Chapter 654

In the private room of the Cedar Restaurant at the Beverly Hills Hotel in Los Angeles, Kayla stepped forward and shook hands with Shi Ler; behind him stood another man, a Black man in uniform, immensely muscular, nearly matching Arthur in build.

"Professor Shi Ler, this is Agent Lila from the U. S. Drug Enforcement Administration. Upon hearing the lead you provided, we rushed straight to Los Angeles without delay."

"Please sit." Shi Ler gestured to the chair across from him, then walked to the door and told the waiter, "You may serve the dishes now, thank you."

Agent Lila of the DEA wore a grim expression; before the food arrived, he said to Shi Ler, "The Guadalajara Organization has resumed maritime operations—that's bad news for us."

"About five years ago, one of our agents was brutally murdered; the case shocked the world, and Congress and the President flew into a rage. Yet in just five years, Mexico's drug production and trafficking industry has risen again, and now they dare attempt to invade the West Coast once more—we will make them pay."

What Lila described was in fact a notorious tragedy in global drug enforcement history, and the perpetrator was Galardo, the leader of the Guadalajara Organization.

In November 1984, Mexico launched a sweeping anti-drug operation, and simultaneously, an agent codenamed Kiki infiltrated the management ranks of Guadalajara's cultivation network.

This agent, whose real name was Kamale L. Laza, obtained intelligence about the plantations and guided the Mexican government to burn down a cultivation site covering approximately acres.

The owner of this plantation, Galardo, flew into a rage; they captured the agent, tortured him for at least thirty hours, and when his body was found, it was nearly unrecognizable.

The Washington government erupted in fury; under pressure from the U. S. Congress and the President, the Mexican government launched its first War on Drugs, ruthlessly crushing the Guadalajara Organization.

By 1989, the organization had lost its former glory; its distribution networks had been devastated, and Galardo had vanished without a trace.

"This might be a signal," said the Black agent Lila, tapping his fingers on the table. "The Mexican government has eased its crackdown on Guadalajara—they may be testing us, assuming we've relaxed surveillance on sea routes, and intend to make a comeback."

"Professor Shi Ler, you mentioned on the phone that Guadalajara members massacred the indigenous villagers on a small island in the Gulf of Mexico. Do you know the island's location? We want to send people to investigate," Kayla said, eating as she spoke.

Shi Ler observed Kayla's movements and noticed her eating hurriedly—she must have been starving. But given it was morning, they likely had traveled overnight from the East Coast and skipped both dinner and breakfast.

Last night, Shi Ler had called Kayla, the head of the Quandou Society's Central Intelligence Station he had previously dealt with, to report his situation; to his surprise, they took it seriously and arrived overnight.

Cooperation between the Central Intelligence Agency and the DEA sounded like a fairy tale—the CIA lit the fire, the DEA put it out. Such dynamics were common across the vast expanse of South America; the two agencies were not on good terms, or rather, the CIA was at odds with nearly every U. S. institution.

"By the way, Professor Shi Ler, you mentioned on the phone that you had more important intelligence—what is it?" Kayla asked, looking at Shi Ler.

Shi Ler glanced at the door; the Black agent Lila, seated outside, walked over and closed it. Shi Ler pulled a file from his briefcase and handed it to Kayla; she flipped through it, then her expression turned grave.

Kayla passed the file to Lila; his face grew darker still. After a moment, he slammed his fist on the table and said, "These damn vampires! They deserve to burn in hell!"

Kayla lightly nudged Lila with her elbow; he realized his slip, and slowly calmed his expression. "It's not surprising that the Quinn Group has ties to these drug traffickers—most West Coast conglomerates have illicit dealings with them…"

"These documents contain some leads, but they don't qualify as evidence. We need concrete proof to bring down the Quinn Group."

"Do you really intend to do this?" Shi Ler asked. "Even the DEA might not be able to stand against them—there are their people in the state legislature and Congress…"

At this, Lila grew even angrier. "They're nurturing monsters to strengthen themselves! To destabilize South America, certain members of Congress have used the enormous profits from drug trafficking as bait to cultivate their own influence in Latin American nations—now the situation has spiraled out of control, and they're reaping what they sowed!"

Shi Ler looked at Lila. Though the Black man was immensely built, his diction was precise and refined, his speech pattern resembling that of many professors at Gotham University—unlike most Black men of this era.

"Professor Shi Ler, please don't mind him. Lila has a strong sense of public duty. He's spent many years in this line of work and has seen too many cruel acts by drug traffickers. We hope to obtain evidence—but we don't know if you can assist us?"

"The only lead I can give you is that the Quinn family's heir disappeared for a time, but recently returned. Some within the Quinn Group don't want him back, so they sent assassins to kill him. The assassins arrived at the hotel and found young Quinn wasn't there—but I encountered one of them, and there was more than one."

Lila and Kayla exchanged glances. Lila immediately stood, shook Shi Ler's hand, and said, "Thank you, Professor. This is an invaluable lead. The people of the West Coast and Mexico will never forget your kindness."

"We must attend to urgent business now. Excuse us." With that, Lila turned and left. Kayla offered Shi Ler an apologetic smile and hurried after him.

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Shi Ler returned to the table. Not long after, a yellow-and-black figure leapt in through the balcony. Deathstroke walked to the opposite seat, lifted his mask, and began eating.

"I never thought mercenaries would one day need someone else to help them seek revenge," Shi Ler said, eating as he spoke.

"They give me too many contracts without explaining the details—that violates the rules," Deathstroke's voice was low and gravelly, age indiscernible. "If everyone acted like them, our rates would be crushed."

Earlier yesterday, Deathstroke had returned to Shi Ler, asking him to help against the Quinn family, claiming the Quinn Group had issued multiple contracts without informing him.

In short, while hiring Deathstroke, they had also hired many other assassins—and never disclosed this to him.

It was clear the Quinn Group's mastermind intended that among so many assassins, at least one would succeed in killing Oliver Quinn. Once Oliver Quinn died, the others would have no target, the deal would be void, and they'd only need to pay a deposit—greatly increasing the odds of success.

But in the assassin's world, this was a cardinal sin. If every employer did this, the industry would collapse into cutthroat competition—not just in kill success rates, but in speed and precision—leading to slashed prices and exploitation.

"He's not the only one who thought of this method. That fool never asked why everyone who used this method vanished without a sound," Deathstroke remained cautious even in casual conversation, never using specific terms to describe his employers—even when forced to use a pronoun, he avoided any direct reference.

"But I can't kill him directly—that too violates the rules. In this circle, to stay employed, you must maintain a good reputation," Deathstroke's voice dropped further, becoming slightly muffled.

"The CIA and the DEA are both targeting the Quinn Group now—they won't have an easy time. Remember our deal: you owe me a life." Shi Ler set down his knife and fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"Is it only the CIA and the DEA?" Deathstroke paused his eating and asked.

"Kayla is a KGB agent—I think you've already investigated her. The Black man she brought today—if I'm not mistaken—was once a member of the Black Panther Party. He called the Quinn Group 'vampires' and mentioned the people of the West Coast and Mexico. Most U. S. agents wouldn't hold such views…"

Shi Ler straightened his clothes, as if preparing to leave. Deathstroke continued eating slowly. Before departing, Shi Ler whispered, "The United States, Mexico, the Soviet Union… do you sense a storm coming?"

"None of this concerns me. I take money to kill," Deathstroke's tone finally shifted slightly. "If you need me, call the number you had before. I can kill one person for you—no matter who they are."

"I hope so." Shi Ler picked up his umbrella, expressionless, and left his seat, exiting the restaurant.

Standing on the hotel balcony, morning light shimmered across the sea, golden-red waves rippling endlessly. Flocks of seabirds circled above, and occasionally, a few landed on the water—their white wings dyed crimson by the dawn.

The West Coast morning remained calm and warm; beachgoers played without noticing anything amiss. But far away, across the Gulf of Mexico, the same crimson sea had nothing to do with sunlight.

A white fishing boat cut through the waves, slowly heading south through a sea of deep red. Behind it, bodies sank slowly into the bloodied water—not only sharks, but also the tardy trio of Hal, drawn by the blood.

"The sharks tell me the dead are fishermen, mostly from the north—perhaps Americans, perhaps Mexicans," Arthur said in a low tone. "All killed by drug traffickers."

Instantly, the entire boat glowed green. Hal stood at the bow, his voice stern: "Full speed ahead—we must make them pay!"

The fishing boat, powered by Green Lantern energy, was no longer a fishing vessel—it outpaced even warships. Following the trail of blood, they quickly caught up to the killers.

Green Lantern dealing with ordinary drug traffickers was like using an anti-aircraft gun to swat flies. Soon, the entire crew met the same fate as the fishermen—the shark pods never left the blood-stained sea.

In the following days, they pursued the traffickers' trail across the entire Gulf of California, igniting a crimson tide—wherever they passed, the sea turned red with blood.

Only when they set foot on Xinaluoyazhou did they encounter a massacre of unspeakable horror.

The Guadalajara Organization, seeking revenge for the unexplained slaughter of its members, carried out a massacre in a southern village of Xinaluoyazhou, killing 135 people.

Corpses were thrown into the sea, staining the Pacific's western shores crimson—and shocking the entire world.