Chapter 1961: Chapter 825: Mexico’s Old Friends Have Gotten Smarter!

West Africa, along the coast of the Gulf of Guinea.

Hot.

Not the stifling heat of the Congo Rainforest, but the sticky swelter of sea breeze mixed with salt grains hitting the face, combined with the rotting seaweed and diesel fumes.

A rusty bulk carrier registered in Panama, "Tuna," is slowly sailing into a nameless small bay, identifiable only by its latitude and longitude coordinates.

The ship is deeply laden, with other items hidden in the ballast.

On shore, there isn’t even a proper pier, just a muddy beach half-surrounded by mangroves.

Dozens of Black men in mismatched uniforms, all armed with AK rifles, wait in the shallow waters. Leading them is a burly man wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses and a thick gold chain around his neck—the locals call him "Captain" Mamadou. Yet, he belongs neither to the Government Forces nor any known Rebels; he’s the "arbitrator" of this coast, smuggling anything and providing "security" services.

Small boats transfer the cargo from "Tuna" to the shore.

Not the usual cigarettes, small appliances, or second-hand clothing. They’re crates tightly wrapped in waterproof oilcloth, requiring four men to lift each one.

The sunglassed Mamadou pries open the edge of a crate with a machete; inside are brand-new, gleaming AK-74M assault rifles. Next to them are longer packages, RPG-7 rocket launchers.

Another crate contains neatly stacked green plastic-sealed packages with no markings.

"Inspect the goods." Mamadou tells a skinny White man squatting nearby, smoking.

The White man is thin, scarred, wearing dirty hunting attire; he’s called Hendrick, a South African, ex-member of the 32 Battalion, now a free mercenary and middleman.

Hendrick walks over, slices open a green package with a Dagger, dips his fingertip in the white powder inside, sniffs under his nose, then burns the edge with a lighter, observing the flame and smoke.

"A+ goods, Colombia’s new formula, high purity, strong kick, more addictive. This batch of ’Black Pearl’ is a special supply, perfect for ’market expansion.’" His English carries a South African accent.

Mamadou grins, revealing gold-imbeded front teeth: "My ’friends’ will enjoy it. Money?"

Hendrick points to the ship: "The usual, half cash, half offset by this."

He kicks a smaller metal box beside him. Mamadou opens it; inside are satellite phones, encrypted radios, laptops, and several passports and ID documents of different nationalities, all with blank photos.

"Latest model, anti-tracking. In the computer, there’s the ’curriculum’ you need—ranging from basic explosives to intermediate infantry tactics, and ’Introduction to Administrative Management.’

"Administrative management?" Mamadou raises an eyebrow.

"Guns and powder alone aren’t enough, Captain."

Hendrick exhales smoke, "To grow big, you need to run it like a company, or even like... running a country. My bosses think, you’ve got that potential."

Mamadou’s eyes flicker.

He rules over this coastline for dozens of kilometers, collecting "protection fees" from passing fishing boats, helping with cargo transport, occasionally kidnapping, but that’s about it. A country? That word is far from him.

But he’s not stupid; the sophistication of these weapons and those "study materials" are not something an ordinary arms dealer can provide. He’s heard the tale of "Skull and Snake." Lately, in some corners of central and western Africa, this symbol has been frequently appearing, accompanied by more efficient and ruthless violence and a swiftly spreading drug called "Black Pearl."

"What do your bosses want?" Mamadou asks.

"A stable and friendly partner."

Hendrick crouches down, drawing in the mud with a branch, "Someone who can control a region, ensure safe logistics channels, and... a place that can scale up production of ’products.’ Here, the climate is suitable, the land is fertile, the government is virtually non-existent, the borders like a sieve. Perfect for growing... certain cash crops."

Mamadou gets it. They’re not asking him to keep being a smuggler or drug trafficker; they want him to become a... plantation owner? Warlord? Maybe even the future "President?"

"Government Forces..."

"Government Forces?"

Hendrick scoffs, "The troops of those bastards in the Capital even steal their own military camp’s food to sell. Their President sits on a plane given by the French, saving money in Switzerland. As long as you’ve got enough guns, and people willing to die for you, plus a little ’external advice’..." he points at the box of electronic equipment, "Driving them away, or making them ’cooperate,’ isn’t hard."

"Why choose me?" Mamadou stares at him.

"Because you’re ruthless, and smart enough to know when to cooperate."

Hendrick stands up, "And besides, you’ve got nothing to lose, but a lot you want to gain. My bosses like partners like that. They’ll provide startup funds, equipment, training, and most importantly—the sales channels. Europe, North America, even Asia, the market for ’Black Pearl’ is vast. You provide a stable source, profits divided seventy-thirty, you thirty, us seventy."

Mamadou silently watches the ocean surface. The risk is enormous, but the reward... might be power and wealth he never imagined. No more bargaining with small fishing boats on the muddy beach, no more needing to appease the temperamental local officials occasionally passing by. He could become a true dominator.

"I need time to consider." He says.

"Of course." Hendrick spreads his hands indifferently, "But opportunity doesn’t wait. Over in Congo, our ’friends’ have encountered some minor trouble, currently seeking a new, more reliable base. If you can’t do it, we’ll look for someone else. Maybe, the minority leader to the north who always wants Independence, or the sidelined former minister to the east."