Working as a police officer in Mexico

Anna had just finished her "business" and came back to take a shower. She frowned at the sight of her bruised reflection in the mirror, taking a deep breath.

Drug lords have a taste for the more exotic pleasures.

In the United States, certain things would have to be censored, you know. Even Kennedy, when he was shot, his brains didn't receive this sort of treatment.

In places like Latin America, the only way for a woman to get ahead is to get "fucked over." Do you think there are many people like the world's number one female drug trafficker, the Colombian "Black Widow" Blanco?

There's only one woman who has managed to establish herself in the crime world dominated by men and is respectfully called the "Godmother" by numerous drug lords.

Just talking about one thing she did is enough to instill fear; she personally killed her three husbands. Just on this point alone, many women can't even begin to compare.

If you're not ruthless, how can you expect to stand firm?

Why is there no feminism in places like Mexico and India?

Because they really do hit women.

Most women end up like Anna, the pretty ones kept by wealthy men, descending into tools for drug lords to vent, the ugly ones, standing on the street corner for 20 pesos a pop.

In a dangerous social environment, women, like money, are merely tools for transactions.

Anna had just finished her shower when she noticed a male jail guard peering through the door.

"What are you looking at?" She assumed he was another lecherous one, wrapped in a towel, leaning against the wall. She casually picked up a cigarette from the table and put it in her mouth, "If you want to look, pay up."

"There's a phone call for you in the duty room," the jail guard said while gazing at Anna's leg and swallowing hard but also knowing this woman was out of his league—and most importantly, too expensive for his salary even just to get a touch at the door.

Anna took a drag of her cigarette, pulled the towel up a bit, and pushed past the guard. She was pragmatic: why bother talking to you if you don't have money?

She walked to the duty room and picked up the desk phone receiver, casually sitting down on the chair and propping her legs on the table. The jail guard who followed her in couldn't help but sweep his eyes over her a few times.

"Who is this!"

Suddenly, Anna sat up straight, frowning.

"You don't need to worry about who I am. If you don't want your brother to die, come to the warehouse outside the prison. Don't think about bringing anyone..." The voice on the other end of the phone was obviously disguised, and they hung up without waiting for a response.

Anna's face darkened, and she slammed the receiver back onto the phone base with force.

"Do you need help?" The jail guard leaned in, taking a bold chance to ask.

But she dismissed him outright, picking up the phone again to dial a number. As soon as it connected, she said anxiously, "My brother has been kidnapped."

So, you expect me not to call anyone?

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You think I'm a fucking idiot?

If I don't call anyone, wouldn't I be walking into a slaughter?

Anna had entered the world at an early age and had seen too much to not call for backup when she had it. Why join a gang if you can't rely on them?

As for whether it would cost her brother's life?

Well, she had to ensure her own survival first.

...

Bang!

A loud noise echoed in the sky.

Standing by the warehouse, Victor smoked calmly, watching the distant "thunder." A beam of high light shone through the glass, casting more shadows on his cool face.

"They're here!" Casare rushed out with an umbrella in hand.

Best, stepping out of the passenger seat, dragged a man from the back of the car and into the warehouse.

"Boss."

Best voluntarily pointed at Duke, "This is my best buddy, and the guy I brought to help."

On the way there, it was clear he'd briefed Duke, who rather awkwardly called out to Victor as the boss.

"We're all brothers here, no need for such formalities," Victor said, smiling, his jowls quivering. He glanced at the man tied up hands behind and stuffed with something in his mouth... Was that a sock?

"Toss him in the crate."

Duke nodded, hoisting the man and stuffing him into a large wooden crate beside them. He then put a finger to his lips, signaling for silence, "Behave, or I'll sell you off to Africa to become a gay prostitute."

Watching the crate lid slowly close, the man's eyes filled with despair.

Duke dusted off his hands as he walked out, then heard Victor saying, "I've already said what I had to over the phone. Someone's out to kill me, and that cuts off our cash flow. I'm a reasonable man; whoever tries to kill me, I kill them!"

He talked while pulling out a suitcase from the corner and sticking a cigarette in his mouth.

"Open it."

Duke reacted quickly, unzipping it to reveal four Uzi submachine guns lying quietly inside, with more than a dozen magazines alongside, all filled with 9×19mm bullets. Based on a 20-round cartridge, there were at least 200 bullets here.

"Someone doesn't want us to have a good life," Victor stamped out the cigarette butt under his foot, spreading his hands, "What do you think we should do?"

"Then we take them out," Best said.

"They want us dead, so I want their entire family dead. Each person grabs a gun, and if the person who comes in isn't a woman, then fucking spray them for me," Victor said, picking up an Uzi and pulling the bolt, "In this life, it's all about who's the most ruthless. Today, even if Jesus himself shows up, I'm gonna have to put a few bullets in his head."

Seeing his orders given, Best and the others promptly filled their pockets with magazines and hid at four predetermined points.

About fifteen minutes later, two Chevrolets drove up from the distance, their passengers making no attempt to hide their tracks, evidently accustomed to swaggering about.

Parked outside the warehouse.

Six or seven people got out of the cars.

"You just sit tight. I want to see who's got the nerve to mess with our Juarez crew," said the leader, a burly man dressed in dark green camouflage fatigues, speaking to Anna inside the car.

"Be careful, Anman."

The man pulled a pistol from his waist; his underlings drew their weapons, too. The big company was different—almost everyone was armed.

An Astra 357 police revolver—by its name, you could tell it was the exclusive property of the police department. The Spanish Astra Company manufactured it for the Mexican Preventive Police Department. But ironically enough, the police never used it; the drug traffickers got their hands on it first.

Accompanied by his men, Anman entered the warehouse. Noticing how dark it was inside, his brow furrowed, sensing that something was off. Just as he was about to warn his men, "Something's not right..."

Victor, who was hiding on the second floor's cross bridge, stood up and, brandishing a Woods submachine gun, opened fire. It was as if that was the signal, and Duke and the others attacked from both sides.

It was like mowing down wheat.

In an instant, four or five men were downed.

Together, the three men had 80 bullets. To take down six or seven from the high ground... did they think they were Ultraman?

Inside the car, hearing the gunshots, Anna's face turned pale, she frantically shuffled into the driver's seat and fumbled with the gear shift. But she'd never learned to drive—learning how to cost money, and the little she earned she was loath to spend on driving lessons.

And now...

The car spun in place like a top.

When Duke emerged with his Uzi, he thought the others were trying to escape. He swapped magazines and sprayed bullets, shattering the car's rear windshield and scattering glass everywhere, scaring Anna into letting go of the steering wheel and covering her head as she screamed loudly.

As it turned out, in the face of fear, most girls only knew how to scream.

Best came out too, signaling Duke with a glance, and the two slowly moved around in a pincer formation—a quality of combat, evident in both the cop and the veteran soldier.

Seeing Anna trembling inside, Best yanked the car door open and dragged her out by her hair.

The woman screamed and struggled, but she couldn't stir the slightest bit of sympathy from him.

After his entire family had perished and he found himself stuck in the slums, Best had realized something: Mexico was a ruthless place. He had been bullied in the past and hadn't dared to fight back because he needed to survive, but now that it was his turn to dish it out, why should he show mercy?

He slammed her onto the ground with force and Anna started crying softly.

"Buddy, you gotta be a gentleman when dealing with ladies. It's all about being reasonable," Duke said.

Hearing a familiar voice, Anna abruptly looked up, her tears retracting in fear, "Victor."

"Good evening, Anna. I'm sorry to invite you like this, but I just need to know who put the bomb in my office," Victor said.

"I don't know, it wasn't me, please let me go, Victor," Anna pleaded, extending her hands to cling to Victor's leg, only to be pulled back by Best grabbing her hair.

Upon hearing her denial, Victor wasn't surprised at all. Without applying some pressure, how would she talk?

He smiled, stuffed a chocolate into his mouth, and nonchalantly tapped the tip of his nose with his forefinger, "You're making it hard for me."

No sooner had he spoken than he stomped on Anna's face, grinding his foot against it as he glared, "You fucking bitch, I gave you a chance and you blew it. Alright, bring out her brother."

Casare acknowledged the order and rushed back into the warehouse, dragging her brother out with him.

When the latter saw Anna, hope for life sparked in his eyes, and he made a mournful sound from his throat.

"All your brother does is deal drugs at his age!"

"There's no future in being a drug trafficker!"

"Let him have a taste first," Victor ordered.

Best retrieved a firefighter's axe from the trunk of his car, a handy thing he had "picked up" from the street, pinned down Anna's brother's hand, raised the axe, and brought it down!

"Ah!"

Amidst the agonizing screams and cries, Best lifted his foot and the brother writhed in pain on the ground.

Victor crouched down, yanked Anna's hair back, "My patience is limited. Tell me, who was it?"

Anna shook her head, just crying.

Victor laughed. It had been a while since he'd met such a tough nut, "Take off two more fingers!"

"No..." Anna hastily cried, but Best, with a vicious smile, chopped off another of her brother's fingers. He used so much force that a finger even flew in front of her. Anna hugged the severed digit and cried out loud as if she'd lost her mind.

"I've already taken off four, there are six left. But I can't promise I won't chop your brother's head off next time," Victor said, his tone growing darker.

Finally, Anna's psychological defenses collapsed.

She cried as if her heart was breaking.

But in this line of work, one had to understand what it meant to die an untimely death.

And look how fiercely she was crying now, but when it came to how she usually treated others...

"It was Stepan Blanquart! You hit him, he wants Victor dead, wants him blown up—that's the only way he'd be satisfied!"

...