"Ah! Ahh!!!"
The fighting convict covered his leg and screamed miserably, the sudden addition of this "fierce man" clearly putting immense pressure on both groups.
They glared at each other fiercely, each seemingly eager to devour the other.
Victor blinked and recognized their affiliations, one group was called Blood Oath, they had long been involved in human smuggling near Mexico, transporting refugees to the United States.
Their strength was mediocre on a national level, but this group was known for playing dirty; many foreign tourists mysteriously disappeared, rumored to be their doing, and Mexico's crime lab believed they were heavily linked to organ trafficking in Southeast Asia.
The other group was the Texas Syndicate (TS7), an international organization primarily composed of Mexican immigrant members, either serving time in U.S. prisons or on the outside.
This gang formed to protect Mexican immigrants from being killed by other Californian gangs, including the Aryan Brotherhood and the Mexican Mafia.
The dirty business of these two groups was so complicated that even Judge Bao would be busy for three days.
"Officer, is it illegal for us to fight?" said one with long hair, a snake tattoo on his arm, and a cigarette tucked in his mouth, "What? Do we need to apply for permission?"
Flicking cigarette ash with a snap, he directly flicked it onto Victor, who pretended to be flustered, "Sorry, sorry," he hastened to say and then kicked a nearby emergency squad member in the stomach, causing him to kneel in pain.
Then, pointing arrogantly at Victor, he said, "You damn cop, you wanna meddle, who the fuck do you think you are?"
The members of other gangs watched the spectacle with glee.
"Let me tell you about this prison..."
Pop!
Before he could finish, a bullet struck his head; at such close range, there was no saving him, and he collapsed on the spot.
An immediate silence fell over the crowd.
"Send someone who talks civilized, has manners, and has brushed their teeth over here," Victor said, his gun pointing at them, "I'm a very reasonable man. If any of you has a question, step forward and speak to me directly."
The people from Blood Oath and the Texas Syndicate exchanged glances nervously and pursed their lips.
Perhaps not wanting to look weak in front of their brothers, someone from Blood Oath stepped forward, swallowed, and said, "Boss, don't think just because you've got a gun we're scared of you; you've got at most twelve bullets, but we've got so many people here."
"I know."
Victor smiled, "I just need to take out a few of the overly bold ones."
Criminal organizations around the world are all the same; they bully the weak and fear the strong!
Why do Mexican drug traffickers dare to bully cops and even kill at will? It's a political issue; corruption is at the highest level, but if you switch to a tougher government, which Mafia group would dare to jump around like that?
Wasn't the American Mafia godfather Al Capone impressive?
Nicknamed the King of Chicago!
The spokesman for the Thompson submachine gun.
The Underground Emperor.
But isn't it easy for the U.S. Government to handle you if they want to? The FBI can't touch you, but the IRS can, investigating your tax evasion, and by evening, a tank will be knocking on your door.
"I'll say it again, hands on your head and squat down!"
Seeing that the cop meant business, members of Blood Oath and the Texas Syndicate reluctantly complied, but there were some who stealthily eyed him, as if memorizing his face to take him out later.
"Casare, who hit you?"
All the jail guards then looked over; even the thick-skinned Casare seemed a bit uneasy, pointing at one muscular man whose face turned green.
Victor walked over and kicked him in the face. The man was furious, tried to swing a punch but was met with a gun to his face, "Fuck, the whole prison knows Casare is my brother, my responsibility, and you piece of shit, attacking him is disrespecting me."
"Put down your gun, let's have a one-on-one fight," the stubborn man said, obviously not conceding and still looking at the gun cautiously, clearly fearful, but trying to save face.
"A one-on-one fight? What era do you think this is? I have a gun and you're talking about fighting fair, you must have been brain-damaged in the womb," Victor said as he delivered a blow to the man's eye socket, a frail spot that would likely split from such a strike.
Writhing in pain, the man crouched on the ground clutching his face.
Victor, still seemingly unsatisfied, proceeded to kick him hard twice more.
"Stop, Victor!"
A voice full of immense anger resounded as Webster pushed through the gathering officers and entered. Seeing the corpse and the convulsing convict, his face turned dark, his expressions twitching.
"What the hell are you doing!"
"Who gave you permission to fire a gun inside the prison?"
He bombarded Victor with questions, but before Victor could speak, Casare interjected, "Boss, it was them who attacked the officers first."
Webster: "Does that mean you can kill people?"
"Then arrest me," Victor challenged, extending his hands, which visibly shocked Webster. Victor gestured for Casare to keep quiet and unzipped his police uniform, "We are police officers, they are convicts. If they cause trouble, we hit back!"
"Who empowered them to strike officers in prison? The law or Jesus?"
"Boss, I, Victor, can't stand by and watch them hit my brother and colleagues. It's an insult to me. If you can't handle it, leave it to me, I'll take care of it. Being a police officer is also about dignity," he all but shouted at Webster toward the end.
Casare saw Victor's hands move behind his back and instantly understood, responding, "Yes, sir, there's always trouble every time we go out for recreation, but you just don't care. We suffer for it, our job is very hard, always getting beaten up. I might as well become a drug trafficker."
Those words struck a chord with his colleagues around him.
Many of them had had enough, and even though drug traffickers would give them bribes in Plateau Prison, the frequent beatings and cursing, indifferent even if Webster was killed, left them feeling very insecure about their jobs as police officers.
The expressions of the jail guards watching became very complex.
Victor saw all this; he was deliberately stoking emotions in front of Webster. An incompetent superior was very unpopular, and there had long been grumblings about him in the prison.
The last soccer match not only resulted in injuries for Victor, but also the deaths of three police officers.
Yet in the end, there wasn't even any compensation.
Victor's goal was simple: to find a "partner" in the prison. In his eyes, Webster was destined to die. It was either him or himself—there was no possibility of coexistence between the two.
He knew he could choose to be reassigned elsewhere, but the "power" within Plateau Prison wasn't something he could just give up on a whim; it might come in handy at any time.
The reason he dared to confront Webster directly without backing down was that, perhaps Webster had the power to shuffle him around the prison, but he certainly had no power to dismiss him.
To fire a Sergeant would require upper-level approval. Did you think government employees could just be dismissed on a whim? Of course, Webster could also ask his superiors to deal with Victor, this "nuisance," but if he couldn't even control the prison's internal affairs, what would his superiors think?
Victor wanted to use this opportunity to "rise in rank."
Do you want to get promoted and wealthy, and you tell me you're not going to fight for it? Do you think it just falls from the sky?
Daydreaming!
It's like many people buying $2 incense sticks, then taking a stack of scratch-off lottery tickets to the Temple of the God of Wealth doorstep to pray for wealth.
Stop kidding yourself, do you really think the director will settle a multimillion-dollar affair with a bucket of oil?
Whoever makes you rich is a dumbass.
"You guys are great," Webster pointed at the two, so angry his nostrils flared.
"I'm just protecting my colleagues, sir! I will not allow them to lose their dignity while defending justice."
His words were emphatic!
Onlookers felt a surge of passion.
But the inside reality—all fucking business.
Webster, grinding his teeth, pointed at the two men and turned to leave with a vicious look in his eyes.
"Put all these people in one cell, and from now on, give them only one bowl of rice a day for seven days. Let's see if they end up fighting over food," Victor ordered the rapid response team.
The already leaderless squad hesitated briefly, then snapped to attention and saluted, "Yes, sir."
Holding down a bunch of gang members who had been fighting, those who were disobedient were met directly with batons. Clearly, they hadn't yet cooled down from the earlier altercation. Other jail guards escorted the convicts back from recreation, but many of them gave Victor strange looks as they returned.
"Victor, giving those criminals just one bowl of rice a day, won't that lead to people getting killed?" Casare said, "Let's not blow this out of proportion."
"Do you think today's events are minor? Maybe by tonight my head will be on the hit list of those gangsters," Victor said casually, not showing any fear.
You should be more concerned when you make it onto the U.S. wanted list.
"Wouldn't it be better if someone died? Then you find some media outlets to spread the word about the chaos in Plateau Prison, about Webster's incompetence, and portray him as a corrupt cop who abuses prisoners. I don't believe anyone would back him then."
Public opinion can be a killer!
Make use of the media wisely, enjoy an unethical life.
"Then you get some prostitutes to tell the tabloids he likes playing exciting games. No matter whether it's true or not, once such stories get out, they become truth."
Casare felt Victor was dark to the core, even his saliva probably tainted with malice. If it really went according to his plan, Webster's name would certainly resound throughout Mexico City.
"You saw the prison's rapid response team, didn't you?"
Casare nodded.
"Find a way to build a good relationship with them. I will find a way to give you a promotion so you can lead them."
"You have a way?"
"Sure, bribe the superiors!"
"What if they don't take it?"
Victor stopped in his tracks, looked at him, and after a moment's thought, "Then have Holder find someone to follow their family members. They either take the money, or their whole family dies. Let them choose."
"Do you have the money now?" Casare always liked to probe.
This question was annoying for him.
"Then strive to find more buyers this month, if all else fails, advertise in the newspapers."
"You've got goods?"
"The Soviet Union's ammo could fill the entire Pacific Ocean, what I need now are buyers! Buyers! Buyers!"
...