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35% I work as a police officer in Mexico / Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Original performance

Chapter 7: Chapter 7: Original performance

Tijuana: 2,000 pesos.

Juarez: 3,000 pesos.

Sinaloa: 4,000 pesos.

...

For Victor, this money was a considerable sum at this point.

Sinaloa pays the federal police chief 450,000 dollars a month. That same 50,000 pesos was scraped together like alms to a beggar.

- However, I think it is not only the heads of these 17 groups who are imprisoned in the third block. Why didn't the others pay? - Victor pointed to the list.

Anna froze, her face became confused and strange, she tried to answer as gently as possible: -Sergeant Victor, maybe some people don't know about your assignment yet.

- I understand, but I'm a fair man. Those who haven't paid, let them each submit a 2,000 peso introduction fee. That's not too much, right?

- I'll pass it on.

Anna noticed that Victor was literally drowning in money and, hiding her irritation, agreed.

Victor seemed calm. In the third block, apart from the chief, he was the most important.

If he didn't use the power, it would be lost, he knew that for sure. He urgently needed money to strengthen his position. If he could make money, why not use it?

Anna thought Victor was too greedy and predicted a short life for him. She cared little about what would happen next and soon left.

The previous deputy chief had only been in office for two months. Although he received almost 100,000 pesos in tributes, his entire family was killed.

This happened because he dared to piss off a big narco baron's on the block.

Greedy people don't live long.

If Victor knew her thoughts, he would definitely debate with her.

It seemed that those who weren't greedy could live a long time.

If you give me money, you can kill my whole family for all I care. The more you give, the more you get. If you want, I'll show you the family grave, and for an extra fee, I'll let you blow it up.

After sitting in the office for about ten minutes, Victor felt uncomfortable. He put on his hat, grabbed his keys, and decided to take a walk around the block to explore whose influence he could join.

The third block was considerably quieter than the first two. There were no walkers and no noisy prisoners here.

Walking down the corridor, Victor heard a woman's voice from one of the cells. The sounds were too obvious and exciting, especially in the deserted corridor.

Damn it...

What time is it? Are they still doing this?

Victor looked at his watch and with his hands behind his back, he headed towards the cells. There were private rooms with private bathrooms, about 20 square meters in size, with air conditioning, TVs, and even game consoles.

Conditions were better than in the police dormitory.

There was also a strict hierarchy in this unit. The most dangerous criminals were kept in the deepest cells.

- Hey!

The prisoner in the outermost cell, hearing footsteps, turned around and saw the policeman. He whistled and said unhappily, "I want tuna tacos and a bottle of tequila for lunch.

Victor looked around.

- Shit, I'm talking to you! Remember?

The prisoner rose from the bed and kicked the bars, making a loud noise.

It was an older man, about fifty years old, clearly with a difficult temper.

Victor blinked.

______

Stefan Blancard. Male. Born in 1949 in Medellin, Colombia.

Dropped out of school at 16 and joined a gang, beginning his criminal career with car thefts and street fraud, later moving on to kidnapping and smuggling, gradually gaining notoriety.

In 1973 he joined the Medellin cartel Pablo Escobar, became one of the technical leaders.

In November 1985, Pablo supported an attack by left-wing militants on a courthouse in Bogota, Colombia, taking 300 people hostage. Stephan was among the participants, playing the role of liaison.

In 1986, he became the cartel's main representative in Mexico City, working with Sinaloa and Tijuana.

In 1987, he was arrested in the red light district for beating up a prostitute, and has been in prison ever since.

Crime points: 77,000 points!

______

Obviously a serious player.

The Medellin cartel has been on the radar.

In fact, ever since Pedro Aviles started, Mexican narco baron's have been cooperating with Colombian ones. Aviles was the first Mexican narco baron's to make such connections and the first to use airplanes to transport drugs.

For each shipment, he received half the value of the goods. Because of Mexico's proximity to the United States, such a deal was favorable to the Colombians.

It became a template for cooperation between inter-national drug cartels like Guadalajara and the Gulf.

77,000 points - if you kill him, you can trade him for a pesticide spraying jet or a small ship.

- Wait a minute.

Victor pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket that had the names of the narco baron's who had made "meeting gifts" written on it. He scrutinized the list.

- You're from the Medellin cartel?

Stephan Blancard raised an eyebrow and examined Victor closely.

- 'I'm sorry, but you haven't paid, so I can't help you.

Victor folded the paper and tucked it back into his pocket.

- Without money, I can't serve you.

Was that extortion?

Stefan laughed, his smile so wide it looked like he could swallow a child's head.

- Do you know who I am? And you dare to demand money from me?

He grabbed Victor sharply by his clothes, yanking him toward him.

Victor grinned. 'You started it first, and that gives me the right to respond.

Even if the supervisor is unhappy later, that will be an acceptable explanation.

He grabbed Stefan's hand by the wrist and twisted it with force. He was clearly trying to get his hand back to its original position, straining as hard as he could, but age and comfortable life had taken their toll, and in a moment Victor broke his finger with a distinctive crunch.

Stefan cried out in pain, grabbing his injured finger and stepping back.

Victor took out his keys, opened the cell door, pulled out a baton and swung it around to hit Stefan on the head. He hurriedly raised his hands to defend himself.

- Stop it! Stop it!

- Damn you, you haven't even presented a gift for the meeting and you're being so cocky. Medellin cartel? That's Mexico, haven't you seen a map?

Victor swore it wasn't for lack of a gift, just a desire to teach a criminal a lesson.

He'd already turned the Gulf cartel against him, so there was nothing more to fear.

When you have many enemies, one more, one less, it doesn't matter.

Whether you act humble or not, these narco baron's still won't respect you or treat you differently. To them, cops are just government dogs.

But if you beat them so bad they don't recognize themselves, they'll stop talking.

Are they tough? You've got to be tougher!

The patrolling prison guards, hearing the commotion, ran toward the cell. Seeing the sergeant with a baton beating Stefan "Rat" Blankard, they froze in the doorway, not knowing what to do.

Victor, tired of beating, noticed the guards at the door. He threw the baton into their hands, causing them to step back, clearly frightened.

- Cowards!

Victor grinned, squatted down and, grabbing Stefan by the neck, whispered: - Remember, son of a bitch, tell your men to bring a gift to the meeting. Otherwise, every day I'll come here and beat you up.

Wiping the blood from his hands on Stefan's prison clothes, Victor left the cell, throwing a glance at the guards, "Get him a doctor. Also, I'm Victor, the new deputy warden.

The performance was too audacious.

The first thing he did was beat the prisoner.

The guards standing at the door didn't dare to enter the cell, afraid that the enraged Stefan might vent his anger on them.

- Quick, call the doctor, and I'll go report to the chief.

There was a commotion in the third block of about 200 guards.

There was a newcomer who dared to beat up a narco baron's baron, which made many of the guards look at him with new respect. However, there were those who took it with derision, even placing bets on how he would die.

The odds were as follows:

Being shot within a week: 1 in 1.7.

Being hacked to death and stuffed in a barrel of oil: 1 in 7.

Being dismembered: 1 in 6.7.

These were the drug cartels' three favorite ways to kill.

At this time in the psychological counseling office, Anna was painting her nails with bright red nail polish when one of her coworkers burst into the room with loud exclamations as if she herself had been at the scene.

- Do you think he's lost his mind? - The coworker asked.

Anna was stunned, her mind flashing back to the movie where Victor was shot by narco baron's. She shook her head and, putting on her shoes, ran to inform her lover.

After she left, the coworkers looked at each other.

- The bitch went after the award again," one of her colleagues muttered enviously.

Anna was the most successful in the department and also the most beautiful.

Hate among women can be amazing.

...

When Conor Velasquez returned from the meeting, he ran into Anna, who rushed over to him in a hurry.

- Warden, Victor ... He had beaten Stefan Blancard out of cell number one.

Anna watched in horror as Conor's face changed in an instant, as if at a Chinese opera.


next chapter

Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Selling Weapons

- Why did you beat him up?! Don't you know that the first rule of our third block is not to abuse prisoners?

- Did you just go to prison? Idiot, they're more valuable in prison than your parents. If you want to die, why are you dragging us with you?!

Conor Velasquez was pounding the table with rage and yelling at Victor, pointing his finger at him. But it wasn't that he really "cared" about the prisoner.

It was that he was afraid.

These were people from the Medellin cartel!

If the Guadalajara cartel used the plaza system so that all Mexicans could make money, Pablo from Medellin was just plain crazy.

He even wanted to run for president.

He had already become a deputy at the time, but was publicly exposed by the honest Minister of Justice. And what did Pablo, who cared about his reputation, do?

He simply ordered the Minister of Justice killed.

After all, they weren't afraid to "turn the table". Your bones are no stronger than a bullet anyway.

Kidnapping the children of high-ranking officials, brutally murdering judges, attacking the president, blowing up passenger airplanes - they're not to be trifled with.

Of course, that's not to say that the Guadalajara cartel isn't violent.

They at least dare to attack DEA (Drug Enforcement Administration) agents. Even Pablo in his craziest days knew that you could kill ordinary Americans, but if you touch the DEA, they really will fight to the death.

Stefan Blancard was caught by accident because there is no extradition agreement between Mexico and Colombia, and the parties are now arguing over who to try him. The U.S. wants him extradited for trial, too.

But that doesn't mean you can abuse the people of Medellin with impunity.

That's suicide.

Conor Velasquez was afraid of being dragged into it. The Medellin cartel kills everyone without exception.

Victor, looking at his superior who was ready to shoot him, remained calm and pointed to his clothes: - He attacked first. I felt threatened and had to defend myself.

- Go tell that to the narco baron's!

Kona Velasquez didn't want to waste any more drool on the "dead man". He was still friendly from the morning, but now his face expressed only disgust. Pointing to the door, he shouted: - Get out of here, idiot. If you don't want to die, go with a dog chain to your cell and pray for forgiveness.

- Don't say I didn't warn you.

- Sorry, my profession doesn't allow me to do that. I'm a policeman. It's the criminals who should be afraid of me, not me of them! - Victor refused, saluted and walked out.

- Bastard! Son of a bitch! You idiot!

Conor Velasquez froze for a moment at his words, complex feelings flashed in his eyes, but they were quickly replaced by rage and loud curses: - Wait for death!

Police officers passing by saw and heard the scene.

Some looked at Victor with respect, others looked at him as if he were dead.

There are always those who, even in such a filthy society, retain moral principles.

But Victor was really just playing along. These words he added to enhance his "positive image".

The Mexican government is corrupt, but that doesn't mean everyone there is scum. There are people trying to save their country. They hope to find like-minded people and give them power.

Pablo may have been a savage on the outside, but he knew how to keep his base. When he died, tens of thousands of people from his hometown of Medellín came to see him off on his last journey.

Everyone has two sides: one for others and one for himself.

In public, I am a patriot.

In private life, patriotism is a business.

It's called image building. If there was enough money later, he even planned to write a book, open a TV channel - just to improve his image.

Victor glanced at his watch, and finished his work early.

No one minded. Even the guards thought the deputy chief wouldn't last long, so why bother with his schedule?

But what happened in cell block three quickly spread throughout the prison.

When Victor came out, the people he knew pointed fingers at him and didn't dare speak. When he reached the canteen, he stood at the window, but no one came up to give him food.

Everyone was afraid of being dragged in.

Avoiding danger was an instinct of carbon-based life forms.

Victor wasn't angry. Since no one wanted to give him food, he made his own, took a few extra chicken legs, packed them up and took them to the dormitory. If he doesn't finish, he'll have some for dinner.

-He hasn't run away yet? He's not afraid of revenge?

- Escape? Where? Even in a government building, he could be killed. Prison is safer. If I were him, I'd stay here forever.

Colleagues were whispering, but one eye was fixed on Victor with particular scrutiny.

...

Evening. It was quickly getting dark.

The lights in the dormitory were dim. Victor sat with a notebook in his hands, pausing now and then, pondering something with a frown on his face.

There were many notes and plans on it.

For example: "Achieve an appointment as the head of the department for within half a year to a year."

Location preferably not to be chosen in areas of large cross-border organizations such as Sinaloa or Tijuana. But after counting the states, he realized that drug traffickers control almost the entire country.

The poorest state of Chiapas, next to Guatemala, had become a logistical center for drug trafficking because of its convenient geographic location.

Victor made a choice of three locations: the island of Guadalupe in Baja California. This island in the Pacific Ocean has a population of about 80,000 people. Although narco baron's are active there, surrounded by the sea, it's harder for them to organize major attacks as on land.

Tijuana's traditional holdings.

The second option: the city of Taxco in the state of Guerrero. This city is in the dense forests where Indians used to live.

Then the Indians left the place and it became a Mexican settlement of about 100,000 people. Due to transportation difficulties, it's easy to hide there, and it also serves as a drug growing area.

The third option is Ciudad Juarez in the state of Chihuahua. This old Juarez property on the south bank of the Rio Grande River, across from the American city of El Paso, is a classic smuggling paradise. At night you can see small submarines transporting drugs.

These three locations were his choice. In a notebook, Victor detailed the plan. When he became the head of the department, he would develop a team of 30 armed men.

Some of these men could be employed by the police, and then he would be able to operate with more freedom.

The rest will take care of the black market, including the arms trade, which will provide a constant flow of information and money.

Then, using that money, he would be able to invest in high-level connections.

The plan was detailed. If someone had found this notebook on the street, they would have thought it was the deathbed fantasies of some "fool". But for Victor, who had goals and ambitions, this was just the beginning!

If a man has no purpose, how is he different from a worm?

Knock, knock, knock.

As he was adding new plans to his notebook, there was a knock on the door. The knocking was quiet, as if they didn't want anyone to hear.

Victor stashed his notebook in his desk, picked up his Colt M1911 pistol, cocked it, and walked cautiously to the door.

Even in prison, one had to be careful.

- Who is it?

- It's me, Casares.

The voice behind the door was muffled.

Victor opened the door, took a look and, recognizing the person who had come, removed the chain from the door and pulled the chubby man inside, looking around before closing the door.

- Change your mind? Working with me? - Victor asked immediately.

Casares, trying to maintain his dignity, waved his hands, -I don't do drugs. My father died because of drugs. I swore I'd never get involved with them.

- The competition is too fierce. You and your size, if you get into this business, you'll be lying dead in the desert tomorrow. - Victor shook his head.

The narco baron's don't want anyone messing with their market.

If a new person comes in, they'll make less money.

The notorious Colombian narco baron's, the Cali Cartel, wanted to do business, but they coordinated with Pablo first. One of the founders, Gilberto, was a childhood friend of one of the Medellin cartel leaders, Ochoa, which is how he got permission to sell cocaine in the US.

It's funny, isn't it?

But in this business, it's best to stay out of it without power.

Those who can do drugs are the military.

Those without power are gangsters. And those with no power at all are small-time hooligans.

Victor bent over, pulled out a large red suitcase from under the bed, as if for a wedding. He opened it, and there lay an AK-47 and a CZ 25.

He took the AK, cocked the bolt, and patted the metal: "This is what I do.

- Guns? - Casares was genuinely surprised.

Before coming in, he had imagined many possibilities: that Victor could steal cars, organize prostitution, even sell blood, but he hadn't expected the case to go this far.

- I have connections in the USSR. Although it's risky, the profits are big. The question is, how brave are you?

- This AK-47 is purely Soviet. I don't care how much you sell it for, I just want 200 dollars. Anything over that is yours. If you're brave enough, you can sell it for $1,000 and I'll still only take 200 dollars.

- How's that? If you're good with your mouth, one sale is enough to provide for your family for a year. The scariest thing in this world is not making money. I'm giving you the opportunity to earn. My principle is to share food and money with my brother. I won't forget you.

Before Casares could answer, Victor shoved an AK-47 into his hands.

- Try it. But you need to find someone you know. Otherwise, if you run into any gangsters, I'll come to your funeral.

Arms dealing isn't about handing out flyers.

Drugs destroy the human will, and guns can destroy the system. Just watch the Mexican army and police go after you.

Casares thought for a moment.

- 'I have a cousin, he's in one of the gangs in Mexico City, and he has some influence there. I can get in touch with him.

Victor wasn't surprised.

Everyone in Mexico has a relative who's a narco baron's.

A lot of the big narco baron's still have family ties.

- Good, we'll make money together!


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