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Chapter 301 c
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 15:19:14 +0000 UTCChapter 301 c
2-IN-1 Chapter
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José lost control of his body and could no longer stand upright; as he involuntarily began to topple forward, Leo caught him and placed him gently into the back seat of a pickup truck. José tried to demand an explanation from Leo about what had been done to him, but he completely lacked control over his lips and tongue, unable to make a sound. Before Leo closed the truck door, however, he answered the question that was tormenting José’s mind.
“This is an inhibitor,” Leo explained. “In simple terms, it’s a cyber tool that disrupts the neural link’s ability to command the body.”
“You can rest assured, it’s harmless to the human body. If I had to use an analogy, it’s roughly the same as a state-issued silver bracelet—like handcuffs.”
The other three watched Leo’s actions toward José without intervening. Only when Leo returned to their side after closing the truck door did Jackie shake his head, smiling wryly.
“José’s going to go crazy over this. Once we’re back, he’s bound to run to his father and complain.”
Leo shrugged. “He won’t do that. I’m not harming him—I’m saving his life. If he can’t see that, then he should start worrying about what his father would do to him, I won't have to lift a finger. "
“In the long history of humans, there have been many ignorant and unprincipled people, and their ends were rarely good.”
“If a person lacks even the most basic ability to distinguish right from wrong, then no amount of education—even a degree from New York University—or inheritance of dozens or hundreds of business branches will matter. Sooner or later, they’ll destroy everything by themselves.”
“But that’s outside the scope of our current discussion. Now, let me assign tasks.”
“V and Lucy, you’ll return to Tijuana with me. Jackie, you take José and drive toward Night City. Don’t linger in any towns along the way; eat and sleep in the wilderness until you reach Night City.”
“Outside the Badlands south of Night City, there’s a small town very close to Night City. When you get there, don’t enter Night City—stay in the inn. Once we’re done, we’ll rendezvous with you.”
Jackie didn’t insist on going with Leo; instead, he said simply, “Understood.”
He knew one of them had to accompany José, and since Leo had designated him rather than anybody else, he trusted that Leo must have his reasons, and he accepted the assignment without further words.
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In Tijuana, inside a secret room belonging to the Salamanca Cartel, a long table stood before which the main seat remained empty, while on both sides sat numerous high-ranking lieutenants whose faces even local officials at the Tijuana municipal hall dared not oppose. These were the people who held real power—when they said the city would have no light, then no part of Tijuana would ever even dare light their candles.
Yet despite their power, the room was filled with anxiety; heavy silence hung in the air like a thick fog that refused to lift. Finally, after a long while, one lieutenant slammed his fist on the table in anger.
“Has Hector lost his mind? He’s sent assassins to San Diego City—what is he trying to do? Incite the anger of the Western States?”
Another lieutenant, seeming unconcerned, replied, “Why fear? The Western State’s army might not even dare cross the border. Even if they suspect it's us, do they have proof?”
The first lieutenant glared back fiercely: “Are you stupid? If the Western States decide to act, they won't only use force. They could impose economic blockades, trade embargoes, or secretly support dissenters within the cartel. They want to hit us? There’s more than one way to do it.”
The lieutenant who had spoken earlier slammed the table in defiance. “If they dare blockade us, we’ll just send more assassins targeting their schools, hospitals, and crowded venues—make their world chaos so they can’t rest.”
“Are you an idiot?” another interrupted, scornfully. “We’re businessmen—we’re not terrorists. What good would that do us?”
“Good? It would show the Western States we’re not to be underestimated!” the first lieutenant answered.
Anger flickered across the face of the lieutenant who had first spoken. The other man puffed himself up with pride, but was inwardly despised by the others. His nickname was “Mad Dog,” and, true to his name, his mind was barely sane. Hector kept him around like a guard dog—purely as a deterrent.
But Mad Dog thought he was honored to be favored by Hector and always acted haughty in front of the others, which rubbed everyone the wrong way. Everyone knew it was pointless to reason with him, so they simply ignored him.
An older lieutenant, who was quiet until now, finally spoke, pretending not to notice what the Mad Dog said: “The Western State’s threat is out in the open with weapons, but what worries me more are the hidden daggers lurking in the shadows.”
The others paused, looking at him.
“What do you mean?” someone asked.
The older lieutenant replied, “Other cartels have long coveted our hold over Tijuana. It’s not impossible they’re waiting for this turmoil to ally with the Western States and drive us out of Tijuana.”
A lieutenant with burn scars on his face gaped: “That’s impossible! Aren’t we all countrymen?”
“Countrymen?” the older man scoffed bitterly. “Do you really believe that? If I remember right, Juan, you have three wives and five kids, all sent abroad for the best education each year, and you travel with them to Asia and Europe.”
Juan, burning-faced, snapped angrily, “What do my wife and children have to do with you?”
“It doesn’t concern me directly, but look at yourself—and then look at the struggling masses in Tijuana, living on a few pesos a month with no time to rest, let alone travel abroad. Would you truly call them your countrymen?”
The scarred leader sprang to his feet, his face contorted with fury as he demanded, “What… what are you implying?!”
The elder leader waved his hand, urging him to calm down, and then said, “Don’t get the wrong idea—I’m not directing this at you personally, because I’m in the same position. Not just you and me, but everyone present here, including Hector Salamanca, we one-percenters only live so well by exploiting the other ninety-nine percent.”
“What I mean is: if we ourselves refuse to do what decent people ought to do, then we shouldn’t go around invoking phrases like ‘our compatriots.’ Otherwise, such words feel insincere and only invite others to mock our naïveté.”
If North America now counted as a corporate-controlled nation, then Mexico was unequivocally a country completely ruled by cartels. As the Salamanca Cartel held sway over Tijuana, other cities across Mexico were controlled by different cartels as well.
The relationships between these cartels could never be called amicable; at best, they remained bitter rivals. Their territories were not negotiated through polite discussions, but carved out through brutal violence—countless lives were lost and rivers of blood spilled before lines were drawn.
Though open conflict had subsided, fierce struggles continued underground. In recent years, the Salamanca Cartel had slipped into decline, and rival cartels had taken notice. They hesitated to strike immediately because a collapsed camel still stands taller than a horse—cartel or no, Salamanca remained too large a target to topple easily.
So they waited for Hector to bring about his own downfall—and it seemed he had finally done just that.
Although the San Diego city government had yet to officially identify the perpetrators of the airport terrorist attack, Californians weren’t stupid. With an investigation underway, the trail inevitably led back to the Salamanca Cartel. Once the truth came out, even if the Western States refrained from using military force, economic sanctions and a trade embargo would cripple Salamanca—for Tijuana’s industries, from contract manufacturing to auto parts, electronics, and metal fabrication, all depended on the North American market. Tourism, too, relied heavily on visitors from the States.
Sanctions would trigger internal collapse within the cartel—and everyone knew it, even those inside Salamanca.
That was why they gathered in this secret hideout Hector didn’t know existed, to figure out how to save their cartel—or more accurately, to save their own interests.
“I have an idea,” said one leader with a bandanna wrapped around his head, attracting everyone's attention.
“As long as Salamanca isn’t sanctioned by the Western States, no matter how much others covet our territories, they’ll have no reason to make a move.”
The scarred lieutenant snapped impatiently, “Isn’t that obvious? But how do you propose we do that? Bribe them? Who pays? You?”
The bandannaed leader smiled. “Why make it so complicated? We just need to distance ourselves from this matter.”
The scarred man snarled, “Are you an idiot? Think everyone else is as dumb? You really believe Californians will buy that?”
The bandannaed leader’s eyes flashed. “The attackers were sent by Hector. How does this involve the Salamanca Cartel?”
Mad Dog immediately snapped at him, “What are you saying? You’d betray the boss?”
“Mad Dog—shut your mouth!” the elder leader roared at him. He then turned to the bandannaed leader, his expression unreadable. “Continue.”
Calmly, the bandannaed leader continued, “Californians aren’t stupid. Since San Diego was established in the 19th century, nothing like this has ever happened. When the old United States existed, they had zero tolerance for terrorism. Even without the U.S., the Western States won’t ignore such an incident.”
The elder leader frowned. “Get to the point—stop beating around the bush.”
“I’m getting there,” the bandannaed man replied. “The point is: after such a major incident, Californians will not let it go. Be it bribery or threats, they won’t close the case hastily—they’ll tear it open until the truth is plain.”
“Even if I offered all my savings in bribes, that wouldn’t make them drop the investigation.”
“But hear me out. The "terrorists" were sent by Hector. We had no prior knowledge, and theoretically, the San Diego airport attack has nothing to do with the Salamanca Cartel.”
Silence fell across the room. Everyone, except Mad Dog, considered the proposal’s feasibility. They felt no loyalty to Hector—among cartels, emotion does not go before business; their only allegiance was profit, and Hector had provided them with that—until his decline began.
When Hector started undermining their interests and even executed loyal lieutenants, no one dared challenge him openly—but they still harbored dissent in silence, plotting to overthrow him.
At that, several heads nodded in quiet agreement.
A leader broke the silence: “It’s easy to say, but do you think Californians will believe it? You say it was Hector’s doing alone, not the cartel—do you think they’ll buy it?”
Another chimed in: “If it were me, I’d be even angrier—this is insulting their intelligence.”
No one believed the bandannaed leader’s plan would succeed—but he didn’t seem upset. He spoke louder: “We won’t just say it—we’ll act on it.”
Suddenly the chatter stopped again and the room fell silent.
“What do you mean?” someone asked.
“If all we do is talk, the Californians won’t believe a word of it. Empty statements won’t convince anyone. Think of it like old-school mob rules.”
“Mob rules?”
“Yeah. Back then, if you wanted to prove loyalty or distance yourself from someone tainted, you didn’t make speeches—you brought a body. A message. Something they couldn’t ignore.”
“So?”
“So if we want them to believe Hector acted alone, we send a message they’ll understand.
We give them Hector’s head.”
