cartel

In the vast criminal underworld, cartels reign supreme; get the full scope of global drug trafficking networks from notorious kingpins down to lowly street pushers.

The Soldier’s Choice: When a Father Chose His Country Over His Son
The Soldier’s Choice by Javed Jamal (translated and adapted) The evening sun had already sunk behind the dunes, leaving a reddish glow across the sky when someone knocked at the door. Retired soldier Riaz coughed, pulled his shawl tighter, and got up from the charpoy to open it. Outside stood his younger son, Majid. Without saying much, the boy entered the small brick house. Riaz lived in a quiet village near Bahawalpur with his wife, Kishwar Sultana, and their children. Once a proud member of the Pakistan Army, Riaz had served the nation for decades before retiring with honor. He had married off all his children and tried his best to settle them. Majid, however, was his greatest worry. Despite his father’s help and advice, Majid refused to take life seriously. Riaz had opened a small grocery shop for him in the village, hoping the business would give his son purpose. But Majid neither stayed at the shop regularly nor managed the accounts properly. He spent whatever he earned on himself, leaving nothing for his wife, who had recently given birth to a baby girl named Anaya. Riaz and Kishwar often discussed him late into the night, their voices filled with exhaustion and disappointment. “We tried everything,” Kishwar would sigh. “But he just doesn’t listen.” Their elder son, Sajid, was the complete opposite — hardworking, respectful, and devoted to his family. His modest income supported his wife and children, and he never complained. Majid, on the other hand, was hot-tempered and irresponsible. When Riaz scolded him, he would storm out and disappear for hours, roaming with strangers from the nearby town. Once or twice, Riaz had even resorted to physically disciplining him — something the old soldier hated to do — but it changed nothing. That evening, after dinner, Riaz spoke to his son once more. “Majid,” he said softly, “you’re a father now. Life isn’t a game anymore. Things are hard. Your mother and I won’t be here forever. You must take responsibility.” Majid nodded quickly, as if he had expected this lecture. “Abu, don’t worry. I’ve already found a job. My friend’s father owns a plastic manufacturing factory. He offered me work there. I’ll start tomorrow.” Riaz felt a small wave of relief. “That’s good, son. Just be careful. Times are uncertain. Keep your head down and work hard.” Majid smiled faintly. “Don’t worry, Abu. The factory is far from any trouble. I’ll be fine.” For the next few days, Majid left home early every morning. On the third night, he came home later than usual and handed Riaz ten thousand rupees in cash. Riaz looked at the money, stunned. “You earned this much in two days?” Majid shrugged. “The factory pays well.” But something in his tone didn’t sound right. Riaz, a man trained to read faces and sense lies, felt unease in his chest. He didn’t ask further, though the doubt stayed with him like a shadow. The next morning, Majid left as usual. Around ten o’clock, as Kishwar and Majid’s wife worked in the kitchen, the front door suddenly burst open. Majid stumbled in, pale and trembling, before collapsing on the charpoy. There was blood on his leg. Kishwar screamed. Riaz rushed to him, ripping his old army handkerchief and tying it tightly around the wound. “Majid! What happened?” The young man could barely speak. His lips moved, but no words came out. Riaz turned to his daughter-in-law. “Stay with him. I’ll get a doctor.” He had barely reached the gate when someone banged on the door again — hard, urgent knocks. Riaz opened it to find two policemen and an inspector standing outside. “Are you retired Subedar Riaz?” the inspector asked briskly. “Yes… what’s wrong?” “We’re looking for a terrorist,” the inspector said. “There was a shooting in the marketplace half an hour ago. Several people were killed. Our patrol spotted the attackers, but one of them escaped — wounded. Witnesses say he came this way. He has a gunshot wound on his leg. Have you seen anyone suspicious enter your home?” The words struck Riaz like a thunderbolt. For a moment, the world tilted around him. He didn’t need to look back; he already knew. Majid. The ten thousand rupees. The lies. The unease. It all made sense now. Riaz felt his knees weaken. The same hands that had once held the flag of Pakistan now trembled with a father’s unbearable pain. His own son — a man he had raised with discipline and love — had joined those who murdered innocents. Inside him, a war began. One side whispered: He’s your blood. Protect him. The other side shouted: He’s a danger to your country — the country you swore to defend. Tears welled in his eyes. He looked up at the sky — the same sky under which he had once marched with pride in uniform — and made his decision. “Inspector,” Riaz said quietly, his voice breaking, “the man you’re looking for… is inside my house.” The officers rushed in. Within minutes, Majid was handcuffed and carried out on a stretcher. His wounded eyes met his father’s one last time — a mixture of fear, regret, and shame. Kishwar wept silently. Riaz stood frozen at the doorway, watching the police van disappear down the dusty road. He had done what a soldier must. That night, Riaz sat on his charpoy again, staring at the flickering lamp. The village was silent except for the distant sound of the azaan. He closed his eyes and whispered to himself, “Pakistan will always come first.” Because sometimes, true love for one’s country means standing against even those you love most. --- Moral: A nation remains safe not only because of its armies — but because of the courage of its people, like Soldier Riaz, who choose duty over emotion and truth over blood.
By Ubaid 12 months ago in Criminal
My Neighbor Isn’t Human — I Have Proof
I’ve lived in my apartment complex in Portland, Oregon, for six years. It’s a quiet neighborhood — retirees, students, a few families. The kind of place where nothing ever happens. That changed the day Apartment 3B got a new tenant. Her name was **Elara**. She moved in late one evening in the middle of winter. No moving truck, no friends helping, just a single black suitcase and a cat carrier with no cat inside. I remember because I offered to help, but she just stared at me for a moment before saying, “No need. I already brought everything I require.” That word — *require* — stuck in my head. It wasn’t the way people talked. At first, I didn’t think much of her. She kept to herself, didn’t make noise, didn’t socialize. But after a few weeks, I started noticing small, strange things. Every night, exactly at **2:37 a.m.**, a faint hum came from her apartment — low, rhythmic, mechanical. Like a generator or some kind of machine. I’d press my ear against the wall and hear soft clicking sounds, like typing but faster than any human could manage. Then there was the light. Her apartment window glowed with a pale blue tint, the kind that doesn’t come from any normal bulb. When I asked our landlord about it, he shrugged. “She pays on time, doesn’t cause trouble. Let it be.” Still, curiosity got the best of me. One night, I pretended to leave for work but circled back and waited outside her door. Around the usual time — 2:30 — the humming began. Through the peephole, I saw faint shadows flickering under her door. And then, a sound I’ll never forget: a metallic scraping, followed by a whisper that didn’t sound like a person’s voice. It said something like: > “Transmission stable. Awaiting next human data set.” I froze. The next morning, I knocked on her door, trying to act casual. She opened it slightly — not wide enough for me to see inside. Her eyes looked… wrong. Not just the color — they reflected light, like a cat’s in the dark. I noticed she wore gloves, even though it was warm inside. I asked if everything was okay last night. She smiled — but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Just my *equipment*,” she said. “Sometimes it needs calibration.” I nodded, pretending to understand, and left. After that, things escalated. Birds stopped perching near her balcony. My Wi-Fi would drop every time she came home. My phone started showing a new network signal named **E-3B_DEVICE** — with full bars, even in airplane mode. One night, my curiosity turned into fear. I was asleep when I heard knocking on my door — three slow knocks. When I checked the peephole, no one was there. But when I opened it, a folded piece of paper was on the floor. It said: > “Stop listening.” No signature. No explanation. The next day, I went to the building’s security office and asked to see the footage from the hallway. The guard told me the cameras outside her apartment had been *disabled* since the day she moved in. That’s when I decided to record her myself. I set up a small camera facing her door. That night, the 2:37 hum began again. The next morning, my camera was gone — not broken or unplugged — just gone, like it had never been there. Two nights later, Elara knocked on *my* door for the first time. She said, “Your curiosity is inefficient. You’ll forget soon.” I tried to laugh it off, but she stepped closer, her pupils flickering with faint static. “You record,” she said softly, “but you don’t understand what you see.” When I woke up the next day, my laptop and phone were wiped clean. Every file, every photo, every password — gone. The only thing left on my desktop was a single folder named **RETURNED**. Inside it was one image: a picture of me sleeping, timestamped 2:38 a.m. That night, she moved out. No one saw her leave. The landlord said her lease had been terminated by “an external agency.” I don’t know what she was — government experiment, alien, something else entirely. But I know this: sometimes, at exactly 2:37 a.m., my walls still hum. And when that happens, my phone lights up with a notification from a network that shouldn’t exist: **E-3B_DEVICE connected.**
By America today about a year ago in Criminal
The Rise of the Ghost: From Dublin’s Streets to the Cartel’s Throne. AI-Generated.
Long before he became The Ghost, Patrick Doran was just another street kid from the gray edges of Dublin’s north side — the kind of place where hope came cheap and loyalty was the only currency that mattered.
By shakir hamidabout a year ago in Criminal
The Ghost Returns: Blood on the Costa del Crime. AI-Generated.
The Mediterranean sun rose over Marbella like a blade of gold, cutting through the mist that hung over the harbor. It had been almost three years since Patrick “Patsy” Doran, the man the underworld called The Ghost, vanished into legend.
By shakir hamidabout a year ago in Criminal
The Ghosts of Marbella: Europe’s Hidden Cocaine Highway. AI-Generated.
The sun over Marbella shines like gold, but beneath the luxury — beneath the yachts, champagne, and celebrity villas — there’s a darkness no one talks about. A hidden empire built not on business or tourism, but on cocaine, blood, and silence.
By shakir hamidabout a year ago in Criminal
Bad to the Bone A Psychopathic Killer with No Remorse. AI-Generated.
They called him Eli Cross — a name whispered in the hallways of every police department across the East Coast. No fingerprints. No DNA. Just the echo of his work — methodical, clean, precise.
By shakir hamidabout a year ago in Criminal
Shadows & Cityscapes: How Organized Crime Helped Shape America. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
When people talk about organized crime in America, the focus is usually on violence, corruption, and gangsters like Al Capone, John Gotti, and many others. But the truth is more complex. While organized crime caused harm and fear, it also played a strange part in building America’s cities, industries, and even laws.
By xJRLNxabout a year ago in Criminal
Echoes of the Battlefield
Echoes of the Battlefield The battlefield had turned to dust. The smoke was gone, the noise had faded, and only the wind moved — whispering through the broken helmets and empty rifles that lay scattered across the barren ground.
By Wings of Time about a year ago in Criminal
Ashes of Palermo. AI-Generated.
Palermo smelled of salt, smoke, and secrets. The narrow streets whispered history — blood that had soaked the stones, names spoken only in church confessions. And in that city of saints and sinners, Luca Romano was born to both.
By shakir hamidabout a year ago in Criminal
The King of Broken Streets. AI-Generated.
Nairobi, 2006. The rain had stopped, but the smell of smoke still clung to Nairobi like guilt. Puddles reflected the fractured glow of streetlights, matatus honked through the fog, and somewhere in the maze of slums and skyscrapers, Malik Mwangi ruled the night.
By shakir hamidabout a year ago in Criminal
Dan White, k*ller of Harvey Milk and the mayor of San Francisco, was charged with voluntary mansla*ghter rather than m*rder. The defense argued that W. AI-Generated.
Dan White, k*ller of Harvey Milk and the mayor of San Francisco, was charged with voluntary mansla*ghter rather than m*rder. The defense argued that W
By Story silver book about a year ago in Criminal
A–Z of Legendary Criminals & Heists
A – Al Capone The king of Chicago’s underworld. He smiled in silk suits while blood painted the streets. His empire ran on whiskey, bullets, and fear — until tax evasion, of all things, caged the untouchable.
By OWOYELE JEREMIAHabout a year ago in Criminal