Mexico, Yucatán State, Capital Mérida.
The air here is quite humid.
Underwear hung out to dry is always damp.
Inside a house near the beach.
There's no light on, very gloomy!
"Eat! Eat! Dammit, will you eat or not!" Carlos, the last surviving younger brother of the four Bertrand Leiva siblings, had a fierce look on his face, holding a bowl of corn paste, forcefully stuffing it into the mouth of Guzman lying on the bed!
He just directly forced it.
Guzman, with his mouth twisted, lying on the bed, his left hand shaped like a one, and his right hand making a six, obviously had seen too much of the 6+1.
He was awake, but as the doctor had said, he was paralyzed!
He looked at Carlos with his eyes, shook his head forcefully, knocking the bowl of corn paste over, scattering it all over the bed and on Carlos.
Carlos stood up abruptly, angry and frustrated, he stretched out his hand and started slapping Guzman's face left and right, cursing, "You bastard!! Will you eat or not!!"
Gripping Guzman's head, he banged it hard against the bed, and the latter let out a muffled cry of pain.
A big drug trafficker reduced to this...
Actually, Carlos was breaking down too. He could no longer contact his brother Arturo, and from the news, he knew that it was Guzman's cousins who were now controlling Sinaloa, which meant, Arturo was already dead!
With Guzman, all he could do was hide.
Now it seemed the whole of Mexico was looking for him!
No, it should be said they were looking for Guzman.
Carlos took a deep breath, looked at his cousin on the bed, "Eat it or starve, I don't care!"
After saying that, he kicked the bowl on the ground and walked away with a dark face.
Guzman lay on the bed with his mouth open, but unable to speak, looking very slow-witted, suddenly, tears slid from the corners of his eyes.
If his eldest son were still alive, he would never allow himself to be bullied , but unfortunately... Victor had killed him!
He was filled with hatred!
A big drug trafficker who had once stirred up conflicts around the world, now lay like an abandoned puppy on an unknown shabby bed, crying.
Carlos stepped out of the room, smoking a cigarette, raised his hand to signal to his confidant by the fire in the distance, barely making a sound.
Then he heard a gunshot!
Carlos, standing at the doorway, had his head blown open!
His skull was no longer recognizable, smashed into pieces!
His body leaned forward and rolled down the steps!
The last hope of the Bertrand Leiva family was declared dead.
The drug traffickers brought by Carlos, already skittish, were now in a panic, some resisted while others fled in terror.
A group of armed personnel stormed the place, unleashing fierce firepower and killing everyone on sight.
Guzman, lying in the house, listened to the gunfire outside, his eyes wide, drool unconsciously flowing from the corner of his mouth, a flash of fear in his eyes.
But he had no strength to run!
The door was kicked open, Guzman strained to turn his head, and saw a figure walking in, silhouetted against the sunlight, somewhat dazzling, unrecognizable.
"Mr. Guzman, long time no see!" came a light chuckle, as the face slowly came closer.
It was none other than the leader of the Jalisco New Generation: El Mencho!
"Tsk tsk tsk, there are so many people looking for you outside. But don't worry, I'm not like them; I won't harm you. Instead, I'll take care of you like I would my father," said El Mencho, grinning.
His wide face slowly approaching Guzman, "I will help you take back what's yours!"
Shorty twisted his mouth, "Wuu wuu wuu!!!"
"Shh~" El Mencho put a finger to his lips, "There's no need to thank me. Come on, take him away."
His men came up and dragged Guzman out roughly, treating him like a stray dog you'd find on the side of the road.
Never mind that Shorty was a wreck.
But in Sinaloa, there were still many loyal to him, and the Jalisco New Generation needed these people to join them.
Now, Mexico was "cannibalizing" itself fiercely. After Victor had carved out the six northern provinces as his territory, there had been nothing but lament. Fighting viciously over the few remaining cultivation zones, drug traffickers were turning on each other.
Either evolve or disband!
El Mencho had big ambitions!
He glanced back at the house, took a grenade from one of his men, pulled the pin, and tossed it inside. Boom! The interior was blasted apart, dust billowing from the windows.
"Contact the journalists, tell them, I, El Mencho, have captured the big drug trafficker Shorty Guzman. I have the confidence and capability to protect Jalisco!"
"My soldiers can also provide safety to the public!"
"And also, announce an expansion of the army!"
His follower nodded eagerly. They hadn't understood why the boss was talking to the public before, but they were starting to see the benefits now.
The public no longer rejected the Jalisco New Generation; they were even beginning to welcome them!
This is what you call a propaganda war!
"Boss, I heard that Mexico City intends to hold new elections for the mayor and governor. Do you think we should run?"
El Mencho's eyes sparkled, "Perhaps we need more prestige. Let's get back to Guadalajara."
He was a drug trafficker, but also a citizen. If there really were new elections, he wanted a piece of the action.
Just as he got into the car, he saw a follower hand him a phone with a bizarre look on his face, "Boss, you've got a call, claims it's urgent."
El Mencho raised an eyebrow, took the phone, "Hello, who's this?"
"I'm very glad to speak with you, sir..."
"Cut the crap, who are you!" he interrupted right away.
The person on the other end hesitated, taken aback by his temper, and quickly said, "Someone from the CIA wants to meet you, they're willing to support you. Hilton Hotel in Guadalajara, room 407."