Working as a police officer in Mexico

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When in doubt, use an RPG!

After one shot, I could even feel the entire arcade shaking violently; a hole was blasted through the wall, turning it into a dangerous building.

The violent demolition partner.

"Charge in!"

Ryan carefully set down the launcher—this thing was for sale, and even a scratch could decrease its value.

I like employees who take care of company property.

Juan, brandishing a submachine gun, rushed in, shouting something unintelligible in his excitement. The arcade was filled with dust—getting in his eyes, it stung fiercely, forcing him to stop and rub his eyes. Suddenly, he was slammed by a massive force.

A member of the Mexican beheading gang, his hair soaked with blood mixed with dust and eyes red with rage, was strangling Juan with both hands.

Caught off guard for a moment, Juan quickly recovered. Used to fighting dirty on the streets, he thrust his right knee upward with all his force.

He struck directly at the man's vulnerable spot.

Feeling the grip on his neck loosen, Juan turned the tables, grabbed the attacker's head, and punched him in the eye, causing the man to howl in pain.

The gunmen who followed him in pinned the attacker to the ground, smashing his face against the floor.

Limping over, Holder crouched down, grabbed the man's hair to examine his face, and pulled out a photo to compare. "Marcelo Martinez?"

Number three in the Mexican beheading gang, nicknamed "Hound."

A vicious and cunning man.

But these types of descriptions apply to almost every Mexican drug trafficker; anyone less than vicious is already underground, serving as fertilizer.

"Where is Andrea?" Ryan asked in a stern voice.

Marcelo was clearly tough, his entire face distorted from the pull on his hair and his eyes swollen like buns. Hearing the question, he let out a deep, dry laugh from his throat, "I know who you are."

"Trying to save him? I've already buried him alive!"

Ryan, his face concealed by a hood, giving no hint of emotion, stared coldly and punched Marcelo directly in the teeth with such force that they broke off.

Marcelo clutched his mouth in pain.

"Knock his teeth out; I really hate tough guys!" Ryan said to Juan, who nodded, took the butt of his gun, and smashed it against Marcelo's mouth.

A row of teeth came loose.

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The excruciating pain caused Marcelo to twitch uncontrollably. Juan ordered some men to hold him down, raised the gunstock, and seeing the fear finally emerge in the man's eyes, struck him hard.

How many true tough guys are there in the world?

If there were, they'd use their bones as screwdrivers.

Marcelo tried to hold out, but after the second blow, he couldn't take it anymore and confessed immediately.

"Andrea is in the bathroom inside..."

Ryan nodded at Juan, who led two gunmen into the bathroom. Soon, they dragged out Andrea, beaten to the point of being nearly unrecognizable.

"Kill him!"

One of the gunmen pulled out a dagger, grinned menacingly, and pressed Marcelo's head down. Realizing he was about to die, Marcelo struggled intensely, but it was in vain. He was stabbed through the neck, his eyes' light fading instantly.

He fell to the ground, convulsing with violence.

Ryan and his men scanned the arcade several times, finding the other leaders of the Mexican beheading gang. Their luck was worse; the RPG blast tore them apart.

Did you think everyone was Schwarzenegger? That they could escape an RPG in time?

Even if you were Iron Man, you'd still get a hole punched through you.

The Islaparolada district is now quiet.

The people have all fled.

As Ryan and his team left, he heard a whistle and ran over to Holder.

Holder turned his head, "Tough job, all clean?"

"They're all dead, I've made sure of it," said Ryan.

"Cut off their heads and throw them in the middle of the street. From now on, the new generation of Mexico will call the shots here!"

Even Holder felt a surge of excitement, taking over the Islaparolada district signified that the organization had entered the "sustainable development" phase; they would be the reigning Emperor Emeritus here.

If the police wanted to search, the new generation of Mexico would have the right to enforce local law and order.

"Increase the gunmen to 30. We can start implementing the plan we talked about before, find a warehouse to turn into a vocational school. Recruit students aged 19, no salary before graduation, but provide food and accommodation."

This damn capitalist dog. But he's a man of conscience; he didn't invent something called "regulated training." Think about it, if you plan to join a gang, you have to pay to learn here for two days, with three years of unpaid internship...

See if your followers won't work you to death.

"How long to study?"

"Three weeks should be enough for them to learn how to shoot and fire RPGs."

How long does cannon fodder need to be trained?

A vocational school, to learn non-essential things like math and English?

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"There's one more thing, very important."

Holder turned his head, looking at them, and Ryan quickly leaned in, "Just say we've got a batch of Soviet weapons."

He was planning to be a second-tier dealer!

"Got it," Ryan nodded in understanding.

"I remember the Mexican beheading gang still has quite a few relatives around here? I'm leaving this to you, Victor doesn't like it when things are dragged out till the next day."

"I'll make them shut up forever," Ryan said fiercely.

...

The sun rose as usual.

Sitting in the restaurant having his meal, Victor held a newspaper, a hobby of his.

In an edition of the Chimalhuacán Times, he noticed an article about the Islaparolada district, accompanied by a blurred picture that still distinctly showed a figure with an Uzi submachine gun, exuding a bandit's aura.

It seemed like this was the buyer Best had found?

Gangs will be gangs, none too elegant.

There was also a tabloid journalist on that street at the time.

But the shot wasn't good enough, the angle off.

"Victor."

Casare trotted over, sweating slightly from the lack of exercise, an odor detectable on him.

He was visibly excited, speaking in a hushed tone, "We've got business. Someone contacted Best this morning wanting to buy from us, a large quantity. They want 100 AK47s and 100,000 rounds of ammunition, they even specifically asked for 10 RPGs and 20 grenades."

On hearing this, Victor couldn't help but look up, "Who wants that many guns? Are they planning to form a rebellion?"

All those weapons could wage a small war.

Even the small guerrilla groups in Afghanistan fighting the Soviet Union didn't have that many weapons, and Victor's first reaction was disbelief.

But then again, this was the magical world of Latin America, what's impossible?

One saying sums up this place: Mines are everywhere, wealth is procured through the barrel of a gun.

Arms dealing is sensitive in nature. The sound of that RPG echoed over two kilometers yesterday, and there could be spies for the big drug traffickers all over the district.

Perhaps the drug lords hadn't slept at all last night, eager to find out exactly what had happened.

"Which organization?"

Casare glanced around mysteriously, "Sinaloa."

"Pff, cough, cough, cough..."

Victor choked, his face turning red, "Palma?"

Casare nodded excitedly, "They say they're at war with Tijuana, their enemy torched two of their plantations. Palma is furious and wants retaliation. It's a matter of life and death on both sides now."

Oh?

Fighting for turf?

Arms dealers love to profit from disorder.

Sinaloa is a massive enterprise, making more in a year than some of the Fortune 500. Otherwise, why do you think Guzmán could rise straight to the ranks of the world's richest after Palma died?

"They've sent someone, wanting to meet us on Isla Parolada Street."

So urgent?

Seems like the situation is serious.

Victor was cunning, "Let's not hurry, let's eat first, Cavanis help Casare with his food."

A jail guard sitting not too far responded.

Seeing Victor so composed, Casare, although antsily anxious inside, managed to calm down.

Boss Gao was, of course, thinking about jacking up the prices.

If not now, when else to raise the selling price?

You wait for people to be cremated before selling coffins, you wait for guests to leave before pouring drinks.

As for offending the other party?

Fuck that!

Is your dad named Jesus?

Even Jesus would have to pay!

"Do we know who's coming?"

"Joaquín Guzmán Loera!"

...