Declaring War on Crime in South America (3)

True to form as a Korean whose international dialing code started with +82, Eugene moved with remarkable speed. He put on the suit Isabella had chosen for him and began his address to the nation from the press conference room at the Ministry of National Defense.

"My fellow citizens..."

A somewhat clichéd opening. What followed, however, was anything but.

"I stand before you today with a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠grief and sorrow beyond words. Just two days ago, three innocent civilians — our neighbors, our colleagues, our family — who had been working diligently, lost their lives, caught up in a crime."

Eugene continued, staring straight into the camera.

"This is a direct challenge to the law and order of San Marcos, and an act of terror against every citizen who dreams of a peaceful daily life. I have agonized over the root cause of this tragedy. Why must we live in fear of crime? How long must we watch our backs on the streets at night?"

The voice carried genuine feeling. Eugene turned a page of his script.

The air in the press room froze solid. Eugene's announcement that he would wipe out the gangs was that shocking.

"However, the war I declare is not a purge carried out with violence and guns. I have identified the cause of crime as a national problem. Why did they join criminal organizations? Because they could not survive without committing crimes. The state must take responsibility for turning a blind eye to that desperation. Therefore, the government intends to give criminals a chance."

Eugene let out a sigh and dropped a bombshell.

"As of today, the government will hire every person who belongs to a gang or has a record of violent crime."

The reporters and everyone else in the room tilted their heads. He was declaring war on crime, and now he was suddenly offering them jobs? The two things could not have been more contradictory.

But Eugene's next words delivered shock and terror in equal measure.

"And we will relocate them to the Central Basin to establish a large-scale grain farm."

"...!"

The Central Basin? That abandoned stretch of land where development had been written off as impossible — and he was going to forcibly relocate them there to build a farm?

As everyone stood with their mouths hanging open, Eugene smiled with complete confidence and read the final page of his address.

"The state will pay them wages so that these criminals may become members of society, and they will escape the hellish dens of crime to receive the opportunity for healthy labor under the protection of the nation."

"......"

"Of course, there will be those who refuse. But I will not give up until ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the end. I intend to continuously provide them with opportunities to become healthy farmers. This is a matter of keeping every citizen of San Marcos safe, and at the same time, of making San Marcos prosperous."

Eugene stepped one pace away from the podium and bowed his head.

"I ask for the support of the people. Thank you."

And at that very moment, Pedro's martial law forces began to move.

Just before Eugene delivered his address to the nation, Pedro had been meeting with the officers of the armored division.

"This is not a simple sweep operation. You should think of it as a rehabilitation operation — catching the gangsters and turning every last one of them into a farmer."

He looked around at his tense subordinates and continued.

"There will definitely be ones who resist. Some will open fire to avoid being taken. His Excellency said he would give them a chance, but he also does not want our boys getting hurt or killed for the sake of that chance. So what should we do?"

"We suppress them, sir!"

"That's right. If someone swings a fist, crush them under your combat boots. If they shoot, turn them into a goddamn honeycomb. We show them overwhelming force until they give up — that's how they live, and that's how our boys live. Understood?!"

"Sim, senhor!"

And at the moment Eugene's address began, the martial law forces entered Libertad's three major slums.

Favela do Corvo. Beco das Sombras. Baixada do Esquecido. Districts the gangs had locked down completely. To stay in these places meant you were either a gang member or, at the very least, someone who cooperated ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with them.

"Move it, move it!"

The soldiers moved to turn those places into a single operational zone. Armored vehicles mounted with machine guns blocked the middle of the streets, snipers who had disembarked from transport trucks climbed onto rooftops, and the majority of the troops fanned out to surround the area.

"Wh-what's going on?!"

"Why are the soldiers here?"

"Is this some kind of drill?"

Since Eugene had only just begun his address to the nation, the gangs had no information whatsoever. The soldiers rushed at them and—

"Grab them!"

—swung wooden clubs with abandon.

Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack!

The soldiers dropped the gangsters in an instant, disarmed them, twisted their arms behind their backs, and bound them with long zip ties.

"Wh-what the hell is this?!"

"Aagh! At least tell us why we're being arrested!"

"You sons of bitches! Stop hitting us!"

Once they were caught, it was time to transport them. The bound gang members were dragged along and thrown into buses that had been requisitioned in advance.

And that was when the education of becoming a first-class citizen began.

Thwack! Thwack!

The soldiers waiting inside the buses started beating them mercilessly with batons.

"Aagh! Aaagh!"

"S-save me!"

The buses filled with screams and groans. Once the gangsters' eyes had gone meek, the soldiers started the engines.

"Shut your mouths and stay still! Anyone who so much as twitches is getting their bones broken!"

Of course, not every prospective farmer went along quietly.

Bang! Bang-bang-bang!

Seeing the soldiers suppressing them, the gangsters armed themselves and began to fight back.

"Get the guns!"

"Bring every last one you've got!"

"I'd rather die than get taken!"

But Pedro was unshaken.

"They're traitors rising against the state. Show them no mercy. Open fire."

He gave those who took up guns the opportunity to become honeycombs.

BRRRRT—!

The machine guns mounted on the roofs of the tactical vehicles spat fire, and smoke rose in a continuous haze from ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the rifles of snipers positioned in nearby buildings. When even the frontline soldiers, eyes blazing, opened up with their assault rifles—

"I-I surrender!"

"Spare me!"

The resistance stopped as if it had never existed. Realizing they were hopelessly outmatched, the gang members began raising their hands in surrender.

We show them overwhelming force until they give up — that's how they live, and that's how our boys live.

Pedro's words were becoming reality.

"What are you standing around for! Round them all up!"

The soldiers began harvesting healthy farmers in droves.

Meanwhile, as the army harvested gangsters in a frenzy, the second phase of the operation was underway at Libertad National Stadium.

Gang members sat kneeling on the grass, bound with zip ties, sorted by zone. The soldiers mechanically received the buses carrying the "volunteers."

By this point, everyone had figured it out. The state was trying to wipe out the gangs. There was no other explanation for why all three of Libertad's major gangs would be rounded up like this.

I-I have to run. If they take us from here, who knows what will happen.

But how? With soldiers holding assault rifles, eyes wide and alert, there was no way to escape. In the end, there was only one thing they could do: deny that they were members of a gang.

"This is a miscarriage of justice! I'm not in a gang! I was just drinking over there!"

"I'm not even with Corsarius, so why the hell did you grab me?!"

"Get me your superior! Get him here!"

But the interviewer sitting in front of them was no ordinary man.

Lucio Carvalho. As Director of the SIA, he used a tablet linked to the criminal database to expose the criminal history of every single interviewee.

"I'm not! Please! I'm just a guy who works at a bakery!"

"Paco Rodriguez. It says here you're a baker at Del Sol Bread. That right?"

"Y-yes! That's right! I just bake bread..."

"Don't make me laugh."

Lucio swiped the screen and turned it toward him.

"You think I don't know you're a member of Los Muertos? Your main job is shaking down protection money from the nearby shops, and the bakery is just a front. Isn't that right?"

"H-how did you...?"

When the gangster clamped his mouth shut, Lucio pulled out a document.

"Well, well. Society's garbage is getting a salary and moving up in the world. Here, check the pay and sign."

"A-and if I refuse?"

"Then there's no helping it. You'll have to undergo re-education."

Lucio glanced behind him, and a soldier started spinning a wooden club in lazy circles.

"C-come on, even we have human rights..."

"Human rights? You think a precious word like that applies to trash like you? Choose. Re-education, or a signature?"

"Kh..."

In the end, Paco had no choice but to sign the contract, tears streaming down his face.

Lucio gestured to the soldier.

"Next."

As he collected signature after signature, Lucio trembled with a surge of ecstasy.

This is justice.

He understood. Justice was not achieved through ideals. It was achieved through power.

"Heh-heh-heh... HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

The prospective farmers trembled at the sight of Lucio laughing like a madman.

The farmers who had signed the contracts were loaded onto military trucks without a moment's rest and began to move. Their destination was the Central Basin, known as the hell of San Marcos.

Arriving in that place enclosed on all sides by high mountain ranges, they soon faced a despairing reality.

This was not a farm.

"Everyone off!"

It was hell. The soldiers kicked them roughly, rolling them onto the dirt. Pedro's adjutant approached them.

"By the merciful will of His Excellency, as of today you have been hired as the proud farmers of Tortilla Farm!"

When the adjutant finished speaking, the soldiers began throwing supplies from the trucks.

Thud. Thud. Clunk.

What they were given was a military tent, three sets of military uniforms, a single canteen, and one shovel and one pickaxe each.

One of the gang members asked blankly.

"Wh... what are we supposed to do with this...?"

The adjutant pointed at the ground and shouted in a ringing voice, as if reciting Eugene's address to the nation.

"From this moment, you will establish a corn farm on this land. Meals and water will be provided daily at 0700 and 1800 hours, and your wages will be calculated as a monthly salary and deposited into each of your accounts. As written in your contracts, you will receive one day off per week. Take note."

"......"

Everyone fell silent at the shocking declaration. They were being handed shovels and pickaxes and told to build a farm here? And they couldn't even run.

"Ah, and just in case anyone's thinking of slipping away — don't. On His Excellency's orders, we've specially deployed machine guns to protect you."

Soldiers with rifles were spread out in every direction.

"Now! Commence work! Stop dawdling and move!"

The moment a workplace written as Tortilla Farm and read as Gulag opened its doors.