Black-Haired Internal Revenue Service SWAT Agent - Chapter 331



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Side Story 37: Colombian Connection

‘Medellin’ is Colombia’s second largest city.

It is a city located in the center of the Abura Valley in western Colombia and is known as the center of Colombia’s coffee industry.

At the same time, it is a hot spot, if not a hot spot, for cocaine manufacturing and sales flowing into the world, especially the United States.

No, what is a hot place?

This is the home ground of the Medellin Cartel, a brutal and terrifying force that would put Mexican cartels to shame.

Long ago, I killed the Medellin Cartel boss, Guillermo Vega, and I am not allowed to come near this place or anywhere near Colombia.

But I don’t know what I’m doing lying around here right now.

Maybe when the Medellin Cartel guys catch me, they’ll slit my throat with a knife and then stick my tongue out through the cut, aka a “Colombian tie.”

That’s why when I came here, Mr. Decker told me to carry a separate grenade.

Despite these facts, I am squatting in the jungle of Frontino, 356 kilometers northwest of Medellin, bitten by all sorts of bugs.

I don’t even want to answer the question of what kind of ‘fucking’ situation this is.

“Another one has appeared!”

After Mr. Decker’s voice was heard over the team radio, another UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter appeared over the eastern mountain peak.

Now, all three Black Hawk helicopters begin circling the area of ​​bushes where we are hiding.

The helicopters circled widely over the jungle, all with their navigation lights off and maintaining a formation that provided cover for each other.

Starting in a narrow circle, they gradually moved in wider circles, and in between, the M240 machine guns fired simultaneously at something in the jungle below.

Currently, the place where this situation is taking place is more than a kilometer away from our concealed and hidden positions.

Still, Decker, O’Connor, Strauss, Rooker, and Soto remain hidden in the grass, watching in that direction.

These American military helicopters are all part of the Colombian Army Air Corps, and they are shining their infrared searchlights towards the ground in a chaotic manner on both sides of the helicopter.

Infrared searchlights, invisible to the naked eye but visible only to those wearing night vision goggles, search for something in the bushland.

They fly in at the crack of dawn and are not looking for us, but rather the Medellin Cartel’s mercenaries and cocaine transporters.

They are shining infrared searchlights on every possible path to find them, carrying bags of finished cocaine through the jungle on ATVs and off-road motorcycles, like four-wheeled motorcycles.

The cocaine sacks that the Medellin Cartel’s long-ago forebears had transported on horses, mules and peasants are now being hauled by electric-powered off-road motorcycles and ATVs.

If such a cocaine convoy is seen in the jungle, Black Hawk helicopters will rain down machine gun fire, and if it is confirmed that the convoy is destroyed, Colombian Army special forces will descend into the jungle via fast ropes.

I find it hard to believe that where it doesn’t seem odd for Tarzan to be flying from tree to tree, catching hold of long vines, ATVs and motorcycles are out there.

Still, the Colombian Air Search and Rescue Team has been doing this shit for over an hour now.

Because of that, we are stuck in this damp, bug-filled jungle, unable to move to our operational point in the northwest.

The bugs and the humidity are one thing, but the indescribable smell of the jungle is something I really can’t get used to.

The smell of the grasslands along the Daecheon Stream, which are a mess due to overflowing water during the rainy season, is so bad that it makes you want to go away.

“Hey, Kim, there’s a snake running under your left foot! Don’t move!”

To my left, among the grass stalks, an old Mexican weasel sits in a shitting position, whispering.

I didn’t even look at him and just raised my middle finger.

All the old men teased me at least once about the fact that I was marching through the jungle for the first time in my life.

Even Mr. Decker gave me something that he said was edible berries in the jungle, and even after chewing it for three hours, the damn bitter taste still didn’t go away.

He said that he had been mistaken in thinking that it was an edible fruit since he had not been in the jungle for a long time, and that it was the first time he had seen Decker like that.

It’s understandable that other old men would split it, but Fred Decker would play this kind of prank on me~.

Soon Strauss whispers over the radio.

“Wizard One (Team Leader Decker)! How about we find a route that takes a detour east from our original direction? If those helicopters delay us any longer, we won’t be able to reach Checkpoint Alpha by daybreak.”

A little later, about ten meters ahead of me at 2 o’clock, Team Leader Decker starts fidgeting.

He and Canadian sniper Rooker were looking at a digital map, seemingly trying to find a new infiltration route.

My mouth felt like it was burning because of the nervousness, so I tried to reach for the water bottle, but Soto Ajusshi stretched out his hand towards me.

Then, he speaks quietly.

“You drank all the water just now. Hold on a little longer, Kim. The Colombian Army’s trackers can smell human sweat and urine just as well as search dogs. Kim’s urine could reveal our infiltration route. So, why don’t you hold on a little longer and drink it later?”

A tracker that smells like human urine?

I turned my head towards Soto and stared at him.

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He was looking at me, wearing night vision goggles, amidst the palm-sized tree leaves.

But this time, the expression on his face seemed real and not a joke.

I nod at him and he gives me a thumbs up.

“Let’s go, gang! We’re going to resume our new detour! All the infrared strobes have been turned off, so both the front and back need to watch out for each other!”

At Decker’s instruction, everyone quietly responded by pressing the headset key twice.

After a while, we resumed our foot infiltration along a new route, all the while hearing the sound of Black Hawk helicopters.

After walking for about ten minutes, we reached a point directly above us where the forest cover was so thick that the broad leaves of the rainforest almost obscured the night sky.

While Strauss and O’Connor moved along the jungle road, clearing away branches and leaves that blocked our path, Decker and Rooker maintained the path and guarded the perimeter, and Soto and I followed behind, maintaining rear security.

However, after walking for about 20 minutes, leaving the Black Hawk helicopters’ turning point behind, the four people ahead of us suddenly sat down.

Soto and I hid ourselves between the wooden pillars and the grass stems and entered the perimeter.

At that moment, Team Leader Decker’s urgent voice was heard over the wireless network, a sound that sent goosebumps up the back of my neck.

“Cobra (AH-1 attack helicopter)! Cobra attack helicopters are here! Everyone get down!”

A helicopter sound completely different from that of a Black Hawk helicopter reverberated through the surrounding skies like thunder.

At the same time, infrared searchlight light began to pour down between the tree leaves that blocked the night sky.

Oh, shit!

What the hell am I doing here?

“You’re crazy, going into the Medellin Cartel’s front yard without air support. We at Wizard R&R specialize in hostage rescue and recovery of important items, not idiots on suicide missions. What on earth were you thinking when you asked us to do something like that?”

O’Connor sipped the coffee I had brought him and spoke indifferently to the CIA officers who had briefed him on the mission.

But about 10 seconds after saying that, O’Connor suddenly seems to get pissed off about something and adds, this time in a louder voice.

“And what? If we get killed or captured by the Colombian military or the Medellin Cartel while on a rescue mission in the ‘fucking’ Colombian jungle, the US government is just going to deny our existence? Are we some kind of A-Team? What the hell is this 21st century shit where Starbucks has a ‘fucking’ unmanned delivery robot that delivers your ‘God Damn’ Caffe Latte to your doorstep?”

After saying that, O’Connor started to grumble even more, as if he was getting more agitated.

The mood in the office suddenly becomes tense as the CIA agents look at O’Connor with a sour look on their faces.

Mr. Strauss, who was standing next to me, whispered to me that even though O’Connor was an out-of-control idiot, he was still right about that now, and then he snickered.

But Mr. Decker and Soto, sitting between us and the CIA agents, are not saying anything.

O’Connor was standing on one leg to the right of us seated, near the armory door, and he set his coffee cup down on a cabinet.

Then he turns his head towards Soto and says.

“Hey, Soto! You brought these spooks in, didn’t you? You brought them in without even explaining what we do? Even though they’re all spooks, Soto, you’re on our team now, not the ‘fucking’ CIA!”

At those words, Soto shook his head as if it didn’t concern him.

Mr. Decker looks at all of us once in a while.

From my experience of knowing that gentleman, his expression right now is that he knows something and is about to tell us something.

I quickly raised my hand to O’Connor and stopped him.

“Lou! Wait a minute. I think Chef (Team Leader Decker) knows something.”

O’Connor shut his mouth immediately at my words.

Then, the CIA agents who had been standing in front of a large digital map on the monitor and talking for a while turn their attention to Decker.

Mr. Decker stood up from his seat and turned to face us who were standing behind him.

Finally he opens his mouth.

“The rescue target, being chased by 200 FARC mercenaries in the jungle near Medellin, is someone we all know. That’s why I’m here today.”

Even though we didn’t say the name, I felt like the same name was popping up in my and my team members’ heads.

I turned my gaze from O’Connor to Strauss, and soon he opened his mouth cautiously.

“Fred, is that rescue target a CIA agent?”

Team Leader Decker nodded at those words.

Then O’Connor shakes his head and mutters.

“B-b-b-b-b-b! Trevor ‘Fucking’ Miller. Right?”

At those words, Team Leader Decker sat back down in his chair.

Then he nodded.

The man who saved my life, Trevor Miller, was chased by mercenaries from the Colombian communist guerrilla force while going deep into the jungle of the Medellin Cartel to destroy their cocaine factories and eliminate their cocaine transporters.

Why does Claire’s face come to mind the moment I hear those words?

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