In the gloomy interrogation room.
The figure sitting in the chair had his head drooping, and beneath him, blood was seeping out.
A strong beam of light shone over.
Yamamoto Keisuke's face didn't have a single good piece of flesh left, his entire body was shaking, half of his nose had been scraped off, and the word "Bastard!" was carved into his face with a carving knife.
"Mr. Yamamoto, dinner is about to start, have you thought it through? Speak up, and you can have food and sleep."
He really couldn't take it anymore.
"I'll talk... I'll talk, it was the Mitsubishi office in Mexico, they paid me money to find someone to arrange an accident, to take out a big shot from the North."
The "News Bureau" staff beside him quickly recorded everything.
Once Yamamoto Keisuke started speaking, his psychological burden was lifted, and he nervously spilled everything.
Those sons of bitches at Mitsubishi had many dirty factories in Mexico, which had been banned by the Northern Government, and they had also received a fine worth three million US dollars. The Japanese, of course, didn't agree and felt that Mexico had damaged Japan's "legitimate interests." They brought the case to the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade arbitration court, the precursor to the WTO.
The main issue was the discovery of abusive practices in their factory in Tijuana, and after the General launched the drug war, they even forced Mexican workers to take drugs to provoke the authorities.
Could this be tolerated?
But Victor, that dead pig, wasn't afraid of scalding, so why would he be scared of a lawsuit?
Seeing their interests in North America being "violated," begging to no avail, it drove the inherently twisted Japanese dogs mad with rabies. They contacted Japanese descendants in the Latin American region, planning to do something ruthless.
Mitsubishi was dirty from the start!
During World War II, they produced 18,000 aircraft types, 4,650 tanks and armored vehicles, and forcefully abducted laborers from various parts of China in 169 batches, totalling 41,758 people. Due to hunger, disease, and persecution, 2,823 died before they boarded the ships; actually, 38,935 were taken to Japan...
Just a bunch of robbers, maddened to the point of anything goes.
Wanting to pick a fight with Victor.
Meanwhile, in the drawing-room.
Victor was meeting with the Japanese Ambassador—Shuichiro Shimada.
With his beard, sharp triangular eyes, he looked fierce, wearing glasses and sitting upright, his chest muscles prominent as if he exercised a bit.
A few Japanese stood behind him, looking like bodyguards.
The two men sat opposite each other.
Shuichiro Shimada spoke fluidly in Spanish, "Governor! We express our anger at your unilateral detention of Japanese residents and destruction of property. You should give us some explanation!"
"Otherwise, we do not exclude the use of certain necessary measures."
Victor sat with his legs crossed, lit a cigarette for himself, took a puff, uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and looked calmly at the other man, "I'm very busy, don't give me that crap. I'm telling you, just manage your own people, got it?"
When had Shuichiro Shimada ever endured such disdain?
His father was a war criminal during World War II, then MacArthur came, and his old man survived, even became a diplomat, a prominent figure in Japan, and Shuichiro Shimada's temperament was not good either.
He had fought and brawled since he was young.
In Tokyo, he stabbed a foreign man to death over a love feud, and was still fine.
The family had deep relations with several Mitsubishi conglomerates.
He suddenly stood up, kicked the table in front of him over, pointed at Victor, and cursed, "You should know Japan has a lot of people in Latin America!"
Victor looked at him, smiled, and shook his head, then leaned back, took another puff, "It's been a long time since someone pointed at me."
No sooner had he spoken than a figure rushed from behind, a flying kick right to Shuichiro Shimada's chest, sending him flying three to four meters. The move was agile, and with a reverse punch, he broke the neck of one of the Japanese men Shimada brought with him—a crunching sound!
Wearing brass knuckles.
Another Japanese man let out a strange cry, swinging a kick over, but the other side slid and lifted his foot, kicking hard at the Japanese man's supporting leg, breaking it, and with a scream, he fell to the ground.
Still not stopping, he stomped on the man's mouth, knocking out his teeth.
He walked over, grabbed Shimada by the hair, and dragged him over, expressionless. This was Victor's new bodyguard.
For higher-level protection, Mexico also had the so-called "Master Group." Most were politically reliable and well-versed in various first-aid measures, light weapons, and Sanda martial arts, etc.
Shuichiro Shimada was quite disheveled, blood all over his face, as he was dragged in front of Victor, who looked at him, "See, doesn't he look like a dog?"
Victor grabbed the ashtray from the table and smashed it on his head, knocking him down, still unsatisfied, he mounted him and smashed his head violently, the gold-plated edge covered with strands of flesh.
Truly motionless, dead.
Victor actually smashed his face to pulp, and when he finally couldn't lift his hand anymore, he stood up, handed the ashtray to an attendant, "Clean this well, use some disinfectant, dogs carry diseases."
"They said there are many Japanese in Latin America, right?"
Victor finished his cigarette, "Then clean them out, take six out of every ten, send them to labor camps, kill all those involved in smuggling, drug trafficking, organizing prostitution, human trafficking, and also, chop off this bastard's head and have it thrown at Jingguo Shrine."
This so-called "labor camp" was not to be mentioned lightly.