"Why did you beat him up!"
"Don't you know that the first rule of the Third District is that abusing prisoners isn't allowed?"
"Are you new to prison? Idiot, they are worth more than your parents in here. You want to die, why drag us into it!"
Cona Velasquez smacked the table in anger, cursing Victor, not because he genuinely "cared" about the other person, but out of fear.
Those were people from the Medellin Cartel!
If the Guadalajara Cartel made money for all Mexicans with their "plaza" system, then Pablo from Medellin was simply too arrogant.
He even wanted to run for president.
By then, he was already a congressman, but an ethical Attorney General had publicly exposed him. Proud Pablo, what did he do?
He had the Attorney General killed.
It was all the same to him—flip the table, because surely your bones aren't as hard as bullets.
Kidnapping high-ranking officials' children, torturing supreme court justices, attacking the president, bombing commercial airliners—who wouldn't find this troublesome?
Of course, this isn't to say that the Guadalajara Cartel wasn't fierce.
They at least dared to mess with the DEA (Drug Enforcement Administration). Even Pablo, at his most arrogant, knew that you could kill ordinary Americans without issue, but if you messed with the DEA, they would genuinely fight you to the death.
It was an accident that Stepan Blanquart was captured, because Mexico and Colombia had no extradition treaty, and both sides were playing hardball; most importantly, the United States also hoped to extradite him for trial locally.
But that doesn't mean you can just bully people from the Medellin Cartel.
This must be a joke.
Cona Velasquez feared being dragged into this. The Medellin mass murders always rooted out their victims completely.
Watching his superior who seemed ready to pull a gun and kill him on the spot, Victor appeared very calm, pointing to his own clothes, "He struck first. I could feel the damage he intended, I was forced to retaliate."
"Go tell that to the drug traffickers!"
Cona Velasquez couldn't be bothered to waste more saliva on the "dead man." Having been friendly in the morning, he now showed disgust, pointing outside, "Get out, you idiot. If you don't believe it, take a dog leash and kneel in the cell, praying for others' forgiveness."
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
"I'm sorry, but my profession doesn't allow me to do that. I'm a police officer. It's not that I fear criminals, but rather, evil should fear me!" Victor refused, saluted, and walked right out the door.
"Asshole! Bastard! Idiot!"
Cona Velasquez was taken aback by his words, showing a flicker of complex emotion in his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by ferocity as he cursed loudly, "Just wait for your death."
The police passing by also witnessed this scene, and they heard the exchange between them.
Some looked up to him with reverence, while others looked at him as if he were a dead dog.
There are always people who maintain a moral baseline in a filthy society.
...
But in reality, he was just posturing.
Taking this stance was entirely Victor's own doing, how else could he enhance his "positive image" if he didn't publicize it?
The Mexican Government is corrupt, but that doesn't mean everyone is their lackey, there are also those who are trying to save the country, hoping to find like-minded people and give them power.
Pablo was wild on the outside, but he also knew how to maintain his base. When he died, his hometown of Medellin had thousands attending his funeral.
People live with two faces, one for others to see, and one for themselves to carry out.
In the light, I proudly hold up the patriotic flag.
In private, patriotism is a business.
This is called building a persona. If I ever get rich, Mr. Gao even plans to write a book, start a TV station, all to exaggerate his own image.
Buddy, these are just a few words; no one would take them seriously, right?
Victor glanced at his watch, clocking out early. Nobody said a word, not even the guards thought the Deputy Warden would live much longer. Life was being shortened, so why not work hours?
But obviously, the events of the Third District quickly swept throughout the entire prison.
When he walked out, familiar people whispered and pointed, but none dared to approach and talk. When he reached the canteen and stood at the window, no one came to serve him food.
Everyone was afraid of being involved.
Avoiding danger is a basic instinct of carbon-based life forms.
Victor wasn't upset, if no one was going to serve him, he'd do it himself. He even scooped up dozens more chicken legs than usual, packing them to take back to his dormitory, knowing they'd make a good snack later in the evening.
"He's not running? Isn't he afraid of retaliation?"
"Run? Where to? Even in the government building, you could be assassinated. The prison is actually safer. If I were him, I'd spend my whole life here, never leaving."
His colleagues huddled and chattered, but a pair of eyes watched him with a complex gaze.
...
Evening fell.
The darkness came swiftly.
The light in the dormitory was dim as Victor wrote intermittently in his notebook, sometimes furrowing his brows in deep thought.
The page was filled with densely written notes.
For instance, aiming to be appointed as a Director with real power within half a year to a year.
The location should preferably not be on the territories of major cross-border organizations like Sinaloa or Tijuana, but when going through each state, damn it, the territories controlled by drug traffickers have taken over the entire nation.
The poorest state of Chiapas, due to its proximity to Guatemala and direct access to Central America, has an excellent geographical position and is now rampant with drug lords.
He had to settle for second best.
He selected three places: Guadalupe Island in Lower California State, which is in the heart of the Pacific Ocean with a population of around 80,000. Because it's close to the United States, drug lords are rampant here too, but since it's surrounded by the sea, for drug traffickers to launch large-scale "armed attacks" like on land would be more challenging.
The traditional home turf of the old power Tijuana.
The second option was Taxco in Guerrero State, a city nestled in the mountains and forests that was previously inhabited by Indigenous people. Later, after their scalps got too itchy and were scythed off, it became a gathering place for Mexicans, with a population of over 100,000. The transportation here is inconvenient, but it is suitable for hiding, making it an agricultural area.
The third was Ciudad Juarez in Chihuahua State, a traditional stronghold of Juarez, located on the south bank of the Rio Grande, opposite to El Paso in the United States—a classic smuggling paradise, where at night one could even see small submarines transporting drugs.
These three places were his choices, and in his notebook, he detailed his plans even more. When he got appointed as a Director, he must develop a group of gunmen totaling no less than 30 people.
Some of these people could be added to the police department through connections. That way, once he took office with his own team, he would be able to make a lot of moves freely.
The rest would get involved in the local "black gold" market, taking on the arms business, providing him with continuous intelligence and US dollars.
Then, he would use this money to invest in higher-level elites.
The plans in the notebook were very detailed. If thrown out and picked up by someone on the roadside, they might even think it was some "fool's" deathbed fantasy. But for Victor, who had life goals and aspirations, this was his starting point!
If a person has no goals, how are they any different from a salted fish?
"Dong dong dong."
Just as he was adding plans to the notebook, there was a knock at the door, a heavy sound, perhaps to avoid being overheard.
Victor tucked the notebook into the desk, pulled out a Colt M1911 from the side, worth 120 points, almost comparable to the CZ 25 submachine gun.
He disengaged the safety of the pistol and cautiously walked over.
Even in prison, one has to be careful.
"Who is it?"
"It's me, Casare," the person outside deliberately lowered his voice.
Victor opened the door, glanced out, and after identifying the visitor, he unhooked the chain that linked the door and dragged the fat man inside. After looking around, he closed the door.
"Decided? Are you going to work with me?" Victor asked directly.
Casare, the one who had become a prostitute yet still wanted to stand as a saint, gestured with his hands, "I don't deal drugs. My father was killed by drugs. I swore I'd never touch drugs in my life."
"That stuff has too much competition. With your slight build, sticking a foot in it, you might end up a corpse in the wilderness by tomorrow."
Of course, the drug traffickers wouldn't want anyone encroaching on their market.
You bring in one person, and I make one less dollar.
The infamous "gentleman" drug trafficker from Colombia, the Cali Cartel, had to apply to Pablo for permission to do business. One of the founders, Gilbert, was a childhood buddy of Ochoa, a member of the Medellin Cartel, which is how he obtained the sales license for the American cocaine market.
Ironic, isn't it?
But this business, if you don't have the strength, then really don't get involved.
If you have the strength to deal with drugs, you're called a warlord. If not, you're a gangster. Without any strength at all, you're just a small-time hoodlum.
Victor bent down, pulled a large red suitcase from under the bed, the kind used for festive occasions. Under Casare's gaze, he opened it to reveal a quietly lying AK47 and a CZ 25 submachine gun.
He picked up the AK, pulled the bolt with a backhanded swipe, and patted the cold metal sound, "This is the business I'm doing."
"Weapons?" Casare was genuinely surprised.
He had thought of many things before coming here, wondering if Victor might steal cars, organize prostitution, and even sell blood, but he didn't expect him to play it so big.
"I have a route in the Soviet Union. Although the risk is high, the profit margin is huge. I'm just not sure how big your courage is?"
"This AK47, pure Soviet stock. I don't care how much you sell it for, I just want 200 US dollars, and anything extra is your salary. If you have the guts, even if you sell it for 1000 dollars, I still only want 200."
"How about it? If you're good at selling, just this one gun could feed your family for a year. The thing to fear most when you're out there is not making money. Now, I'm giving you the chance to make money. My philosophy in life is to share meals with my brothers, to make money together. A deal like this, I won't forget you."
Casare hadn't spoken when Victor already stuffed the AK47 into his embrace.
"Try testing the waters first."
"However, I think you should find someone you know first. Otherwise, if you run into backstabbing, I'm afraid I might have to attend your memorial service."
Were you planning to distribute flyers for your arms business?
Drugs might destroy a person's will, but firearms can break down a system. Let's see if the Mexican Military Police come after you.
Casare was listening.
"I have a cousin who works for a syndicate in Mexico City, serves as a boss. I can contact him."
Victor was not surprised at all.
In Mexico, who doesn't have a relative who is a drug trafficker?
Even now, there are familial ties between the big drug traffickers.
"Alright, let's make money together!"
…