Chapter 1390: Chapter 669: I’m Going to Strike It Rich Too!

In the bamboo house of Shan State in Myanmar, Chepe Saint Cruz and others were watching television. The image of Ribentrop’s speech flickered on the screen, and he suddenly burst into wild laughter, kicking over the nearby barrel of rum, spilling it mixed with ice all over the floor.

“Did you hear that? That old bastard said he would twist off our heads!” Chepe grabbed a Desert Eagle and fired a shot into the air, the bullet piercing the bamboo roof and startling the crows outside, “General Khun Sa, look at this, we just sent a little coke as a gift, and they’re already panicking like a dog with its tail stepped on!”

Khun Sa slowly lit a cigar, his eyes staring at the distant Mekong River through the swirling smoke: “Panic? This is just the beginning.”

He pointed at Ribentrop’s face on the screen, “This old fox’s daring to publicly challenge us indicates that Mexico’s healthcare system has withstood the first wave, they have confidence now.”

“Confidence? I’ll leave them without even the strength to cry by tomorrow!”

Chepe suddenly tore open his shirt, “I’ve already had the Marseille lab send another batch, this time mixed in baby formula. I want to see if this UN commissioner can still laugh when Mexican mothers find the Black Death virus in their kids’ milk!”

The adjutant suddenly leaned over, holding a satellite phone: “Chief, there’s news from Panama, it seems the US DEA wants to get involved, their fleet is patrolling the Caribbean Sea, claiming to assist Mexico in blockading the maritime area.”

“DEA? A bunch of suit-wearing sons of bitches!”

Chepe grabbed a brick of cocaine from the table and smashed it against the wall, the white powder scattering like snowflakes, “Tell the people in Panama to pack anthrax spores into containers, disguise them as disaster relief supplies and send them to Miami. I want the Americans to know if they dare to meddle, their beaches will become graveyards!”

Khun Sa suddenly started coughing, covering his mouth with a handkerchief that, when unfolded, was stained with dark red blood: “Don’t play too hard.”

He pressed the cigar against Chepe’s hand, “Our goal is to force Victor to back off, not to drag the whole world into this.”

“Back off?” Chepe shook off his hand, the beads of blood from the wound dripping into the barrel, “Victor ordered the bombing of our processing plant in Colombia, killing three of my brothers. Can this account be settled?”

“This is war, either win or die, there’s no third road!”

The roar of engines suddenly came from outside the bamboo house, as three off-road vehicles stopped at the edge of the poppy field. Leading the group was the second-in-command of the Kunsha Group, Zhang Quan, nicknamed “Brainiac,” holding an iron box which, when opened, revealed neatly arranged syringes filled with murky liquid.

“The Black Death strain has arrived.”

A scar ran from the corner of Zhang Quan’s eye to his chin, and when he smiled, it resembled the cracked mouth of a snake, “As Mr. Khun Sa instructed, it’s mixed into the vaccines Mexico is sending to Salvador, and will enter the country the day after tomorrow.”

“Good job!” Chepe suddenly put his arm around Zhang Quan’s neck and shoved a Desert Eagle into his hand, “What do you say, if we inject this stuff into Victor, wouldn’t that be interesting?”

Khun Sa watched their frenzied state and suddenly laughed, a laugh like an old bellows: “Remember when Americans bombed my opium warehouse with cruise missiles?” He picked up a syringe from the iron box and looked at it in the light, “They also said they would crush me back then, and what happened? I’m still here drinking rum, while the General who ordered it is long gone and the grass grows thick on his grave.”

He tossed the syringe to Chepe, “Tell the Mexicans that we set the rules of the game. If they dare send troops, we dare bomb their airports; if they cut our money line, we’ll turn their capital into a dead city.”

Khun Sa stood up, walked to the bamboo house’s doorway, staring at the endless fields of poppies in the distance, “On this land, survival doesn’t belong to the strongest, but to the most ruthless.”

Chepe suddenly raised a jug and downed its contents facing Mexico, the liquid trickling into his bullet wound on his neck, bringing a tingling sensation of pain: “Victor, Ribentrop, you bunch of idiots!” He smashed the empty jug to the ground, shattering it, “Get ready for the body count!”

Outside, the Burmese soldiers began firing into the air, the sound of AK-47s echoing through the valley, mingling with the drug lords’ insane laughter.

Chepe grabbed a camera, making a throat-slitting gesture towards the lens: “Send a message to the friends in Mexico City, the next batch of gifts is on the way, this time with a flavor they’ll never forget!”

Suddenly, the fax machine in the bamboo house spat out a new document, Carlos picked it up, whistling when he saw it, “The Mexicans are interesting, they’ve actually sent Special Forces to infiltrate Panama, aiming to take down our transit point.” He handed the document to Khun Sa, “Shall we let them experience the Black Death?”

Khun Sa didn’t even look at it, just pointed with his cigar at the Panama Canal on the map: “Let them come.”

His smile was filled with cruel anticipation, “I’m just wondering if that UN commissioner can still say the word ‘retaliation’ when American soldiers find floating corpses in the canal.”

Chepe suddenly slapped the table, bursting into laughter, the sound causing dust to fall from the ceiling, “Fucking brilliant! I want the whole world to know, you mess with us, and you’ll never sleep soundly again!” He grabbed a handful of cocaine and stuffed it into his mouth, coughing as the white powder choked him, yet his eyes gleamed with fanaticism, “Tomorrow morning, I want to see their President crying on the news in Mexico City!”