Working as a police officer in Mexico

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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?

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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?!"

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"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!!"

...