Black-Haired Internal Revenue Service SWAT Agent - Chapter 337



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Side story 43: Jungle battle

Ramon Salvatore was the second-highest ranking figure in the Medellin Cartel, controlling three cocaine processing plants in the Frontino jungle.

The concrete building where Salvatore resides is a bunker that can withstand aerial bombs, and from here he rules over the entire Frontino jungle region.

While both the area where the coca plants are grown and the area where the finished cocaine is transported out of Colombia are important, he also takes pride in the fact that without his cocaine processing, nothing else matters.

Because of this, he personally inspected randomly selected bags of cocaine each time the finished product was shipped out of the Frontino jungle.

Today too, at Salvatore’s direction, I opened 12 bags of cocaine on the table with a knife.

Then, at his direction, he shined a black light on the cocaine powder that poured out of the bag.

If by any chance someone were to smuggle the cocaine powder out of the factory, it would naturally contain impurities, and these impurities would react to the light of the black light.

The 100% pure cocaine powder, which does not react brightly to the light of a black light, is now tested for purity twice with a specific test drug without the need for Salvatore’s henchmen to inhale it.

Salvatore personally inspected the Medellin Cartel’s products, which had been produced in this jungle for decades.

And yet, I believe that the cocaine market exists because of these basic processes and quality control measures, even as Mexicans are invading the American market with crude and dangerous drugs made from Chinese fentanyl.

Ultimately, to the Colombian government and the Americans, Ramon Salvatore is just a wanted man at the top of the cartel wanted list, but Salvatore, with his mindset, has always thought of himself as a craftsman-minded businessman.

“Okay, now let’s get the goods out. There won’t be any government patrols (Colombian military) around today, so if possible, fill up the quantity you want to ship from Medellin and send it.”

“Yes, Signor.”

He gave instructions to his lab coat-clad subordinates as he walked toward the window.

As the five ventilation fans installed on the wall next to the office window started to turn on simultaneously, his subordinates wearing fine dust masks began to carefully put away the bags of cocaine.

As soon as the indoor air ventilation process was completed, Salvatore took off his mask, took out a cigar and lit it.

Then I looked out the window at the jungle spreading out.

Just after his men cleared the cocaine, he was approached by Australian Roger Kelton, the leader of the cartel’s mercenary unit.

Kelton said to Salvatore, setting down his tablet PC on a large, old-fashioned desk.

“Signor Salvatore, there is trouble downriver.”

At those words, Salvatore turned around and looked down at the tablet PC screen he had placed there.

Kelton’s explanation followed immediately.

“Both the rubber boat patrol that raided the dock of the ‘Lopez (Goldilocks)’ guy downstream and the rib boat support team that went down after receiving a request for support have lost contact for three hours.”

“Are you talking about the guys who went to capture the gringos (white men) who were supposedly sent by the CIA? You can’t contact them at all?”

“Yes, Signor… And what you see on this screen is the live footage transmitted by our patrol boat (rip boat) 5.2 kilometers upstream from the dock.”

Salvatore, sensing something was wrong, placed his cigar on the ashtray and watched the video on the screen.

This is footage from a reconnaissance camera mounted on a Lip Boat, and the moment of a chance encounter with the Lip Boats is being played over and over again.

As Salvatore opened his eyes and stared at the screen, Kelton soon adjusted the video playback speed to the lowest.

In the slow-motion video, the Zodiac inflatable boat that almost collided with the lip boat was seen in the distance, followed by the faces of the strangers inside.

Kelton continued his explanation.

“The team consists of six people: three white people (Decker, Strauss, and Rooker), one black person (O’Connor), one Asian person (Kim Tae-sik), and one Hispanic person (Soto). Judging from the guns and equipment, they seem like PMC guys, not Yankee special forces…”

The quick-witted Salvatore put his cigar back in his mouth and continued speaking in Kelton’s stead.

“But, you’re not ordinary, are you, Captain?”

Kelton was a career soldier in the Australian SAS who was demoted from major to captain due to drug addiction and then forcibly discharged.

After being injured in a combat zone, he became addicted to morphine and was deemed by his command to be impaired in carrying out his mission.

But, ironically, he was now leading the cartel’s secret army that was creating addicts all over the world.

Of course, it was a long time ago that Interpol and the Colombian government placed a bounty of tens of thousands of dollars on his head.

Kelton replied, watching the video still playing on a loop on his tablet screen.

“Three IBS, two lip boats and 18 men have not returned. We need to take immediate action to prevent them from coming up the river.”

Salvatore asked with a frown on his face at those words.

“If we do that, doesn’t that mean we’re going to stop the pursuit of the CIA guy (Trevor Miller) who’s hiding in the jungle upstream of the river?”

“That’s right, Signor.”

“Now, these six Gringos who have just stepped foot on the lower reaches of Santa Rita are a greater threat to us?”

Kelton nodded immediately at those words.

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Salvatore sat down on the chair and placed his cigar on the ashtray.

From then on, silence fell over the 20-pyeong space that served as Salvatore’s study and office.

Salvatore’s top target was Trevor Miller, the CIA agent who had led a group of 12 thugs to sabotage cocaine processing plants five days earlier.

The cartel was even pressuring the American spy, who knew the locations of cocaine processing plants deep in the jungle that even the Colombian government had not discovered, to make sure that he never left the Frontino jungle alive.

For that reason, cartel mercenaries, mostly from Colombia, Mexico, and El Salvador, as well as white mercenaries led by Kelton, were mobilized to track down the American spy.

However, Kelton suddenly claims that the newly appeared Gringos are more dangerous.

Over the past eight years, Salvatore has heeded Kelton’s advice and has repelled five major Colombian military offensives aimed at gaining control of the Frontino jungle.

So, I couldn’t just reject Kelton’s offer, which I didn’t like.

Salvatore got up from his seat and stood at the window again, staring out into the jungle.

A little later, Kelton, who had read his mind, approached him cautiously.

“Signor! Are you hesitating because of the urging to deal with this CIA agent in Medellin as a top priority?”

Salvatore nodded vigorously at those words.

Then, Kelton said, picking up the tablet PC without taking his eyes off his back.

“I also agree with the decision of the Cartel Supreme Council. So, if you, Sir, find it difficult to readily accept my proposal just now….”

At that point, Salvatore turned around and looked at Kelton.

“For now, let’s maintain the personnel currently deployed to pursue the CIA guy, but let’s just deploy reconnaissance drones downriver. Then, when the location of these gringos is definitely known, how about we withdraw some of the troops currently pursuing them upriver and deal with them for a short while? That way, we can operate simultaneously in two places, Signor.”

Salvatore spoke to Kelton with a faint smile on his lips.

“Mr. Kelton, you are the smartest and wisest gringo I know. If all the gringos in America in the 80s and 90s had your judgment and wisdom, our Colombian specialty (cocaine) would never have taken root there.”

Kelton chuckled at that, then saluted Salvatore with his index and middle fingers.

Then he walked out the office door, but just before he could grab the doorknob, Salvatore called out to him.

“Mr. Kelton!”

As Kelton turned around and looked at him, Salvatore asked him:

“But, is it clear what you have decided that these six Gringos are dangerous enough to warrant a halt to our most urgent work?”

Then Kelton collected his expression and answered him with a serious look.

“Without any government helicopter assault unit or artillery support, six men with only small arms sank all of our river patrol boats and turned 18 soldiers into drowned men. If these guys land near our factory, I think the problem of one CIA agent we are chasing now will end up being a storm in a teacup.”

After a while, Salvatore slowly nodded after thinking about Kelton’s opinion again.

Then he said to Kelton.

“Go ahead and hunt down that CIA gringo, then take all your forces downriver and deal with the other gringos, Mr. Kelton. I’ll trust you.”

“Understood, Signor.”

Salvatore continued smoking his cigar while looking toward the door even after Kelton left the office.

Even after the sun had set, the cartel mercenaries continued their search for Trevor Miller.

He heard small reconnaissance drones flying over open areas or places with open paths.

Salvatore’s search party, which was comprised of many mercenaries from the ‘Tracker’ group who were experts in jungle operations, first sent out drones towards areas where Miller might move.

Because of this, even Miller, who had extensive combat experience, was unable to shake them off and was forced to continue north into the jungle, upstream of the Santa Rita River.

Already, all of the Colombian military secret agents and PMC agents, except Trevor Miller himself, had been captured and killed by them, so he had no other option but to ‘escape and escape’.

However, I was secretly worried that they would be pushed north, beyond the control of the Colombian government forces.

He was also anxious about the fact that if he were to be driven north into the jungle at the headwaters of the Santa Rita River, the worst terrain awaited him, where he would not be able to advance even 100 meters per hour.

“Shh!”

Miller sighed as he looked at the digital map connected to the GPS terminal.

Because his current location was 12 kilometers northwest of where his initial rescue operation was supposed to take place.

Miller realized that Salvatore’s mercenary force, led by a white man from the SAS, was really hunting him.

Miller was convinced that the cartel mercenaries who had appeared in his immediate vicinity several times had finally led him here, and that they were all working according to their plan.

He had no idea what was going on outside until around midnight, when he contacted Soto, a former CIA SAD agent, via satellite cell phone.

When the sound of the reconnaissance drone could no longer be heard, Miller slowly rose from the grass.

Then he started walking again, chewing on the moist tree trunk.

He continued forward with weary steps, pushing through the weeds and branches, even as he thought that he might be walking on his own two feet towards a trap.

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