Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1785 - 791: Victor’s Ashtray Has Arrived!!
In the late night of October 1996, in a villa in Berlin, Germany, Dr. Juan Castro was carefully stuffing the last manuscript into his briefcase.
He was a Mexican materials scientist who had worked at the Max Planck Institute in Germany for twelve years.
A week ago, he received an unbelievable job offer from the Mexican National Advanced Technology Company (NTSC), with conditions too good to be true: a salary three times his German annual income, an independent house south of Mexico City, unlimited research funding, and most importantly, the promise to lead the establishment of a national materials laboratory.
"Dad, are we really going back to Mexico?" His eight-year-old daughter Sofia rubbed her sleepy eyes and peeked out from the bedroom.
Castro squatted down and gently stroked his daughter's hair, "Yes, sweetheart. That's our homeland, and Daddy has a very important new job."
His wife Maria came out of the kitchen, her face full of worry, "Juan, I heard it hasn't been safe recently. Some people who went back have had accidents."
"Those are just rumors."
Castro stood up, though his eyes flickered for a moment.
He had also heard. Two weeks ago, a Mexican electronic engineer working in Switzerland had an "accidental" fall onto the tracks at Zurich train station; ten days ago, a fluid dynamics expert working at the French National Research Center "suddenly" had a heart attack in his Paris apartment.
The official statements all said accidents, but rumors were rampant on the email lists within the circle.
"We've postponed our trip twice already," Castro lowered his voice, "This time, there will be a private plane pickup, with government escorts all the way. Nothing will happen. They will arrive on time at 7 AM tomorrow."
Maria nodded, but her fingers unconsciously twisted together.
At 3 AM, the street outside the villa was deserted.
In a black van two hundred meters away, three men stared at the night vision monitors.
The screen showed infrared images of the Castro family's home from every angle.
"The target is a family of four, wife Maria, daughter Sofia, 8 years old, son Marana, 6 years old. Juan Castro himself, a materials science expert, focuses on high-temperature alloys and ceramic matrix composites, which are of significant value for aerospace engines and turbines." The speaker was a White man about forty years old, with an Eastern European accent in his English.
The third person remained silent, slowly and carefully inspecting the weapon in his hands, an MP5SD submachine gun with a silencer attached.
"Time?" the Eastern European asked.
The Latino glanced at his watch, "3:20, action at 3:30 according to plan."
The Eastern European picked up a canvas bag from his feet, unzipped it, revealing several bloodstained machetes and a rusty axe, "Use these. After it's done, sprinkle drugs at the scene, put cash in the fridge, make it look like a gang robbery, theft with murder."
"Understood."
At 3:28, the three men got out of the car, blending into the night.
At 3:31, the window to the first-floor kitchen was silently pried open.
At 3:33, the first figure entered the house.
Castro suddenly awoke in the second-floor bedroom.
It wasn't a sound, but an intuition, a vigilance developed from years of living abroad. He gently woke his wife, placing a finger to his lips, pointing downstairs.
Maria's eyes widened, instantly alert.
Castro got out of bed barefoot, reaching into the bedside drawer for a pistol.
He had never fired a gun, his fingers were trembling.
He motioned for his wife to go to the children's room to protect the kids, while he slowly pushed the bedroom door open, heading towards the staircase.
A faint sound came from below, like someone kicking the kitchen trash can.
Castro's heart was pounding, he shakily disengaged the pistol safety, stepping down the stairs one step at a time. The moonlight cast a cold pattern on the floor through the living room's French windows.
He saw—someone was rifling through the study drawers.
"Don't move!" Castro shouted in Spanish, his voice trembling.
The figure turned around.
Not the masked thug he expected, but a Latino young man wearing ordinary glasses, looking just like an average street worker. Yet those eyes were terrifyingly calm.
"Dr. Castro," the young man even nodded politely, "please put down the gun, we don't want to hurt you."
"Who are you? What do you want?" Castro's gun barrel trembled.
"We want you to abandon your plan to return to Mexico."
Another voice came from the shadows of the living room, the Eastern European slowly stepped out, "Tear up the offer, tell NTSC you've changed your mind. Then you and your family can continue living peacefully."
Thoughts of his "accidentally deceased" colleagues flashed through Castro's mind instantly. He understood: "You are... those 'accidents'..."
"Smart man." The Eastern European smiled, "So, what is your choice?"
Just then, Maria's screams and the children's cries came from upstairs.
Castro shuddered, instinctively wanting to rush upstairs.
"I suggest you don't move."
"Otherwise, things will get very ugly."
A chill ran from Castro's spine to the top of his head.
"I... I agree to your terms," Castro's voice was barely audible, "I'll cancel the job tomorrow, just please don't hurt my family."
The Eastern European seemed satisfied, calling upstairs, "Come down."
There was no response from the third floor.
The Eastern European frowned, speaking into his walkie-talkie in a low voice, "Number Three? Respond."
Silence.
Castro was also stunned.
What happened upstairs?
Suddenly, a muffled groan came from the direction of the children's room, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor.
