Working as a police officer in Mexico

```

"Bang!"

Guzman slammed the car door shut with a grim expression on his face.

"Get me everything on this bastard, even if I have to know how many lovers his mother has!"

He rolled down the window and said to his trusted lieutenant.

"Boss, do you want someone to just take him out?" the trusted flunky asked.

"Not yet, let's figure out his connections first," Guzman replied.

Being petty, those who offended Guzman didn't end up with good outcomes. At 12, he ran his own plantation, but there was a thug who liked to bully them, always trying to snatch something from him.

So, one night, he and his cousin broke into the guy's house, personally slaughtered him, and wiped out his mother and her children as well.

This incident was recorded in the collective memoir of the four Beltran Leyva brothers, where they referred to this cousin as: bastard!

From a young age, he showed extraordinary fierceness, brutality, and venomous tendencies.

As he grew older, his temperament mellowed slightly; he knew to check the background of his adversaries first. It wasn't that they couldn't afford to offend someone, but rather to be fully prepared for any backlash.

Victor wasn't the least bit anxious about having upset a "big drug trafficker."

Even the Pope had to pay for weapons; otherwise, they'd shave your head and send you to India to become a monk.

He didn't mind the stench on US dollar bills at all, counting them one by one. Despite his disdain for the Yanks, Franklin's face actually looked "quite pretty" on them.

The total was 67,000 US dollars.

Money, this thing, even if it had a pile of shit printed on it, people would still call it "art." Tattoo an eye in the middle of a forehead, and you'd be branded a weirdo.

Victor flicked through ten of the bills and handed them to Best, "Lucky I have you two, have fun, and I'll pick up the bill tonight."

1,000 US dollars!

Truly freaking generous.

They could take over the entire brothel block with that.

Victor was just generous like that; one must learn to share. After all, he would need them to risk their lives for him in the future, he ought to give them some incentives.

"Oh yeah, the end of the month is the day after tomorrow. I'll have Casare calculate the accounts, and your bonus will be sent on the 1st," Victor called out to Best before he left.

At the mention of money coming his way, a smile spread across Best's face.

"No need for any statements, it won't make a difference if I look at them or not."

Victor waved his hand, with the smoke from his cigarette harsh in his eyes, making them blur a bit. He waved his hand again, "We're in this business to keep things clear-cut. What I promised you, I'll deliver."

It's one thing if the accounts are small in a month, but what if you start earning millions or even tens of millions a month? Then see if they won't start grumbling in their hearts?

Never test human nature with money; you'll find it's "worthless."

…

"Victor, I think you should get yourself some bodyguards," Casare said, looking at his boss through the rearview mirror, making a suggestion, "As our business gets better, we'll have more and more enemies."

His meaning was crystal clear.

Boss, be careful not to get whacked. We're all counting on you to make our fortune.

Victor heard him and felt it made sense. Mexico was teeming with assassins, with his temper not taking any slight thing lying down. Today he could be shouldering an RPG and blasting his enemies; tomorrow, they could do the same to him.

Victor nodded in agreement.

Many influential people had bodyguards, even a small police precinct captain, as long as he had money, would hire bodyguards because Mexico was really dangerous.

"Let Best handle this. He's in the middle, he must know someone familiar."

The reason why Los Zetas later became so brazen was that most of them came from Special Forces, with their leader Razcano even poaching from the Guatemalan Special Forces.

Suddenly, they became a peculiar quasi-military organization.

Many military enthusiasts do not acknowledge Guatemalan commandos, but compared to the gunmen of regular drug trafficking organizations, they were the ace of spades against a bunch of wild cards, with formidable combat strength. That made other trafficking groups start to recruit professional mercenaries as well.

One could also say that it was Los Zetas who escalated the cruelty of the Mexican drug wars to an unprecedented level.

However, at that time, the leader of the Gulf Group, Cardenas, was also a dumbass. If you give them the right to kidnap and kill, that's fine, but you also give them the opportunity to smuggle, oh-oh, once they get the hang of it, they go into business for themselves.

"Got any other good ideas? Feel free to speak up."

"I need to request some funds, I want to treat the people in the Second District to a meal."

```

"Is this to cozy up to the colleagues for easier operations?"

Victor had no reason to refuse, but he was thinking bigger, "I think we should expand the scope and invite all the jail guards from every district to join the revelry."

"That will require a lot of money," Casare said, surprised.

With over 700 jail guards at Plateau Prison, even without luxury items like sea cucumber and shark's fin, it would still cost a pretty penny.

"We should let our colleagues see that we're flush with cash, buddy. Nobody wants to deal with the poor; if you have enough money, even the President of the United States can be your friend."

He was desperately short of points; quite a few old-timers in the Third District had been locked up for so long that many news media couldn't be bothered to report on them anymore. Such people should be dragged out for a humane destruction!

I'll never share the sky with the wicked.

That's just the way society is, without money you have no friends, but if you're wealthy, plenty of people will suck up to you, so if you have money, don't hide it.

Money isn't dirty.

Even if it were, someone would still want it.

"So what's the reason? The warden might not approve," Casare said.

"If we don't get approval, we just give up? Just make up any reason; say it's your grandmother's 100th birthday."

Casare was troubled, "But my grandmother is already dead."

"She can still be alive."

Casare's face immediately froze, but since the boss had spoken, he had no choice but to go along with it, even though the excuse was crappy. He might as well say his grandfather was remarrying.

...

Mexicans both love and fear the night.

After a hard day's work, you can finally go for a drink at night, or even find a woman to pour your heart out to, but the fear is of gang conflicts causing unnecessary casualties.

But men, unless they're dead, they're lechorous.

You can see elderly men by the roadside asking prostitutes for prices, and if they come to an agreement, they'd both head down an alleyway.

Maduro Pedestrian Street.

A bustling commercial district in Mexico City, with only seven kilometers length, houses over 20 KTVs and 30 bars, a veritable paradise on earth.

Song Wu staggered out, drunk as a skunk, with a few of his minions and a dozen girls, his hands roving improperly all over.

He had a mixed-blood face, darker skin, not very tall, but robust. One of his minions drove the car to the front of the KTV. As Song Wu was about to get into the car with a woman, he was blinded by a high beam shining in his eyes.

"Motherfucker..."

Just as Song Wu was cursing, he heard screams nearby, then felt a violent collision. Despite the car acting as a barrier, he was still thrown several meters away.

He felt pain all over, but his first thought was to kill the bastard driving the car!

It was a white van; the doors opened, and four masked men carrying submachine guns jumped out. Amidst the screams of onlookers, they sprayed the inside of the car.

The driver was blown to heaven.

Song Wu sobered up instantly, realizing someone was trying to take him out. He got up and ran, but one of the gunmen noticed his figure and shot a burst at Song Wu's feet, hitting him and he fell to the ground.

These men worked in perfect harmony. Seeing him fall, two of them covered Song Wu's head with a sack, while the other two stood on the hood of an abandoned car, shooting at his minions who were hiding nearby.

"Retreat!"

The two dragged Song Wu into the van, and one of them yelled as he sat in the passenger seat.

Before leaving, one of the gunmen on the roof took a grenade from his pocket, tossed it into the sedan, and with a "boom," the van sped off.

The intense explosion sent flames engulfing the car, and those who hadn't managed to escape crawled up from the ground, looking around bewildered and terrified, some crying out in search of friends.

The rules of the Mexican game: Once you've killed the target, you can't kill us anymore, yo.

So, in a shootout, run if you can; if you can't, hit the deck. Usually, no one aims to kill bystanders on the ground deliberately; that's simply a waste of bullets.

They're criminals, not anti-social psychopaths.

By the time the gang responsible for watching the area extinguished the fire, the car was stripped down, completely burned to a cinder. Song Wu's minions finally came out, calling for their boss a few times, but when there was no response, they panicked.

And when the local gang leader heard the news, he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.

The local Juarez gang lieutenant, known as the "Vietnamese Tiger," Song Wu, was kidnapped in broad daylight?

There's a drama worth watching.

...