The best treatment for arrogant people like you is a 7.62." The waiter snorted fearlessly.

"Call Victor, tell him we agree to his terms. And that we hope he forgives a few idiots!" the old defense minister gritted his teeth, returning to his room and slamming the door.

Deputy commander Nicholas Trance squinted, shocked at Mexico’s newfound feudalism.

In the Governor’s Mansion.

Victor, upon receiving the call, was still bewildered but laughed, "Please assure Mr. Donald all is well. As long as they comply, I won’t hold back. I’ll have the U.S. Military bodies collected. Money and people in place, you can take them anytime."