144: Chapter 144 Arrival, Confiscation of Property

Medellín, Colombia.

The lights at the Naples Estate burned all night long.

By the pool, women in bikinis frolicked in the shallow end, while men held whiskey glasses amidst swirling clouds of smoke.

Reggae music blared from the speakers, the subwoofers vibrating the water's surface into fine ripples.

Emilio Rojas sat in the seat of honor, his arm around a newly replaced mistress. He was in his early fifties, his hair meticulously combed, and the Patek Philippe on his wrist glinted coldly under the lights.

"Boss." A subordinate hurried over, leaning down to whisper in his ear, "The shipment from Panama... the accounts don't match. We're short a hundred and twenty thousand."

Rojas's smile remained unchanged. He handed his glass to a nearby attendant, stood up, and straightened his suit collar.

"Bring him over."

Two guards escorted a man with a bloodied face to the poolside.

The man knelt on the ground, trembling all over, muttering incessantly, "Boss, it wasn't me, it was the people below who embezzled it, I really didn't know..."

Rojas crouched down and patted his face, his tone as gentle as if he were coaxing a child. "Do you know what I hate most?"

The man didn't dare speak.

"I hate it most when people take me for a fool." Rojas stood up and waved a hand to the security captain beside him. "Throw him in."

The bodyguards dragged the man toward the depths of the estate.

Over there was the crocodile pond, home to over a dozen adult caimans.

The screams lasted for a dozen seconds, then silence followed.

Rojas sat back in his chair, picked up his glass, and smiled at the gathered guests. "A small interlude, everyone, please continue."

The music started up again.

No one dared not to smile.

At the estate entrance, Manuel Garcia leaned against the wall, taking all of this in.

He was Rojas's armed commander-in-chief, a former Lieutenant Colonel of the Colombian special forces 'Black Panther Brigade.'

Five years ago, he had defected with three hundred elites to join Rojas.

Back then, he thought that following this 'Robin Hood of Medellín' would at least provide a way out for his brothers.

Now he knew that Rojas was no different from those corrupt politicians.

The only difference was that he was more ruthless, wealthier, and better at putting on a facade.

In the distance, the lights of the Medellín slums twinkled like stars.

In those shacks built of corrugated iron and wooden planks lived the people Rojas called his 'own.' He built roads, schools, and houses for them, and they treated him like a savior.

Manuel knew where that money came from.

Four hundred and twenty million US dollars every month.

Eighty percent of it flowed into the nostrils of North America and Europe.

For every kilogram shipped out, hundreds of families were destroyed.

Teenagers fought in street wars, women in the slums sold their bodies for a hit of contraband, police were bribed, and judges were assassinated.

This so-called 'Robin Hood' sat on a throne built upon the lives of millions.

"Captain." His deputy, González, walked over and lowered his voice. "The armory has been locked. The boss's men just changed the locks and didn't give us the new keys."

Manuel frowned. "When did this happen?"

"Tonight. He also added a set of sentries outside our barracks, claiming it's to 'enhance security.'"

Manuel didn't say anything.

Last week, three of his veterans went missing. This morning, their bodies were found in the river, riddled with bullet holes.

On the surface, it looked like an accident, but Manuel knew those three had just been drinking and cursing Rojas in the barracks two weeks ago.

"He still doesn't trust us." González gritted his teeth. "We've fought his wars for five years and lost over a hundred brothers, and now he wants to discard us like old tools."

Manuel clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, but remained silent.

The banquet ended.

Manuel was called to the banquet hall.

Rojas sat at the head of a long table, a stack of photos spread out before him.

"Manuel, come take a look." Rojas beckoned with a smile.

Manuel walked over, looked down, and his pupils suddenly constricted.

The photos showed a family of four.

A father, a mother, a seven or eight-year-old girl, and a three or four-year-old boy.

They were in a slum on the outskirts of Medellín, with a corrugated iron shack in the background.

"This family, the man's name is Garcia." Rojas tapped the man's face in the photo with his fingertip. "He's an informant for the government's anti-drug department. He gave up the locations of three of my distribution points."

Manuel said nothing.

"Take some men and handle it." Rojas pushed the photos over. "Make it clean, leave no traces. Don't leave the two kids either, wouldn't want them coming for revenge when they grow up."

Manuel stared at the photos, his throat tightening.

He was a soldier, not a butcher.

Before defecting, he had fought tough battles in the Black Panther Brigade and killed men, but he had never touched civilians, let alone children.

"Boss, the children are innocent." Manuel tried to keep his voice steady.

Rojas looked up, his expression changing.

"Innocent?" He stood up, walked around the table to Manuel, and patted his face with moderate force. "Manuel, do you know what your status is now?"

Manuel didn't flinch.

"You are my dog." Rojas said each word deliberately. "A dog must listen to its master. Whoever I tell you to bite, you bite. Do you understand?"

Manuel's fists clenched at his sides, then finally relaxed.

"I understand," he said.

"Very good." Rojas smiled and sat back down. "Tomorrow morning, I want to see results."

Manuel turned and walked out of the banquet hall.

In the hallway, González quickly caught up. "Captain, what do we do?"

Manuel didn't answer. He walked straight to the barracks, closed the door, and pulled an encrypted phone from a locker.

There was an unread message on the screen.

It was sent by the CIA through an intermediary.

[Cooperation Offer: Assist in the operation. Once successful, you and your brothers will receive new identities.]

Manuel stared at the message for a long time.

He thought of the photo of the family of four, the three bullet-riddled bodies in the river, and Rojas saying 'You are a dog.'

"Captain." González stood behind him. "We can't take this anymore. The brothers don't want to do this anymore."

Manuel took a deep breath and typed one word on the phone: Okay.

Then he opened an encrypted folder and sent out the complete defense map of Rojas's estate, sentry positions, vault entrance, and guard shift schedules.

Meanwhile, at the US military base in Medellín, Colombia.

A C-17 transport plane landed on the runway, its cargo doors slowly opening.

Fu Haoran walked down the ramp, wearing black tactical gear and military boots.

Tychus followed behind him, his two-point-five-meter height like a moving wall, carrying a massive weapon crate on his shoulder.

Miller, from the CIA's Latin America Bureau, hurried to meet them, extending a hand. "Consultant Fu, welcome to Medellín."

Fu Haoran shook his hand. "Is the authorization all set?"

"All handled. The Colombian government forces are cooperating fully, and the observers are already waiting at the safe house." Miller glanced at Tychus and swallowed hard. "This is..."

"My bodyguard." Fu Haoran didn't look back. "The contract specifies that I have the right to bring my own security team."

Miller didn't ask further.

There was indeed such a clause in the contract.

Fu Haoran was participating in the joint anti-drug operation as a 'Special Tactical Consultant,' with the right to deploy his private security forces.

Moreover, his own Bureau Chief was about to be dismissed over this matter.

As long as Rojas could be taken down, the Bureau would turn a blind eye even if Fu Haoran brought an entire army, let alone his own security team.

All casualties of the operation would be self-borne, all seized contraband and weapons would be handed over to the CIA, and thirty percent of the illegal assets would be handled through official channels according to procedure.

The Bureau only needed to issue an authorization letter to claim a massive political achievement for free.

Only a fool would dig for details.

"Where are your people?" Miller asked.

"Arriving in batches." Fu Haoran glanced at his watch. "The first batch arrived on the same plane as me and is already unloading. The follow-up charter flights will arrive before dawn."

Miller looked at the transport plane's cargo door, where several burly men in black tactical gear were moving equipment down.

These didn't look like ordinary soldiers.

Miller muttered to himself but didn't dare ask more.

Twenty minutes later, Fu Haoran and Tychus arrived at the safe house arranged by the CIA.

It was a three-story building on the outskirts of Medellín, surrounded by farmland with a clear view.

The CIA observer was already waiting inside, a young agent in his early thirties named Klein.

"Mr. Fu, what do you need me to do?" Klein asked.

Fu Haoran scanned the room and pointed to the first-floor living room. "You and Miller stay here. I'm going to the second floor to coordinate the plan remotely with my tactical team."

Klein wanted to follow, but Tychus blocked him.

"The boss said no entry to the second floor." Tychus's voice was as deep as muffled thunder.

Klein took one look at Tychus's physique and wisely backed off.

On the second floor, Fu Haoran closed the door, drew the curtains, and opened the teleportation array control interface on his phone, locking the coordinates to an abandoned lithium mine on the border of Colombia and Panama.

That was an uninhabited area he had Jarvis mark in advance, eighty kilometers from Medellín. It was deserted, so even if there were anomalies from the teleportation array, no one would notice.

In the clearing of the mine, the air began to distort.

A pale blue light gate slowly expanded.

The first to step out was Father Kallun.

His mechanical prosthetic eye flickered with red light, and he carried a heavy stubber he had personally modified.

All the weapons for this operation had been modified by him and his Adeptus Mechanicus apprentices; he normally wouldn't deign to do such a thing.

And behind him was a dense army.

Maintaining a low profile or secret operations seemed redundant to Fu Haoran.

He had already made arrangements; no one would send reconnaissance satellites to take photos everywhere, and besides, no country other than the Americas would do so anyway.

The originally desolate mine site became incredibly lively in moments.

"My Lord, we are all in position," Kallun said softly. "As you instructed, the stubbers have all been modified. Their appearance is identical to the US military M2HB, and the ammunition is NATO standard 12.7mm. No abnormalities can be detected."

Fu Haoran's voice came through the encrypted communicator: "Stand by. At 2:00 AM, after the second batch of the main force arrives, maneuver toward Medellín and gather on the outskirts of the estate."

Squad after squad of soldiers emerged from the teleportation gate.

They wore uniform black tactical gear, with masks covering their faces, leaving only their eyes visible.

Every three-man team was equipped with a modified heavy stubber, carried by a soldier wearing an exoskeleton, specifically responsible for armor-piercing and fire suppression. The ammunition was carried by the other two team members.

Under the cover of night, they boarded pickup trucks and silently drove toward Medellín.

In the first-floor living room, Klein sipped his coffee, checked his watch, and frowned. "Miller, why haven't Mr. Fu's people arrived yet? Didn't he say charter flights?"

Miller was also waiting for news.

He picked up his phone and sent a message to Fu Haoran.

Half a minute later, the phone vibrated.

[Everyone has arrived. Operation starts at 4:00 AM.]

Miller looked at his phone, then out the door.

He hadn't seen any news of charter flights landing, nor had he seen any armed personnel enter the safe house.

The safe house was thirty kilometers from the estate; gunfire wouldn't reach here.

Klein sipped his coffee, completely unaware of what was happening dozens of kilometers away.

Miller felt a chill in his spine and didn't dare ask more.

He only needed the political achievement. As for where Fu Haoran's people came from, he didn't want to know, and he didn't dare to care.

At 3:30 AM, Manuel stood in the estate's surveillance room, watching the real-time footage of the patrol teams on the screens.

He dialed the encrypted phone.

"Operation moved up?" On the other end, Fu Haoran's voice was calm.

"Now is the best time." Manuel lowered his voice. "Rojas drank too much tonight and is sleeping in the master bedroom. He only has four personal guards. I've replaced the people at the main gate with my own, and three of the sentry posts have been withdrawn."

"What about the vault?"

"The vault entrance is in the basement of the main building. It requires two keys. One is on Rojas, and the other is with his deputy. I'll handle the deputy's side; you'll have to get the one from Rojas yourself."

Fu Haoran was silent for two seconds. "Have your people leave. Leave the rest to me."

"Understood."

Manuel hung up and turned to look out the window.

In Medellín at 4:00 AM, the sun had not yet risen.

Outside the estate gates, thousands of Planetary Defense Force soldiers were already in position.

Fu Haoran stood at the front of the line, holding a modified heavy stubber.

Tychus, carrying an individual autocannon, stood behind him with a grin.

"Governor, when do we start?"

Fu Haoran checked the time on his phone.

Exactly four o'clock.

"Now."

"Alright!" Tychus excitedly raised the recoilless rifle and fired a shot at the gate.

Boom!

Secret operation?

Not needed.

Two executioner mechs from the Judicial Police's reserves led the way, followed by soldiers holding suppression-type assault shields.

The guards in the estate finally reacted. Heavy machine guns in the guardhouse opened fire instantly, bullets striking the perimeter wall and sending stone chips flying.

But the next second, over a dozen heavy stubbers opened fire simultaneously.

The 12.7mm armor-piercing rounds tore right through the concrete walls of the guardhouse, turning the machine gunners inside into sieves instantly.

A dozen guards drove armored vehicles out of the garage. Just as they were turning their turrets, Tychus charged forward.

"Just this flimsy scrap metal?" He cursed with a grin, pulling the trigger of his autocannon. A shell shattered the armored vehicle's engine, leaving the entire vehicle dead in its tracks, exploding into a burning iron coffin.

The tactical maneuvers of the Planetary Defense Force had been forged in the iron tide of the Imperium's armies in the Warhammer World.

This kind of estate assault was no different from child's play to them.

Three-man teams provided cross-cover, while heavy firepower performed point-clearing. Even if guards hid behind walls, they were torn apart along with the walls by the heavy stubbers.

But just then, intense gunfire erupted from the second floor of the main building.

Rojas's personal guards set up heavy machine guns, creating crossfire from the stairwell.

The two lead defense soldiers were hit instantly. Their Ceramite tactical suits blocked most of the bullets, preventing fatal injuries, but they were still knocked back a few steps.

Fu Haoran's gaze turned cold as he ordered through his headset, "Rocket launchers, blow that stairwell."

Two rockets shrieked out instantly, turning the second-floor stairwell into ruins and silencing the heavy machine guns immediately.

Tychus took the opportunity to rush up, smashing open the master bedroom door with a single punch.

The four personal guards inside didn't even have time to fire before they were blown into fragments by his autocannon.

"Main building cleared!" he roared, and a dozen cultists filed in behind him.

From the moment the gate was opened to the total elimination of resistance around the main building, only eight minutes had passed.

The three thousand guards in the estate were either killed on the spot or threw down their weapons and surrendered, failing to form any effective counter-attack.

When Rojas was dragged from his bed, he hadn't fully sobered up. He was pinned to the ground by two cultists, covered in blood, his face a mask of terror and disbelief.

"Who are you?" he screamed. "How much did the CIA pay you? I'll give you double! Ten times!"

Fu Haoran walked over, crouched down, and looked him in the eye.

"What I want, you can't afford to give."

He stood up and turned to leave.

Behind him, Tychus knocked Rojas unconscious with a single punch and hoisted him up like a sack of grain.

"Deliver him to the CIA. This is their achievement." Fu Haoran didn't look back.