"Oh," Victor said nonchalantly as he watered the plants by the window and continued, "Then shoot them."
When Donald Rumsfeld heard this, his breath caught in his chest.
"They aspire for a new life, and the United States can give them that new life."
"Treat them well, Mr. Donald; these are all your voter bases. Alright, I have a meeting to attend; welcome to call again next time."
Donald Rumsfeld shouted a few times, but all that came back was a busy tone.
"F***!" he couldn't help but curse.
He'd been in politics for so many years and had never encountered such a troublesome adversary, mainly because the person had no moral bottom line, and their integrity was flexible within bounds.
Shameless to the core.
He stood by the window, where he could see supporters of the Democratic Party outside holding flags symbolizing freedom and refugees, demanding the Bush Administration shelter them.
Donald frowned deeply; after he returned with the bodies of fallen U.S. Military personnel, Old Bush didn't break his promise and let him work at the immigration office.
I'm off to The Pentagon!
Although he cursed out loud, he still took up his new position.
He ran into such a problem right off the bat, and it was clear he just didn't get along with Victor.
"Director, Director..."
A fat man walked in, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and holding a document, "The United Nations Human Rights Council is requesting that we accept 60,000 Mexican drug traffickers and find them psychologists."
Upon hearing this, Donald almost exploded, snatching the document away immediately.
"No, this won't do..."
"Parliament has already agreed," the fat man said helplessly, "and they've decided they would like them to be settled in Florida."
"What are we supposed to do with these pieces of trash?! They're riddled with disease; even burning them for heat seems a waste; what are we to do with them!" Donald said discontentedly.
The Deputy Director wiped the sweat from his forehead, handling Donald with the care of attending to an irritable master, "Parliament has already agreed to this matter, and funds have been allocated."
His curses were filthy.
"This won't do, I have to go find Old Bush; there's absolutely no benefit in this for us."
"Director, Director..."
Watching Donald head off, the Deputy Director shook his head.
But actually, it wasn't just the old Defense Minister who was annoyed; other countries in Europe and America were similarly displeased. When Casare said he would give them one day to consider or else he'd slaughter all the drug traffickers, they stood on their moral high ground to criticize.
With that criticism, the human rights department came knocking, morally hijacking them with "hopes" that they would pay to "buy" these people.
This confused countries like Britain and France; just because we don't feel the pain when standing and talking doesn't mean we really want to be involved .
But the human rights department had blockaded their office doors.
There was nothing they could do except reluctantly accept.
200,000 people associated with the drug trade were swiftly divided among various countries, with the United States, being the big kahuna, taking 60,000 people.
In the end, nobody was happy.
However, when Victor heard the news, he was visibly taken aback, "Wait, they really want them?"
Casare nodded, "The upfront payment has already been made, even through the United Nations' accounts."
Victor scratched his head.
"Boss, are we really going to let these people go?"
"Let them go! If someone's paying, we must keep our word. If they like them, let them have them; tell them to hurry and take them away. We need to properly thank them in the newspapers."
"Alright, I'll make the arrangements." Casare nodded, "Boss, as per your instructions, I've found several suitable ports: one is San Felipe Port in Northern Lower California, the others are Libertad Port in Sonora State and Tiburon Island, all located in the Gulf of California, with direct access to the Pacific Ocean."
Victor traced the locations mentioned on the map behind him, all good choices, "Get the military and the construction department to check them out; if suitable, build them all up into major mother ports."
Casare was taken aback, "Boss, do we really need aircraft carriers to deal with drug traffickers?"
"Who knows," Victor smiled and squinted at the map, "The time left for us is very tight."
Casare nodded, not fully understanding.
On December 9th, the Governor's Mansion ordered the cessation of the drug traffickers' cleansing operation, assembling them for transfer to the buyers.
On December 16th, the drug trafficker prisoners were transferred to the United States through the port, starting the largest population movement.
At the border of Sonora State.
A shocking convoy of hundreds of transport vehicles stopped at the port, with bound drug traffickers being driven off the trucks.
"Move it! Jump down!" the Northern Army whipped forcefully.
Dozens of drug traffickers with bruised faces hurried off the trucks, afraid of getting beaten, some unfortunate ones had their ankles twisted upon jumping down, their eyes brimming with tears.
"What? Can't walk anymore?"
A female drug trafficker was trembling all over; hearing the voice of the Northern Army, she frantically looked to the side, "Help me, help me!"
The traffickers, like the living dead, numbly turned a deaf ear.
The Northern Army looked at her and laughed.
Pulling out a gun, he shot the woman in the head with a bang.
Her hair flew up, and with smoke coming from her temple, she convulsed as she fell to the ground, dead.
The representatives meeting at the front turned their heads toward the sound of the gunshot.
"Hey! What are you doing, what right do you have to kill them?" A sharp-dressed woman shouted discontentedly at the Mexican side.
"Alright, alright, I'll give you $2000 back." Colonel Heinrich Loeb, the head of the cleanup department, said to a soldier beside him, who then took out the money from a carried bag and passed it over.