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1.92% Working as a police officer in Mexico / Chapter 12: Chapter 12; Baron!

Capítulo 12: Chapter 12; Baron!

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Catching the last bus back to the prison.

The VW Beetle they had hijacked was left for Best to deal with, and in Mexico, there's no shortage of used car dealers willing to buy it as fund for the organization.

Stepping off the bus and standing by the lonely bus stop sign, he could see the fervor of the "Night Market" not far away; even if an attack had happened just two days ago, it was only about dead people, wasn't it?

Did anyone's death ever stop the world from turning?

When Kennedy died, it didn't stop Americans from celebrating, now did it?

"In a couple of days, a shipment from the Soviet Union is coming in, sell it off as quickly as possible," Victor said, with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Casare's eyes gleamed; he had gotten a taste for it, "How much?"

"10 AK47s, 10,000 rounds of 7.62mm bullets, and 10 F-1 Defensive Grenades. It's a big order."

At that moment, Victor checked his points; he currently had 2028 points. 10 AKs would be 1500 points, bullets were dirt cheap, practically given away – 100 bullets for 1 point, which totaled 100 points, and the hand grenades were 200 points. That left him with 228 points to spare; in a couple of days, he could take out some unlucky criminals, and his points would be up again.

Mexico and Colombia were places where danger and opportunity coexisted.

It was just perfect for Mr. Gao – you could never kill off all the drug traffickers.

When Casare heard these numbers, his whole body trembled, muttering to himself as if calculating; despite the shipment seeming small, it was enough to wage a small-scale intense war.

Brother Hao managed to keep the Flying Tigers at bay with just 2 AKs, and that old, decrepit Black Star pistol; now they called in the "Special Task Force" and didn't dare to look up.

With 10 AKs, 10,000 rounds, and grenades at your disposal.

Who are you planning to attack?

Many Mexican police stations don't even have standard-issue handguns.

"What's the pricing?"

"Standard rate for AKs, 800 US Dollars, bullets are 5 for a dollar, and grenades are 30 each. There could be a slight discount if taking everything."

Casare pulled out his fingers, obviously not great at math.

But he knew that with this deal, he could make at least $600. The flesh on his plump face quivered, "Getting rich, getting rich."

"Get to know more people in the Second District, they're the core of their organizations and are also our potential customers. We're going to sell big, and they have the money to afford it."

"I understand."

Earning a dime wasn't easy, the police even had to please the inmates to a certain extent.

"Oh, by the way, did you hear about that Fremont Holder thing Best was talking about in the bathhouse? It's simply too inspiring."

"Buddy, in Mexico, anyone who becomes a boss is an inspiration, but that doesn't make it the right path. You never know when you could end up dead, your head kissing your ass, right?"

They chatted as they entered the prison, and the guards, seeing them return so early, even asked, "Casare, did the market women swindle all your money away?"

And what about Victor?

He didn't dare mock them; after all, they were bold enough to take on the Drug Lord of the Third District, so why not him?

Casare responded with a middle finger, a gesture universally understood.

As they parted ways in the dormitory, Victor gave him an extra two boxes of Colt bullets, reminding him to be careful and to shoot first if something seemed off.

Casare agreed, seeing how serious he was.

Back in his room, Victor opened his diary, suddenly remembering the story about that man Best had mentioned.

The legend of Fremont Holder.

Indeed, quite legendary.

...

Fremont Holder turned the tables on the bad guys; he, too, came from a tragic background, having decided to become a cop after drug traffickers killed his family.

But Mexican Police wouldn't dare mess with drug traffickers.

He figured out his own way, stormed into a gang's bar alone, and robbed $4000 worth of goods!

As of 1987 standards, in Mexico, it cost about "1200 pesos" to kill a person. Not a member of any organization, of course, but some half-grown kid off the streets would do it.

Of course, it's 1989 now, maybe the price went up, maybe it went down.

After all, society is in turmoil, welfare is cut, and everyone's struggling to survive.

But $4000 is enough to sell your soul.

In this world, interests come first. Even your best friends, your closest brothers, will forget everything when there's a conflict of interest. The human heart is complex; money can not only turn the mills of the gods but also grind them down.

But Holder had bargain-priced morals, harboring hatred, his eyes closed and he could see his parents and siblings demanding justice, asking why he didn't avenge them?

He couldn't sleep.

He thought that would be his life, perhaps rotting on some street, with some mortuary guy picking up his corpse, and then the world forgetting about him.

But he couldn't accept that!

He wanted revenge – since they were drug traffickers, he would fight fire with fire!

He had a flexible moral baseline.

This world is all about who's tougher, if you're not, you're not getting anywhere.

If he couldn't be remembered for a good life, then live notoriously.

Even on the Day of the Dead, someone might think of you.

He knew he needed allies, so he took a cab to the Condesa district. As soon as he entered the taxi, he took out his gun, and the cab driver immediately became compliant.

Looking at the neatly arranged houses around him, a trace of nostalgia flickered in his eyes. He once lived here.

With a limp, he followed the house numbers until he found number 27. The dog in the yard already smelled the visitor, barking incessantly.

A muscular man around 30 years old came out, silencing the dog with a shout, glimpsing the figure at the door, and instinctively tried to run back inside.

"Ryan, don't you recognize me?"

Holder took a step forward. Mixed with the dim light in front of the yard, the moonlight revealed his face.

The moment the muscleman saw him, his expression changed instantly. He hurried over, opened the door, "Holder! You're still alive?!"

```

"God doesn't need my soul," Holder said with a laugh, his voice hoarse. "I'm not dead."

"Come in quickly, don't let that damned Song Wu see you." Ryan seemed to think of something and dragged him into the house.

Song Wu was the neighbor who had killed his entire family.

Just by hearing the name, it was clear that his father was Vietnamese and his mother Mexican, a hybrid.

Ryan, on the other hand, was a friend he had grown up with, and their fathers were also close.

"You're still alive, that's great! I thought you..." Ryan, seeing his childhood friend, was obviously excited, even big men teared up, teeth clenched, "I knew it was your house that caught fire, and I found it strange, I went to report it to the police, but the police never came to see, they just said it was a fire, if it weren't for Song Wu drunkenly shouting in the street that he had killed you, I still wouldn't know that he was the murderer!"

"Later, my brother Arietta also went to report to the police, but they said Song Wu was talking nonsense while drunk, there's no evidence that he's the culprit."

Seeing that there were still people running around for him, Holder was also moved, "Where is Arietta?"

Ryan lowered his head, "Dead."

Holder was shocked, "How could that be?"

"He was hit by a cement mixer truck after school; the culprit went to jail, but I know it wasn't an accident."

Silence was the mournful song of powerlessness.

Tears are the most fundamental weakness of the weak.

"Song Wu!" Holder clenched his teeth, took a deep breath, and looked at Ryan, "Do you want revenge?"

Ryan suddenly looked up.

"I'm thinking of going solo and I need people. I know you served in the Mexican Army, and I want you to join."

"You want to become a drug trafficker?!" Ryan's complexion soured.

When Mexicans think of organization, they think of crime, and when they think of crime, it's drug traffickers, after all, it's close to a century-old history.

"Ryan, we can't change the world, we can't change Mexico; what we can do is survive. Don't you want revenge?"

"Mexico does not believe in the weak; those without a voice are doomed to be unaccepted. I don't want... to die in a gutter one day; when I close my eyes, all I think about is hatred, I need power!"

"I believe you will help me."

Ryan looked at him, mulled it over for a moment, and slowly nodded, "I trust you, you won't let me down."

Holder also looked at him, nodded earnestly, "I won't, let's first collect some interest, who else lives in his house here?"

"His mother."

"Kill her!"

"Shaina is a good person," Ryan hesitated.

"She's a good person? Then she should be sent to see God, God will definitely be happy to see a good person!"

Holder just wanted to collect some interest now, "Arietta was also a good person."

Ryan clenched his fists.

"Kill her!"

Holder's gaze was profound; he was just seeking a show of loyalty. He didn't distrust Ryan, but over the years he had seen through everything; all feelings were bullshit, just like the women the slum boys desperately chased, you spend a little money and you can get on.

Killing Song Wu's mother would mean Ryan was truly on the same side as himself.

Never be swayed by emotions.

If something goes wrong in Mexico, you're on a one-way street to death.

...

Victor had breakfast in the cafeteria and took his keys to go to the cell.

As he passed Stepan's "single cell," he saw the other man enjoying special care with a woman feeding him fruit, mouth to mouth.

"Bang bang bang~" Victor rapped the wall with his club, and inside, the comfortable Stepan looked up, the curse about his mother just about to slip out stopped short.

Dammit, how was this bastard not dead yet?

Hadn't the people of Sinaloa said they would take care of him?

"Surprised to see me, Mr. Stepan?" Victor opened the cell door, walked in, saw the sliced cactus fruit, casually took a piece, and spat the seeds on his face, enraging the other man who wanted to rise.

Victor pressed the club against his face, "Want another one?"

Remembering the painful sensation of the club hitting his body, Stepan ached all over, but his status and prestige wouldn't allow him to lose face, he toughed it out, "What good does it do to offend me?"

Victor smiled, "I'm making you understand the rules. In my territory, if you're a dragon, you have to coil up; if you're a tiger, you have to lie down. What about the greeting gift you promised me? You haven't topped it up, have you?"

As he spoke, the club slid down, pointing at his treasure.

"Here, I'll give it!" Frightened, he hastily agreed, this was not a place to get hurt.

Getting up from the bed, he walked over to the safe, yes, there was a safe, took out a stack of US dollars, and handed it to him.

This stack looked to be around 2,300 or so.

"Wouldn't it have been better to pay up sooner?"

Victor didn't shy away, taking whatever amount was given, and patted his shoulder, "Have fun slowly."

Before leaving, he even closed the door behind him.

Victor had only taken a couple of steps inside the district when he heard an unexpectedly deep voice.

"Aren't you afraid of offending him?"

Turning his head, he saw a gaunt middle-aged man sitting disheveled inside a cell, looking up with an eagle-like sharp gaze.

Victor blinked.

Immediately noticing the glowing points.

"1,078,000!"

"The Sicilian Falcon!!"

...


Capítulo 13: Chapter 13: Almost Blown to Death!

Units, Tens, Hundreds, Thousands, Tens of thousands, My Lords...

Victor's eyes were glued to the seven-digit points total; he really wanted to kill the disheveled middle-aged man in front of him!

But reason told him, buddy, calm down, you'd be riddled with bullets.

Perhaps he could think of a way to "bomb" Plateau Prison later...

Of course, that was if he had a bomber.

Just like the Cali Cartel wanted to bomb Pablo, but their plan went bankrupt because they lacked a bomber.

Stepan's 70,000 points were nothing compared to him.

But who could compare to Sicilian Falcon?

Those not familiar with the history of drug trafficking in Mexico might not know about this person, because he wasn't Mexican, but Cuban, born in Matanzas, Cuba in 1945. He joined the military and intelligence agencies in Miami, USA, playing the role of a double agent.

Later, he moved to Mexico, where he established a drug trafficking business in Tijuana State, with a network spreading through the United States, Europe, and even Asia. Known for his cold-bloodedness, he was dubbed "Drug Baron" and was said to enjoy killing his enemies with his own hands.

Equally talked about were his romantic affairs; he had rumors with several actresses and was said to have more than 20 sons. His little fanboy, the later legend, Joaquin Guzman, also learned from his "lustful" ways.

But the guy was too arrogant; he was bound for misfortune.

In 1975, he was arrested in his mansion in the Pedriguei colony of Mexico City, but escaped from jail a year later. His method was digging a tunnel, which later was successfully emulated by others, even being referenced in Hong Kong movies.

This fully demonstrates one point.

The soil of Mexico is very suited for digging holes.

Falcon, seeing that the other party didn't answer his questions, showed clear annoyance on his face and was about to scold the disrespectful young police officer when he heard the other say, "What are you talking about?"

Victor leaned against the door of his cell with a smile, "That's just a mad dog locked in a jail. The most important thing about coming out to the world is to understand, if it's not your territory, don't fucking act tough. I live by one rule, if someone is polite to me, I'm polite back. If they don't respect me..."

His smile faded; the whites under his eyes were plain to see, "Here, I am the police, he is the prisoner! I'll let him understand that killing him is as easy as killing a dog."

Falcon was amused by his words, "It's been a long time since anyone has spoken to me this way."

"You've been locked up for 13 years, things have changed, old geezer. Still trying to act tough with me? If you're so capable, try digging another tunnel and get out, let's see who dies first, you or me, who the fuck are you kidding?"

With Falcon's status, if he got out, he'd certainly be killed. He started his empire in Tijuana; you think Benjamin and Ramon, the two brothers, would let him retire peacefully?

He himself understood that the world no longer belonged to him; even though he was once one of the most powerful people, in the end, it's always the new waves that push out the old. His treatment in jail said it all.

Without anyone sending him money outside, his life in the Mexican Prison was worse than a dog's.

It seems... he's got no background anymore.

Victor looked at him with malice, contemplating whether to bribe the Warden to move him out. A couple of shots later, and those millions of points would be enough for him to swagger around for a while.

Falcon was about to spew out profanities, but on seeing that look in Victor's eyes, he swallowed them back down and sat on the bed with a dark face.

"Behave, and don't fucking cause trouble for yourself."

Victor tapped the jail bars with his baton and continued walking deeper in.

Actually, years ago, Falcon might have been a good big leg to lean on, but now... he's just dry bones in a tomb.

For someone with no value to exploit, death is the only welcome.

Besides drug traffickers, the Third District also housed government officials. When the Guadalajara Cartel fell, many unlucky ones were also imprisoned here, some of whom were even Victor's superiors.

Finally, in the cell marked "A11," Victor found his target. The thin, withered face wore a barely detectable cold indifference, and his heavy gaze seemed to penetrate your inner defenses.

The sinister expression instinctively gave one an unsettling feeling, reminding us who in this world can truly predict what's in his heart?

Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo!

A man born in a poor family in a small mountain village in Sinaloa, Mexico, once a state police officer and the personal bodyguard of a governor at age 17. Due to low wages, he joined the "Lion of Sinaloa," Aviles, in the 70s, offering his connections to protect the drug trafficking organization.

In 1978, when Aviles died during a drug raid, rumors had it that Gallardo betrayed his boss. Regardless, he became the new leader. Unlike his predecessor who only looked after a small turf, Gallardo had bigger ambitions and understood the concept of expanding into major cities.

He moved the organization to the second-largest city, Guadalajara; from there, a super drug trafficking organization was born, spanning the 1980s, monopolizing the US market with annual profits of 8 billion US Dollars.

He invented the "Plaza System" that brought all drug traffickers together.

What is the Plaza System, you ask?

It's where drug traffickers buy permits from the police of various regions to operate drug businesses, and anyone wishing to do business in that area must get the approval of the plaza boss.

This effectively entangled officials with the drug trade.

The protection umbrella continued to expand.

In 1981, with Reagan in office increasing the crackdown on drug smuggling, he closed the dangerous routes, the Caribbean Sea pathways, used by Colombian drug traffickers. Gallardo contacted the two major Colombian drug trafficking organizations, Medellin and Cali, through an intermediary and they hit it off immediately.

The Colombians airdropped cocaine to Mexico, and Gallardo would transport it by land to different warehouses across the United States within a week. During its peak, the California, USA, Guard Corps also played a part in the transportation line.

In the 1985 Camarena incident, he sold out his technician Quintero and business connection Tang Neito, passing through the ordeal by paying extra protection money. However, what brought his downfall was at the end of the 80s when, during a routine inspection, the Drug Enforcement Administration found drugs worth over 7 billion US Dollars in a warehouse in Hilma, California, USA.

```

Ironically, the safest thing in this warehouse was a lock worth 6 US dollars.

This was the largest single drug bust in the world, a record that still stands.

The 7 billion US dollars of drugs were the property of the Cali Cartel, and Gallardo, responsible for the shipment, had to compensate. Otherwise, do you think half of the stock would be so easy to take?

Colombians certainly won't pursue legal proceedings with you.

His protector, the Minister of Defense, immediately abandoned Gallardo. In an instant, he became a stray dog, which proves a point.

If gloves get dirty, just change them, but if power becomes dirty, then it's genuinely dirty.

This is also one of the reasons why Victor couldn't bear to take off his "police uniform."

Politics is indeed the most significant "nominal" power in the world. Maybe a drug lord can bribe the police to kill a congressman, but if I became president, I could declare that I'm pursuing greater interests.

After fighting for so long, Mexican drug traffickers still don't understand the principle of "having a justified cause." They simply resort to violence to solve problems.

As a newly emerged power, the Third District paid special attention to his detention. Apart from the necessary surveillance cameras, even his door was locked with two locks, and his bed was covered in US dollars, a quirk of his.

Sitting at the head of the bed watching TV, perhaps aware of his current situation, Gallardo's complexion wasn't looking good.

Victor stood at the door and glanced at the monitor, not conversing with Gallardo. What's your status now, compared to his?

He was accustomed to entering and exiting the residences of high officials, meeting governors, and mayors.

Would you now approach a mere jail guard and say, "I want to cling to your coattails"?

They certainly wouldn't give you the time of day.

It seems that I need to "create" an opportunity.

Victor took a deep look at him and turned to leave. Hearing the sound of footsteps, Gallardo turned his head, only to see a retreating figure.

Walking back to his office, he was about to unlock the door when he suddenly remembered he hadn't patrolled the armory. Just as he took two steps back, a huge explosion, accompanied by a shockwave, sent him flying out. He rolled on the ground twice and leaned against the wall, gasping heavily for air.

A raging fire erupted in the office, and the iron door was blasted off, lying twisted to one side. The noise was deafening; in an instant, alarms rang throughout the Third District, and then the entire prison.

A bomb!

Fuck your mother!

Someone wanted to blow me up.

Screaming colleagues rushed out, some with fire extinguishers, others escaping in a sorry state, the entire floor was in chaos.

...

The fire was quickly extinguished.

Victor sat on the steps of the green space downstairs, smoking a cigarette, hands slightly trembling.

Let's be honest, who the hell isn't scared?

His ears were still buzzing.

"Victor."

Casare ran over anxiously, holding his shoulder and giving him a thorough look-over, "How are you feeling? Need to go to the hospital?"

This was the God of Wealth; if he just died like that, where would he go to make his fortune?

"Someone wants to kill me."

Victor took a deep breath, pinching his cigarette between his thumb and index finger, slightly tilting his head back as he exhaled smoke, "Can't go to the hospital."

He looked around cautiously, lowering his voice, "And there's definitely a mole in the district, otherwise how could such a bomb have been brought in?"

"Who do you suspect?" Casare asked softly, equally nervous.

Victor's gaze swept over his colleagues and suddenly caught Anna glancing at him from the corner of her eye. When she saw him looking, she conspicuously turned away, hugging a colleague and offering comfort.

That bitch is suspicious.

Victor was a person of small tolerance for offenses; if you wronged him, letting it go was out of the question. Anna definitely knew something!

He nodded slightly, and Casare followed his gaze, "Anna?"

"You know her?"

"I know all the women from the psychology intervention department. I've wanted to get with them for a long time."

Victor nearly laughed out loud at that, covering his chest and coughing twice.

"I've checked the files of every one of them. This Anna has a brother, a college student. But I heard he's also a delinquent."

"Get Best to dig deep into this. I want to know who wants me dead!"

```


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