Working as a police officer in Mexico

Chimalhuacán, warehouse.

Ryan placed a box on the table with both hands, and next to it were neatly arranged dozens of magazines. Under the curious gazes of a dozen pairs of eyes, he pried it open to reveal the grenades lying silently inside.

"Everyone come up and take two grenades, four magazines. Sergio, Maximo, Alfredo, and Juan, you switch to Uzi submachine guns,"

Ryan was always straightforward with his tasks, pointing to four people who had recently performed well and handing them the Uzi submachine guns.

Shooting is just like fucking; you just need to know how to disengage the safety and pull the trigger. It's not like it requires any education. Do you need a college graduate to shoot a gun?

A 14-year-old kid and a 40-year-old middle-aged man can fire bullets just as deadly.

"Tonight we're going to attack the base camp of the Mexican beheading gang, the Sakaburanka Japanese Cuisine, and an arcade," Ryan had dug to the bottom of it.

Information is cheap; you just get someone to ask around.

Ryan looked at the gunmen below, all of them were spirited, even flushed with excitement—a classic case of an adrenaline high.

They had been through firefights before, but taking guns to seize territory was a rare encounter.

Perhaps, the emergence of Mexico's new generation will make the struggle for territory among ordinary gangs even more brutal and bloody.

Let those penny-pinching talkers see if you don't have enough guns under your command, just wait to get beaten.

Holder stood with his arms crossed to the side and watched, "It's about time to take them out for a spin."

"Yeah, they've trained for a few days and have seen blood before," Ryan nodded.

Holder placed a briefcase on the table, turned it upside down and out spilled stacks of Peso bills floating in the air, deeply stimulating the gunmen's nerves.

"This is for you, a total of 6000 Pesos. Once you take down Islaparolada district, the money is yours to split. Field expenses are on top,"

Holder was truly generous.

He believed in one thing: "Money drives action."

Most importantly, Holder's ambitions were growing by the day.

He needed more territory.

Only then would his organization of Mexico's new generation be on a more lucrative path!

"Rest assured, this money won't get lost. As soon as you break through, it'll be paid out immediately,"

The excitement was palpable; even the regular army would get a couple of slaps now, and if Jesus showed up without offering a drink, did he really think he could leave?

Ryan stepped forward, pressing down their restlessness, stirring them up further.

"Young people are easy to incite." Ryan looked at the young gunmen and sighed. Every profession had an age limit. To be honest, if you're over 40 in a crime organization, you either climb up the ranks or you retire clean.

Business people of any kind prefer 18-year-olds because they don't care about the consequences—typical of someone who feeds only himself without worrying about anyone else. Those even younger, if you talk to them the wrong way, they're truly willing to stab you with a knife.

"Tonight, we'll plant our flag high!" Holder responded.

"Let me get you something good." Holder went back to the office and came out with a violin case.

"What's this?"

"I bought it from Best."

Ryan was already curious about what was inside. As he peeked through a crack and saw what was inside, his eyes widened instantly.

"Fuck!" he blurted out a curse.

"May God bless us to kill those bastards tonight, Amen," Holder prayed with open eyes.

Jesus would have found this scene rather chaotic.

...

Mexico is livelier at night than during the day.

If you really don't believe it, go to Mexico for a visit. If you see a group of three or five people standing around talking, just walk up and tap one of them on the shoulder. In Spanish, say, "Vete a la mierda!"

Remember, you must speak Spanish, the official language of Mexico. If you speak English, some of them haven't had an education and might not understand you.

After that, you'll know what it feels like to be shot full of holes.

In the evening, as the sun sets, the prostitutes start their shift.

Everywhere there were scantily clad girls and tattooed gang members patrolling around to see if anyone was disturbing the peace.

The new generation of gunmen from Mexico rode in two sedans, the spoils of war they had snatched after killing Anna, heading toward the Islaparolada district.

The straight-line distance was about 7 kilometers, but it took them about 30 minutes to get there by car after a lot of driving around.

A Japanese cuisine restaurant, outfitted with luxury lightness and transparent glass, allowed visibility inside where people were seated. There were few customers—what poor person would eat Japanese food?

The poor went to eat at the army hot pot places, after all, it's a big hodgepodge.

Inside sat more than a dozen characters who looked like they shouldn't be messed with, with several openly snorting powder. Money and guns lay on the table.

The cars drove past, and Ryan, sitting in the passenger seat, leaned out, pulled the pin from a grenade and rolled it through the open door.

Boom!

All the surrounding glass was shattered into pieces, and pedestrians on the sidewalk screamed, covering their ears, while experienced vendors crawled quickly to the ground and left the area in a prone, low position.

Holder, wearing a hood, pushed open the car door, got out with his men, stood at the entrance, and sprayed the interior with his Uzi. Click—the gun ran out of bullets and jammed. The gunmen following him rushed in with their handguns.

Holder, after reloading his magazine, walked into the Japanese restaurant, where those dozen or so people from before now lay on the ground. He took out some photos from his pocket, compared them and then said to his guy, "Not a single one, kill them all."

The gunmen nodded and executed any who were still breathing with a direct shot to the head.

Time to delete the account and start over.

"Let's go, to the arcade!"

The fight here was easy, one grenade solved everything, but the arcade was not so simple. The space inside was large, and if a grenade was thrown inside without killing everyone, only the unlucky players would get blown away.

What does this illustrate?

Playing games can lead to accidents.

Members of the Mexican beheading gang were countering with the help of machines because the entrance was very narrow, and they didn't dare charge in.

If their reinforcements arrived, they would truly be fucked.

"Juan, open that thing up!" Ryan yelled at a gunman nearby, who gestured an OK, squatted down, opened the small violin case, and revealed an RPG-7 rocket launcher inside.

The other gunmen were stunned.

We're a gang fight, not counter-terrorism by the regular army, right?

Even if they'd never used it, they'd seen it before, often on TV. American soldiers had to yell, "R~P~G!" before firing, as if the damn projectile wouldn't explode if they didn't shout.

Ryan had never used this thing before, but saw there was an instruction manual underneath. He picked it up, "Fuck, isn't there one in Spanish?"

"Boss, it looks like you just shove the projectile into the front hole, there's a drawing here." Juan pointed to a small human figure drawn in the instructions.

"Hurry up and load it for me."

Juan took out a rocket and shoved it into the front hole following the drawings, while Ryan pressed down with his thumb, cocking the hammer and pushing out the safety catch to the left.

The Soviets are pretty meticulous.

The illustrations were clear.

That's for people who can't read.

"Don't stand behind me! Move!" Ryan pushed Juan aside, took a deep breath, took advantage of a gap and rushed out, pulled the trigger without aiming, and shot into the arcade.

This was truly divine.

Standing and firing an RPG into a room, it was like having all buffs active.

Even the Russians didn't do this often.

Whizz~~

The rocket, trailing fins, surged toward its target.

Someone shouted.

"R~P~G!!!"

...