Mamadou’s "career" officially began. Their first target wasn’t the capital or a big city, but a small town about a hundred kilometers from the coast, boasting a fertile river valley and a road leading to the border—Sangar Town.

This town was nominally under government control, but only had about twenty police officers with outdated equipment and low morale. The mayor was a greedy guy, perfect as a symbol of "tyranny" to stir up "public anger."

The plan was simple: a night raid, bombarding the police station and mayor’s residence with mortars and RPGs, then armed personnel would rush in, kill all resisters, arrest the mayor (to be executed after a public trial). Simultaneously, set up roadblocks around the town, announce "liberation," and immediately start distributing "Black Pearl" and small amounts of cash to win over the poor. A Colombian "agriculturalist" would immediately survey the land to prepare for next year’s large-scale poppy and coca planting.

"Remember," Hendrick told Mamadou before the operation, "act quickly and mercilessly. Do not take police prisoners, they symbolize the old regime. Publicly execute the mayor to show everyone the fate of the old order. Then, immediately announce tax cuts (they weren’t collecting taxes before anyway), provide ’protection,’ and promise to bring ’employment’ (drug cultivation). The people will be afraid in the short term, but as long as they see benefits, they will gradually accept."

"What if government forces come to suppress us?" Mamadou asked.

"They won’t come immediately."

Hendrick was confident, "The lords in the capital will have to hold meetings, bicker, and haggle over which troops to send and where the military budget comes from. By the time they’re done dawdling, you will have already established a foothold. Plus..." He patted the mortar, "Your current firepower is enough to handle small government forces. If a large force really does come, we’ll provide ’intelligence support,’ tell you their routes and weaknesses. If necessary, we can also arrange for some ’international observers’ to come and accuse government forces of massacring civilians, creating media pressure."

Mamadou nodded.

He felt he was being quickly assembled into a war machine, and at the same time, a drug production machine. The forces behind him were thinking far ahead, very thoroughly.

The operation began at 2 a.m. The process went even smoother than expected. The police station gave up resistance after the first round of mortar salvos, and several police officers who tried to escape were picked off by the sniper.

The mayor was dragged out in his sleep, wet his pants, and was taken to the town square.

Mamadou delivered a brief but violently charged speech, accusing the mayor of corruption and oppression, then publicly beheaded him with a machete.

The blood and violence shocked the town’s residents. But afterward, Mamadou’s men started distributing the food found in the mayor’s house, along with small packets of "Black Pearl" and crumpled cash.

They declared that from then on, Sangar Town would be managed by the "People’s Freedom Committee," with Mamadou self-appointing as chairman, abolishing the old taxes, providing security, and introducing "high-value crops" to improve living conditions. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

Amidst fear and confusion, there was a glimmer of hope for change, especially among those who had nothing. No one cheered, but no one resisted either.

Sangar Town, on a bloody night, quietly changed hands.

The news spread like wildfire in the surrounding areas. Mamadou’s name began to be known by more people, accompanied by labels of "ruthless," "wealthy," and "armed."

Some smaller armed groups began to voluntarily defect. The Colombian "agriculturalist" immediately marked off large swaths of river valley land, preparing to introduce improved poppy and coca strains.

A Dutch financial expert was establishing a complex network of accounts to launder future drug profits and procure more weapons and supplies.

The semblance of a drug lord warlord quickly took shape within just a few days, and his ambitions were ignited, no longer satisfied with just a small Sangar Town.

...

Bosnia and Herzegovina, east of Brcko, the "Old Brick Factory" area.

Lieutenant Leclerc’s squad approached the edge of this abandoned industrial area at dawn.

Everywhere were collapsed kilns, broken rubble, and overgrown weeds.

A faint, sweet chemical smell permeated the air, somewhat similar to the smell of some explosive materials he had smelled during training at the military academy, yet not quite the same.

"Split into two groups, Group A on the left flank, Group B with me on the right flank, maintain distance, advance alternately."

Leclerc ordered in a low voice. Durand took the sniper rifle and occupied a vantage point on a half-collapsed water tower, providing cover.

They cautiously entered the factory area.

Soon, they found traces—the tire marks were fresh, from heavy off-road vehicles. There were also some scattered green plastic barrel fragments, just like the ones seen before.

"Lieutenant, there’s blood here, not completely dry yet," a team member reported.

Leclerc went over to check, blood drag marks extended into a relatively intact-looking warehouse.

The warehouse door was ajar, the interior pitch black. Leclerc signaled, and team members spread out, guns pointed at the entrance. He suddenly kicked the door open, dodging to the side.

No gunfire.

The flashlight beam swept inside. The warehouse had a large open space, piled with some broken machines and timber. But a central area had been cleared, with strange symbols and lines drawn on the floor, like some kind of makeshift chemical experiment setup or... a ritual array? Nearby were scattered flasks, tubes, and several empty green plastic barrels.

"Not a drug lab... nor a regular explosive workshop," the squad’s demolitions expert said in a low voice after examining,