Working as a police officer in Mexico

Victor was still sitting in the meeting room, smoking a cigarette.

Half a stick, couldn't be wasted.

He had just stuffed the cigarette butt into the ashtray and was about to stand up when Jason Bourne burst in with a grave expression.

"Boss!"

It had been a long time since Victor had seen that expression on his face.

"What's up?"

"A mole from the Mexico International News Department said that Juarez, Gulf Group, and Sinaloa are planning to merge!"

Victor hastily took the document from his hand and listened as Jason Bourne continued, "And, they're said to be planning to form a new organization in alliance with the big drug traffickers from Colombia."

"They're planning to circle the wagons."

"According to the intel we've collected, it's confirmed that Aguilar has been away from Mexico for a while, but where exactly he went is still under investigation."

Victor nodded. It would be odd if the Mexican drug cartels weren't uniting; to put it bluntly, when on one-on-one terms, which organization could take on Victor nowadays?

He'd beat the shit out of you, then shove it right back in your mouth.

Can't beat 'em, join 'em. Hasn't it always been this way since ancient times?

But the merger of the three big heads, and also in alliance with the Colombians, did indeed make Victor feel that Guzman and the others deserved to be called big drug traffickers.

How could someone who rose from a small village in Sinaloa to become a world-renowned big drug trafficker possibly be a fool?

"Where's Ethan Hunt?"

Jason Bourne's face twisted oddly, "He took a year's leave to go traveling."

"What kind of traveling? Get back here and work overtime!"

"Have him take some people to Colombia to establish a branch of the Mexico International News Department. I want to know what color underwear Pablo is wearing today. Bring more people, don't starve him."

Now having plenty of hands on deck, Victor returned and transformed the Mexico International News Department from a "shabby little department" of 40 people into a "big group" of 400, infusing it with an additional 30 million US Dollars and equipping it with a range of military hardware.

The model he referred to was that of the CIA, more professional in scope.

Later, he planned to develop "external personnel," maybe really showing the CIA the shock of an overseas intelligence agency!

The rest of the staff, now numbering 1,000 in the "Logistics Department," included ground crews, armament technicians, tank mechanics, vehicle mechanics, aircraft mechanics, and shipyard workers.

He also covertly set up a small squadron of 15 pilots.

All those people cost nearly 600 million points, mainly technicians involved in intelligence, maintenance, and flying. Cheap? Hardly.

Especially the pilots; the U.S.

Military's cost to train a basic combat pilot ranged from 5.6 million US Dollars for an F-16 to 10.9 million for an F-22; bomber pilots also required considerable investment, ranging from 7.3 million for a B-1 to 9.7 million for a B-52, while command, control, intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance operation pilots (like RC-135) cost about 5.5 million per pilot.

Even if pandas fell from grace, pilots remained a precious asset, seldom traded in the market. And even if they didn't fly military, they could fly commercial. Who would come to work for the Mexican Police?

The organization still wasn't big enough!

Victor still had some slots open but wasn't in a rush to fill them.

Too expensive!

"Report this to the DEA!" Victor thought for a while and decided to drag the giants into the fray. His intuition told him this battle wouldn't be simple!

Although several countries lay between Mexico and Colombia, what if the military leaders in those countries were all roped in by the drug traffickers? Then what?

"Have the finance department discuss it again, improve the welfare benefits for the police, hire up to the full 15,000 people of the National Guard. If it's not enough, go out and recruit, post job notices at the military bases. Be sure to have the quota filled by the end of September."

"Boss, I think we could let Best go to Vietnam to find some people; it seems there's still a war going on there," Jason Bourne suggested.

Victor squinted his eyes, gazing into the distance without uttering a word. After pondering for a moment, he shook his head, "We'll talk about that later."

Jason Bourne nodded and stepped out of the meeting room. Reaching the corner, he picked up the hanging telephone, dropped in coins, dialed the number, and after two rings, the call was answered.

"Hello~" Ethan Hunt's relaxed voice rang out.

Jason Bourne, listening to the sound of waves and women's laughter coming from the other end, felt a twitch in the corner of his eye. Damn it, I'm working overtime and he's having the time of his life.

"It's me, Jason. Where are you?"

"Oh~ I'm at Lake Tahoe in Nevada, oh damn! Honey, could you put some clothes on? OMG, your booty is so firm."

Jason Bourne was infuriated. "CNMD! Ethan Hunt, the boss says you need to roll back here and work overtime!"

"Are you joking? I'm on annual leave, still got 10 days left," said Ethan Hunt on the other end, hastily.

"Annual leave can be canceled!"

"If you don't come back, I'll send you off to Siberia," Jason said with a vengeful glee in his voice. "You don't want to be planting potatoes in the snow and ice, do you?"

Ethan Hunt let out a wail, "You're exploiting your employee."

"Yes! Buddy, please report back by tomorrow at six in the evening, or you can kiss your performance bonus goodbye!" and with that, he hung up.

Listening to the dial tone, Ethan Hunt cursed.

A girl then pressed up against him, covering his face with hers, "Darling, who was on the phone?"

Ethan Hunt was nearly suffocated, "A frustrating virgin!"

The bikini-clad girl looked puzzled but laughed heartily.

...

It was late at night.

Tijuana was lively once more in the evening.

The recent "Drug War" had dampened nightlife for two or three days, but the vibrancy quickly returned.

The city hall couldn't sustain military rule indefinitely, for it wouldn't collect any taxes that way.

In the city's most northwestern 13th district, with its complicated mix of people, an average of one murder occurred every 20 hours, a robbery every 17 hours, and a theft every 27 minutes.

A lot of scum had gathered here; of course, not everyone was rubbish.

There were also people trying hard to live.

Thump thump thump...

The sound of the basketball striking the ground was crisp, and there on an outdoor basketball court, about a dozen black men were playing basketball, surrounded by dozens of spectators, and a few... tough girls?

One of the black men attempted a slam dunk, hanging from the rim, but the ball bounced out and didn't go in, which prompted hissing and laughter from those nearby.

That black man's face turned awkward, and he waved to his teammates.

Meanwhile, the basketball rolled over to a trash bin where a frail old woman was rummaging through the garbage, with a skinny little boy standing behind her, carrying a woven bag and small in stature.

"Hey! Toss the basketball over here." The man who attempted the dunk called out twice. The little boy, timidly responding, grabbed the basketball and threw it with all his might, but didn't throw it very far due to lack of strength.

"Useless!" The man shouted an insult, walked over to pick up the basketball, and with a frown looked at the little boy. Listening to the laughter from the audience nearby, he lost his temper and threw the basketball at the boy. Continue your journey on empire

Peng!

The little boy was struck and knocked to the ground. The old woman, who was picking through trash, quickly stood up, turned around, and hurried to help her grandson to his feet.

Black people's minds... you can never tell what they're thinking!

"Grandma!" The little boy, crying, clutched at the old woman's arm, his body shaking in fear as he curled up into a ball.

"Shh! James, you're bullying a kid now," someone in the crowd taunted.

"I'm not!"

The dunking black man gave the heckler a glare, walked over to pick up the basketball, and just then noticed the bills poking out of the old woman's pocket. His eyes lit up, and he snatched them away!

"This... this is my money, my money!" The old woman reached out frantically, but the black man raised his hands and she couldn't reach it.

"Please, give it back to me, I need to buy medicine for my grandson! Please," she begged.

The old woman cried out, even knelt on the ground begging him not to mock the poor, but her behavior failed to elicit any sympathy from him and instead drew laughter from those around.

"Go on, kneel some more, hahaha, kneel some more!" the black man mocked.

"Don't bully my grandma!" The little boy, eyes red, charged with sudden strength, wrapped himself around the black man's leg and bit down hard!

In pain, the man yelled and slapped the boy to the ground. As he pulled up his pants leg, he saw two teeth marks, furiously kicked the boy, and the old woman quickly embraced the child.

A kick landed on the boy's back, almost knocking the breath out of him.

The black man, still unsatisfied, kicked furiously and cursed.

Seeing it wasn't right, someone shouted, "James, stop hitting him, you gonna kill him?" and came forward to pull him away.

"I wanna beat him to death, don't hold me back, he dared to bite me, do you know who I am? Scum, do you know who I run with?"

"In the 12th District, I can kill a man and not be responsible!"

"Grandma! Grandma!" The little boy wailed as he lay on top of the old woman.

That sound... it was disturbing to hear.

Squeal~

Suddenly, the sound of tires screeching against the pavement rang out, and raising their heads, they saw a police van halt just outside the basketball court, with a man stepping out.

"Cops are here, let's go, James." A companion tugged at him.

"What's there to be afraid of with cops."

"Are you an idiot? Cops aren't the scary ones, Victor is!"

At the mention of that name, James flinched and was just about to leave when Svet, on patrol, called out, "Freeze!"

But the black man, sensing trouble, didn't listen.

Beng!

A gunshot rang out and James, clutching his leg, rolled on the ground, howling in pain, while the others, terrified, stood still at once.

"Who among you thinks they can outrun my bullets?" Svet bared his teeth, glanced at the old woman in the distance and told another officer, "Check on her."

"James Raymond, alias: Fist Cars, a street punk from the 12th District, with 7 robbery charges, 17 incidents of fighting, and 2 rape charges. He also had a brief stint with drug trafficking," Piet read from a register in his hand, which held up-to-date criminal records and a photo.

"How can he still be out after doing all that? Who's got your back?" Svet asked with furrowed brows.

But all James did was wail.

"Boss... It's no use, she's been kicked to death." A different officer reported after checking on the elderly woman.

Svet immediately erupted in anger.

"Shotgun!"

An officer behind him handed over a Winchester Defender 1300 shotgun, and Svet cocked the gun and shot James in the head while he was down!

Still not satisfied, he cocked the gun again and shot once more!

The head was obliterated...

"Damn it, who does James run with?" Svet shouted at a nearby black woman, who had a nose ring and a tattoo on her face that read: Al diablo conmigo!(F**k me!)

The black woman was so scared she was trembling, unable to comprehend the question.

Svet shot her as well...

The hit exploded her apart where she stood.

"Who does James run with! Answer me!" He continued to question another person.

"Don't... don't kill me! Please, don't kill me!"

"Answer me! Bastard!"

"He's with Felix Hills, 'The Locomotive' from the 12th District!"

Bong!

Svet's shot blasted his head apart, and after standing stiff momentarily, the corpse fell heavily backward.

"Thank you!"

Svet, looking around at the trembling audience, flashed a grin, "Any of you running with the syndicate?"

...