Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1674 - 762: Our Swords Are Not Without Edge!

Italy, Rome.

The air is filled with a sense of desolation.

A Baroque-style mansion in the Esquilino District.

On the wall of General Old Bertolini's study are portraits of family ancestors in military uniforms from various periods, from the Napoleonic Wars to African colonies, to World War II—always on the "right" side.

Heh heh heh, traditional skills — betrayal! Selling out teammates!

75-year-old Aldo Bertolini had just finished an afternoon call with an old subordinate from the Department of Defense, feeling quite pleased.

The "adventure" in North America seemed a bit frivolous to this old-school soldier, but it was a good chance for his son Luca to prove himself and to infiltrate the higher echelons of NATO with the family influence.

He even imagined, not long after, how he would "casually" mention his son's achievements in the Americas at the Army Club dinner.

Then succeed him as the new military overlord!

From Colonel to General...

It always needs some battle achievements.

At this time, his private 8848 diamond-encrusted phone rang, and with the caller ID, it turned out to be his son.

Aldo flashed a smile and picked up the handset. "Luca? My son, calling at this time, are you bringing me an early victory report? Are those old foxes at the command already starting to flatter you?" His voice was loud, full of old Guards-style pride.

On the other end of the line was a long silence, only heavy, repressed breathing and faint distant noises in the background.

Aldo instantly sensed something was wrong, his brow furrowing. "Luca? Speak."

"Father."

Luca Bertolini's voice came through, with tears, "We've run into trouble. An entire battalion, the first assault battalion, at Komodo River Valley... gone."

The air in the study seemed to be sucked out in an instant.

The ancestors' portraits on the wall seemed to be staring at Aldo.

"Gone?"

Aldo's voice suddenly dropped, becoming cold and dangerous, "Explain clearly. What does 'gone' mean? Defeated? Scattered? Or annihilated?"

"Ambush! Mexico's main force! They deployed at least a full brigade, along with heavy artillery and tank groups! Our advance units were completely locked in the valley, the retreat cut off by shellfire. I tried to call for support from the British and the French on the flanks, and they made excuses to evade!"

Luca's voice grew faster, tinged with the trembling of approaching collapse, "This is not our fault! It's an intelligence error! It's those damn allies leaving us for dead! If it were a frontal confrontation, my lads could take three of theirs! But they ambushed! They tricked! It's unfair! It's against the rules!"

"Victor, damn it, has no honor!"

"Rules? You dare talk to me about 'rules' now? Talking 'rules' with the enemy on the battlefield?! Luca Bertolini, I sent you to Saint-Cyr Military Academy, I pushed you into the Sniper Brigade, I used my old face to push you to this position, it's for you to earn face for the family, not to call home like a scared schoolboy crying 'unfair'!"

He felt a violent dizziness, forcing him to grip the edge of the heavy mahogany desk.

His temple was throbbing, and those ancestor portraits seemed to be spinning!

An entire elite sniper battalion!

That's not just numbers, that's hundreds of rigorously trained lads, dozens of expensive pieces of equipment, enough to end a commander's military career and cast a shadow over a family—this idiot of a son actually complained about the enemy "ambushing"?!

"Father, you don't understand! The terrain there—" The other side still tried to argue.

"I don't need to understand the terrain!"

Aldo roared, veins popping on his forehead, his other hand swept across the desk, sending the crystal ashtray flying onto the Persian carpet, making a dull thud, scattering ash everywhere.

"What I understand is that you, Luca Bertolini, as the commander, not only lost but lost so miserably, so thoroughly! You couldn't even organize an effective counterattack or breakout, just sitting there waiting to be crushed, then like a kicked Chihuahua looking to the British and French, begging! Do you know how many people in Rome, Brussels, Washington are laughing now? Laughing at the Bertolini family for producing a 'River Valley Butcher', but the butchered are his own people!"

On the other end, Luca seemed entirely broken by his father's fury, left only with sobbing and broken defenses: "I... I did my best... They're too cunning... We need support..."

"Support? You're still counting on support now?"

Aldo gasped, trying to calm the heartache that nearly tore through his chest. The doctor had warned him not to get too emotional, but now, anger and shame burned more fiercely than any disease.

"Listen, you stubborn donkey, utterly, hopelessly donkey! When you stepped into that valley, you already lost. When you sought aid from those 'allies' waiting to see us fail, you already put the Bertolini family's last bit of dignity under their feet!"

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Anger would not solve the problem, especially now. The family must cut its losses, Luca the idiot must be preserved — at least, not to end this way.

"Now, listen to me, don't miss a single word."

"Immediately halt any form of offensive action. Pull the remaining troops back into your shell like a turtle, consolidate the current defense line — even if the line is just that patch of muddy ground beneath your feet. No more steps forward, understand?"