Black-Haired Internal Revenue Service SWAT Agent - Chapter 333



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Side Story 39: Colombian Connection

Last night I almost gave up because of the humidity and heat of this jungle and the mosquitoes and other biting bugs.

But around dawn, after a two-hour nap, I started marching again and felt somewhat better.

Even without the damn night vision goggles, the wind blew through the table top and it felt like I was actually alive.

Now that I’m walking, I can finally see what the jungle looks like, and I have time to enjoy the scenery.

Of course, the panting continued.

During the move, Decker, Soto, and Strauss took turns carrying my M32 grenade launcher and grenade pouch.

And every time I took a break, the gruff Canadian sniper (Michael Rooker) would feed me powdered Pocari Sweat while I was sweating like I was in a sauna.

As I was about to swallow the powder with a sip of water, I was reminded of my childhood.

When I was running around the Daejeon Central Market like a madman without eating, my maternal grandmother would force-feed me powdered corn syrup with a spoon, fearing that I would starve to death.

The rook who poured Pocari Sweat powder into my mouth turned around and left before I could even say thank you.

He felt like the youngest sibling who was loved and cared for among the tsundere uncles.

Perhaps, someday, there will definitely come a day when I will recall this atmosphere, the appearance and hearts of my uncles, and miss them.

But, apart from these sentimental things, there is one thing I have decided clearly.

It is my decision to leave this business world behind completely after this mission.

Claire was told that she wouldn’t be able to contact me for four days because she was guarding a third-world exile politician at our Wizard R&R safe house.

But if you guys knew I was here with you to save Trevor Miller, we’d just say bye-bye.

Claire risked her life and her career to rescue me from a cartel hideout in Juarez, Mexico, where I was about to be killed as a maruta.

It would be stranger if I knew that I had walked into the jungle where the Colombian cartel’s cocaine factory was located and kept quiet about it.

Anyway, as much as it was important to get back alive from this Jurassic Park-like place, it also became an important mission to get to Claire’s home in Old Koreatown before she returned to Chicago.

I sighed again as I thought about that.

As I was walking down a narrow road, not even narrower than my shoulder width, the men in front of me suddenly raised their right hands and sat down.

He said that Colombian military helicopter search teams do not fly over the jungle during the day except in extreme circumstances because of the cartel thugs with RPG7 rocket launchers and anti-material rifles.

So what is it now?

The area where we are staying is not a dense forest area where you can’t see the sky, but an area where grass stems as tall as an adult grow lushly on a muddy ground.

Fortunately, the ground we walk on is covered with tree roots, thin tree trunks washed down by the rain, or something like that, so we can continue walking.

Soon, as I walked forward, hearing the old men laughing quietly, I found out why.

At first I thought it was some kind of log blocking the road, but it turned out to be a huge snake slithering across the road in front of Decker and O’Connor.

As I stepped back with an expression of shock on my face, Mr. Soto, who had been waiting at the very back of the large group, began to split it.

Our boss (Fred Decker) was against my volunteering for this mission.

However, in a situation where even one person was missing, Soto, who was impressed by my great fighting ability, persuaded Decker to take me with him, saying that he would closely guard me to ensure my safe return.

The very logic of taking me, who was supposed to be guarded so closely, into the front yard of these dangerous cartel guys is already absurd, but this is precisely what the Mexican ferret man is claiming.

What this means is that you’ll protect me during the rest of the journey, except when a full-scale battle breaks out, and when a battle breaks out, you’ll let me go and destroy those cartel guys.

I don’t know if I should thank the ex-CIA SAD agent who openly emphasized this absurd logic.

Even I, who nod my head to these words, seem certain that I can no longer be classified as a person with a normal way of thinking.

Of course, regardless of all the talk, leaving Sergeant Trevor Miller, who had saved my life several times, to be hunted by some punks was not how I lived.

So I spent half a day pestering and threatening Mr. Decker and somehow managed to get him to participate in this operation, but he didn’t seem to like the situation so he set a condition that I quit Wizard R&R after this operation.

At first, I thought about coming here and said okay without thinking much about it.

But in the end, the terms he proposed seemed like something I should have decided on first and informed him of.

If you want to become a new groom with ‘Win Peace (no harm done to any part of you)’ and live a new future.

* * *

“Claire! All clear!”

Mr. Strauss reports over the radio as he calls in the Black Hornet, which was inspecting two buildings ahead of us.

“When you call in the drone (Black Hornet), can you make one more big circle around the nearby bush area to take a look?”

“Razor that, Fred!”

At Decker’s command, the Black Hornet piloted by Strauss does not return in a straight line, but instead begins to circle the area in a large circle.

Our position, hidden in the grass, is about 100 meters ahead of us, the Santa Rita River flows, and the buildings he has just finished scouting are located between them.

One building, facing inland, is made of tightly-fitting wooden poles and branches, much in the way the natives built their homes in the jungle.

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The remaining one was roughly built from scrap materials from abandoned buildings, on the dock side facing the Santa Rita River.

Judging by the drums stacked around the building and the several rubber boats visible, the dock appears to still be operational.

In the middle of the large perimeter fence, Team Leader Decker and O’Connor are checking the buildings again using the electronic map on their tablet PC and the materials the CIA people gave them.

It all involved local collaborators who would provide us with rubber boats and fuel so we could infiltrate the mountains to the east up the Santa Rita River.

“Okay! Now it’s time to rendezvous with Aesop, so Rooker, O’Connor, and Strauss prepare Plan B, and Soto and Kim head to the river with me!”

As Decker whispers into the wireless network, people respond by giving him a thumbs up.

After sitting for about half an hour in the midst of not only the grass stalks but also the little flies, when I got up, my head started spinning.

Even though I wore a jungle hat and a portable mosquito net that covered my head, neck, and part of my shoulders, I still felt uncomfortable because of the bugs that came inside the net.

Moreover, the entire floor of this weedy area was mud, so we had to walk wearing knee-high rubber boots that we brought separately and hung next to our military gear.

So, we turn our backs on the jungle and advance towards the buildings along the river, one step at a time.

Dressed in jungle hats and old-fashioned spotted military uniforms worn by Colombian communist guerrillas, carrying AKS-74Us, we headed to the home of our local handler, who could either guide us to Trevor Miller or sell us out to the cartel mercenaries.

I pushed through the grass, the stench of which was so foul that it clogged my nostrils. I hadn’t even walked a few meters when I felt my head burning in the blazing sun.

As we get about 30 meters in front of the buildings, the chickens running around the buildings start making a lot of noise.

Instead of guard dogs, chickens are raised, and the chickens are moving around more busily and making more noise as if they are trying to warn their owners.

Then, a human head pops out from a hammock hanging between the trees behind the building that wasn’t visible before.

In the shadow created by the leaves of the large trees, one man stands up and picks up a rifle.

“Tango Alpha (the first person) picks up the rifle!”

We can hear the voice of Rooker, who is watching this place from a high tree behind us.

In response to that report, Decker immediately asks:

“What type of gun?”

“It’s a Mini 14 (Ruger Mini 14 automatic rifle, the automatic rifle used by the Mid A-Special Forces operatives)!”

“Tango Bravo (the second person) coming out of the building was also carrying the same rifle.”

Despite that report, we didn’t stop and continued towards them.

The reason our boss asked about the type of gun was because the CIA wanted to differentiate between cartel mercenaries, thugs and others who use AK-74 rifles that use 5.45mm bullets, according to information.

Not all of the Medellin Cartel members across Colombia use this rifle, but at least the ones operating in this area are all equipped with this AK74.

So, just in case, we brought AK74U instead of HK416 or SCAL-L to supply live ammunition locally.

As the chickens become more boisterous, Tango Charlie (the third person) emerges from the dock building and watches us.

We, who walked toward them, leaving the weeds behind, did not assume a search formation or a close-range shooting position.

As they approached the Colombians, brushing mud off their rubber boots on the dry ground, neither side raised their rifles, but they looked ready to point their guns at each other at any moment.

Soon, we came face to face with an indigenous-style building, and Mr. Decker, who was in the lead, raised one hand towards the Colombians.

Then, when the old man was about to say hello, the other person greeted him first.

In English too.

“Welcome to Santa Rita (River)! Gentleman!”

A man in his fifties wearing a New York Yankees cap raises both hands and shouts, startling nearby chickens and causing them to fly away in all directions.

As he shouts something to the man standing in front of the building on the dock side, the man runs towards us, holding an icebox.

Then, he puts down in front of us an old icebox that looks like it was made in the 1980s and opens the lid to show us.

Inside the ice chest, which is filled with ice, are bottles of Coca-Cola and Club Colombia, a popular beer among the country’s people.

An ‘Indio’ man with the body of a man in his twenties and the face of a man in his fifties, who had brought in the icebox, grinned at us, his front teeth flashing like a gold shop showcase.

As we hesitate to react to the scene unfolding before our eyes, Luke’s voice is suddenly heard over the wireless network.

“Inside the dock building, Tango Delta (the fourth person), Tango Echo (the fifth person), and Tango Potstroke (the sixth person) are about to exit through the doors! Wizards All Callsigns (all members of the Wizard Team), watch out! Watch out!”

As soon as his warning was transmitted, the door to the building directly facing the river burst open and three people walked out.

However, their appearance is different from that of the innocent looking Indians, and they have a rough atmosphere with a hip-hop style that seems to be seen in Mexican cartel strongholds.

Moreover, the gun he is holding is not a Mini-14 that you can see in a firearms museum, but a Pakistani-made MP5 submachine gun with an extended barrel.

I unknowingly set the trigger on my AKS74U with a single shot, and I heard the same sound from the men standing in front and next to me.

Shit, is this the right atmosphere for giving out cola and beer, or is this the right atmosphere for going up against more gunmen than the three those Spooks told you about?

In the midst of the suffocating standoff, a rooster with a magnificent and large crest walks toward the icebox, almost as if the leader of the pack had been dwarfed by the lush mane of the lioness.

Then, in front of the people who were watching each other with bated breath, he flapped his wings roughly and fell down, crying loudly.

What on earth is this surreal sight?

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