Victor was a moral cleaner.
When someone died "dirty" through his fault, he felt terrible.
But even if he was internally tense, he always looked calm and unperturbed.
As a real boss, he had to look accordingly. However, from the looks of it, someone had actually decided to kill him and managed to sneak a bomb into the prison.
Prison Director Webster came in too, with Conor Velasquez beside him, frowning and looking at the smoking building. They were discussing something.
- What do you think they're talking about? - Victor asked.
Casares dropped his gaze, -Maybe they're thinking about how to steal the money for the renovation.
- I think they're pondering why they didn't blow me up, the bastard.
Casares staggered back, and Victor continued: - They're coming.
He looked at the two supervisors who were rushing toward them. Conor Velasquez looked like he was constipated, and there was something gleaming in Webster's eyes, but he looked genuinely concerned: -Victor, are you okay? You're not hurt?
- No, just really scared," Victor smiled strainedly, pointing to the blown up office.
- If I didn't have an emergency, I would have met with my father by now.
Webster blinked nervously, -Don't worry, I'll be sure to look into it and give you an answer. Do you want to rest for a few days? I can give you a couple days of vacation.
Vacation?
You really want me to die!
Victor showed clear reluctance: - Warden, I have a job to do and I can continue it. I can't hide because of fear. It was an act of revenge against me, but I will never give in. God protects me, and he protects Mexico!
His voice grew louder and louder and was heard by everyone around him: -The Mexican police will not be intimidated! Justice will prevail!
Casares, who was standing nearby, almost fell through the ground.
In Mexico, saying such things in public was tantamount to defiantly urinating in the street.
But Victor was undoubtedly a "Hollywood" level actor. He looked serious, as if he were a hero on his way to execution.
He said such beautiful words that it would be a shame if he didn't go into politics.
Webster squinted his eyes; he, too, was angry at what was happening. He realized that Victor, who had seemed like a simpleton, was not at all.
Haggis Baird's death was full of mystery.
This scoundrel, who should have died long ago, continued to grow like a weed. How could Webster be satisfied?
But being in this foul cauldron of politics, he had long ago learned to say one thing when meeting with humans, and quite another when meeting with demons. He patted Victor on the shoulder, praised him, and promised publicly that the matter would be developed.
Casares could hardly stand the lie.
As the saying goes, second-rate actors play in movies, first-rate actors play in politics. Especially in Mexico, where you can't tell which politician has been bribed by drug traffickers because they all look the same on the screen.
They look righteous, but in reality they are hypocrites.
But what can you do if you want to live longer, you gotta learn to lie.
Webster left, but he wasn't happy.
- Check to see who else is in his family.
Victor looked after his boss and said to Casares.
- What are you up to? Are you out of your mind? This is a government official.
- He looks so pathetic, we should visit and sympathize with his family.
Visit?
Cázares felt like Victor wanted to kill his whole family.
- Don't worry, I'm not that crazy yet," Victor held out his hand to help him up. - I'm just curious how desperate he'll look.
Casares tensed.
Damn, I knew there were no normal people in Mexico!
...
Boom!
Lightning glittered in the sky above Mexico City.
Suddenly it began to pour, and pedestrians scattered like frightened dogs.
The Magdalena Contreras neighborhood.
Ramon Lopez Velarde University.
A gray Toyota stopped at the curb, the windshield wipers squeaking and leaving greasy stains on the glass.
Two smokers sat in the car, one after the other smoking cigarettes, the interior full of smoke.
Best was leafing through Playboy. This magazine, smuggled in from the United States, was hard currency, despite numerous stains of unknown origin.
It was a valuable commodity.
A favorite of Mexican gangsters and the reason for the dream of America.
They say American women have huge breasts. Like cows.
The bell rang, and Best, who had been lying in the driver's seat, tossed the magazine aside, glanced at his watch, and, taking a drag on his cigarette, brought his chair to an upright position, staring outward intently, though the glass was cloudy.
- Damn, classes were finally over. Do students have such a workload now? Studying is hard, it would be better to go straight to the gang.
- Studying has a future," the neighbor said.
- We have a future?
Best had always been a bad student and hated studying, thinking it was useless, so there was no point in arguing with him.
- Duke, is that him?
Suddenly he noticed a figure that looked like the right one and pointed to a student just over 1.7 meters tall with brightly colored hair. He pulled out a picture for comparison.
Best was experienced. Having gotten the call from Casares, he had prepared by bribing the teacher for 100 pesos and getting the photo. Without it, he wouldn't know who to look for.
- Looks like it. Let's go get him.
Best took off the handbrake and slowly pulled up. But the student, sensing something wrong, looked back and ran.
- Duke, get him!
But how could a man run away from a car? Pressing the gas pedal, Best pulled up alongside him. Duke leaned out the window and grabbed the guy by the collar, pulling him sharply into the car.
Gagging him, Duke roughly dragged him inside, and the student fiercely resisted, even trying to grab the steering wheel.
An enraged Best punched him with his fist, disabling him on the spot.
- Duke, hold him tight! - He waved his hand unhappily.
- Call Casares, tell him the target has been captured.
Duke pulled a Motorola DynaTAC 8000X from the back seat, the very same "brick," and dialed the number. After two beeps, the phone picked up on the other end: - Hello!
- It's done.
- Okay, take it to an abandoned warehouse ten kilometers northwest of the prison, Best knows the place. - Having said that, the voice on the other end hung up.
Duke looked at Best, and he heard it too.
- Why go there?
- What's wrong?
- Nothing. Over forty Asians who tried to cross the border into the US illegally once died there. Buddha bless them.
Mexicans are superstitious too.
- You don't believe in God anymore?
- My God was killed by drug dealers. Believing in death is the only thing left. Maybe soon I'll become a devout Muslim. But for now, I believe in money more than anything else. As soon as I have enough, I'll build a temple in the Vatican.