125: Chapter 125 Since it's war, then let's burn money.

The sun in Midland was so fierce it felt like it would melt the asphalt.

McLean sat in his office.

The curtains were drawn tightly.

Even so, he still felt a wave of dry heat crawling up his spine.

It wasn't because of the weather.

The ashtray on the desk was piled high with cigar butts, looking like a mass grave.

He grabbed the phone, his fingers trembling slightly.

It wasn't Parkinson's; it was fear, and the madness of being backed into a corner.

That underground laboratory was destroyed.

Hundreds of millions of dollars of investment went down the drain without even making a splash.

What was worse were the "things" that had escaped; cleaning up the aftermath had cost him a fortune in hush money.

Now, that damn New Yorker was right under his nose.

Living in his villa, holding his land deeds, and trying to steal his oil fields.

"Connect me to Juarez."

McLean roared into the receiver, his voice so raspy it sounded like he was swallowing hot coals.

A clamor of Spanish came from the other end of the line, mixed with gunfire and heavy bass dance music.

"This is McLean."

He loosened his suffocating tie. "Tell the Butcher that I've opened that border passage."

"The terms?" The voice on the other end grew greedy.

"I want the heads of those two New Yorkers."

McLean stared at the candid photo on his desk, which showed Chen Mo opening the car door for Ava.

"And smash Rockefeller's oil fields to pieces. I don't want to see a single well in Texas still pumping oil."

He hung up the phone.

McLean slumped in his chair, panting heavily.

Inviting wolves into the house.

He knew he was playing with fire, but he no longer cared.

Since that New Yorker wanted to play by the law of the jungle, he would show him what real savagery was.

...

Two days later.

LS-09 oil well.

Thick black smoke billowed, rising straight into the sky.

The air was thick with the pungent stench of sulfur and tar.

Several pickup trucks packed with armed militants had just left, leaving a scene of devastation behind.

The workers' prefab dormitories were riddled with bullet holes, as dense as a honeycomb.

The blood on the ground hadn't dried yet, attracting swarms of flies.

Ava stood beside that bulletproof lincoln.

She clutched the satellite phone in her hand, her knuckles turning white.

"...I know... Yes, Uncle... but I can't withdraw..."

On the other end of the line was the roaring of the family's Council of Elders.

Even from a few meters away, Chen Mo could hear the arrogance and blame typical of those in high positions.

Ava hung up the phone and turned around.

Her eyes were red, but she didn't cry.

Her experiences over the past few days had taught her that tears were worthless in Texas.

"They burned three wells."

Ava pointed to the flames in the distance, her voice trembling. "And two workers are seriously injured. The family wants me to return to New York immediately, saying I've turned this place into a war zone."

Chen Mo leaned against the car door, chewing on a mint.

He toyed with a dagger in his hand, its blade flashing coldly in the sunlight.

"This is a war zone."

Chen Mo sheathed the dagger. "McLean is desperate. He doesn't dare use the National Guard, nor does he dare use Lone Star Security, because those are official forces, and touching you would bring big trouble. So he went to the Mexicans."

"Los Zetas."

Chen Mo spat out the name. "A bunch of drug traffickers who treat murder as a business."

"Should we call the police?" Ava asked a silly question.

Chen Mo smiled.

He pulled a blue folder from the back seat and threw it to Ava.

"Here, the US dollar is the law, and guns are the judges."

Ava scrambled to catch the folder.

She opened it.

The first page was a registration document for a security company.

Place of registration: Delaware.

Name: Legacy Defense.

The legal representative column was blank.

"Sign it."

Chen Mo handed her a pen. "Since it's war, we need an army."

Ava froze.

She looked at Chen Mo. "You want to form a private army?"

"Not me, you."

Chen Mo pointed to the signature line. "Miss Rockefeller hiring security personnel to protect family assets is perfectly logical and reasonable. As for what weapons these security personnel use, that's my business."

Ava looked into the man's eyes.

There was no panic, no tension, only a calmness like seeing a prey fall into a trap.

She grit her teeth, uncapped the pen, and signed her name.

"What about the money?" Ava asked. "Forming an army takes a lot of money."

Chen Mo snapped his fingers.

Jack Martin stepped down from another vehicle, carrying two huge black canvas bags in his hands.

The zippers were pulled open.

Crisp green Franklins were stacked as neatly as bricks.

"I brought over ten million in cash from New York."

Chen Mo patted the cash. "In Texas, nothing makes people risk their lives more than this stuff."

He took out the old cell phone he always kept on him and dialed the Priest's number.

That lunatic who sold arms in a church.

"Hello?"

"This is Chen."

Chen Mo's voice was very soft. "The AA12 from last time was good. But now I need some bigger toys."

"How big?" The Priest's voice brimmed with excitement.

"Big enough to tear a Cartel's pickup trucks to shreds."

Chen Mo looked at the still-burning oil well in the distance. "Also, I want men. Veterans, Rangers, Seals, whatever, as long as they know how to kill. Two thousand a day, USD, paid in cash."

Silence fell on the other end of the line for two seconds.

Then came the sound of a heavy object hitting the floor, as if something had been knocked over.

"My man."

The Priest's voice was trembling. "Where are you? I'm moving my shop over right now!"

...

Three days.

It only took three days.

This was the power of money.

Inside an abandoned auto repair shop in El Paso.

Over sixty burly men stood in the open space.

They wore all kinds of tactical pants, carrying that indelible smell of gunpowder and alcohol on them.

Most of these men were veterans; some were missing an ear, while others had burns on their faces.

Forgotten by society, they lived on meager pensions, numbing their PTSD with cheap whiskey in bars.

Until someone slapped a thick stack of US dollars onto the table.

Chen Mo stood by the iron railing on the second floor, looking down at this pack of beasts.

He wasn't wearing his suit.

A black tactical vest, tactical pants tucked into military boots, and that M1911 strapped to the outside of his thigh.

"I know what you want."

Chen Mo's voice echoed in the cavernous workshop.

No nonsense, no pep talk.

Jack Martin and several subordinates dumped the money from the two canvas bags onto the table.

Clatter.

The green bills piled up into a small mountain.

The breathing below instantly grew heavy.

"This is the deposit."

Chen Mo pointed to the pile of money. "For every Cartel member you kill, there's an extra thousand-dollar bonus. I don't care about the process, I only want the results."

He pointed behind him again.

Several heavy trucks had just finished unloading.

Inside the pried-open wooden crates, oily firearms were revealed.

M2 heavy machine guns, MK19 grenade launchers, and several AT4 anti-tank rocket launchers.

The most eye-catching was a six-barrel M134 Minigun.

This thing was usually only mounted on helicopters.

The eyes of the veterans below lit up.

It was the look of seeing an old lover.

"Boss."

One-Eyed Dragon, who was chewing tobacco, raised his hand. "Boss, what do we do with those Mexicans?"

Chen Mo lit a cigarette.

The flame illuminated his face, cold and hard as a block of granite.

"I don't want to see any survivors."

Chen Mo exhaled a ring of smoke. "Cut off their heads and hang them on the border wall."

"Hoo-ah!"

Over sixty throats roared in unison.

A murderous aura filled the air.