Working as a police officer in Mexico

Units, Tens, Hundreds, Thousands, Tens of thousands, My Lords...

Victor's eyes were glued to the seven-digit points total; he really wanted to kill the disheveled middle-aged man in front of him!

But reason told him, buddy, calm down, you'd be riddled with bullets.

Perhaps he could think of a way to "bomb" Plateau Prison later...

Of course, that was if he had a bomber.

Just like the Cali Cartel wanted to bomb Pablo, but their plan went bankrupt because they lacked a bomber.

Stepan's 70,000 points were nothing compared to him.

But who could compare to Sicilian Falcon?

Those not familiar with the history of drug trafficking in Mexico might not know about this person, because he wasn't Mexican, but Cuban, born in Matanzas, Cuba in 1945. He joined the military and intelligence agencies in Miami, USA, playing the role of a double agent.

Later, he moved to Mexico, where he established a drug trafficking business in Tijuana State, with a network spreading through the United States, Europe, and even Asia. Known for his cold-bloodedness, he was dubbed "Drug Baron" and was said to enjoy killing his enemies with his own hands.

Equally talked about were his romantic affairs; he had rumors with several actresses and was said to have more than 20 sons. His little fanboy, the later legend, Joaquin Guzman, also learned from his "lustful" ways.

But the guy was too arrogant; he was bound for misfortune.

In 1975, he was arrested in his mansion in the Pedriguei colony of Mexico City, but escaped from jail a year later. His method was digging a tunnel, which later was successfully emulated by others, even being referenced in Hong Kong movies.

This fully demonstrates one point.

The soil of Mexico is very suited for digging holes.

Falcon, seeing that the other party didn't answer his questions, showed clear annoyance on his face and was about to scold the disrespectful young police officer when he heard the other say, "What are you talking about?"

Victor leaned against the door of his cell with a smile, "That's just a mad dog locked in a jail. The most important thing about coming out to the world is to understand, if it's not your territory, don't fucking act tough. I live by one rule, if someone is polite to me, I'm polite back. If they don't respect me..."

His smile faded; the whites under his eyes were plain to see, "Here, I am the police, he is the prisoner! I'll let him understand that killing him is as easy as killing a dog."

Falcon was amused by his words, "It's been a long time since anyone has spoken to me this way."

"You've been locked up for 13 years, things have changed, old geezer. Still trying to act tough with me? If you're so capable, try digging another tunnel and get out, let's see who dies first, you or me, who the fuck are you kidding?"

With Falcon's status, if he got out, he'd certainly be killed. He started his empire in Tijuana; you think Benjamin and Ramon, the two brothers, would let him retire peacefully?

He himself understood that the world no longer belonged to him; even though he was once one of the most powerful people, in the end, it's always the new waves that push out the old. His treatment in jail said it all.

Without anyone sending him money outside, his life in the Mexican Prison was worse than a dog's.

It seems... he's got no background anymore.

Victor looked at him with malice, contemplating whether to bribe the Warden to move him out. A couple of shots later, and those millions of points would be enough for him to swagger around for a while.

Falcon was about to spew out profanities, but on seeing that look in Victor's eyes, he swallowed them back down and sat on the bed with a dark face.

"Behave, and don't fucking cause trouble for yourself."

Victor tapped the jail bars with his baton and continued walking deeper in.

Actually, years ago, Falcon might have been a good big leg to lean on, but now... he's just dry bones in a tomb.

For someone with no value to exploit, death is the only welcome.

Besides drug traffickers, the Third District also housed government officials. When the Guadalajara Cartel fell, many unlucky ones were also imprisoned here, some of whom were even Victor's superiors.

Finally, in the cell marked "A11," Victor found his target. The thin, withered face wore a barely detectable cold indifference, and his heavy gaze seemed to penetrate your inner defenses.

The sinister expression instinctively gave one an unsettling feeling, reminding us who in this world can truly predict what's in his heart?

Miguel Ángel Félix Gallardo!

A man born in a poor family in a small mountain village in Sinaloa, Mexico, once a state police officer and the personal bodyguard of a governor at age 17. Due to low wages, he joined the "Lion of Sinaloa," Aviles, in the 70s, offering his connections to protect the drug trafficking organization.

In 1978, when Aviles died during a drug raid, rumors had it that Gallardo betrayed his boss. Regardless, he became the new leader. Unlike his predecessor who only looked after a small turf, Gallardo had bigger ambitions and understood the concept of expanding into major cities.

He moved the organization to the second-largest city, Guadalajara; from there, a super drug trafficking organization was born, spanning the 1980s, monopolizing the US market with annual profits of 8 billion US Dollars.

He invented the "Plaza System" that brought all drug traffickers together.

What is the Plaza System, you ask?

It's where drug traffickers buy permits from the police of various regions to operate drug businesses, and anyone wishing to do business in that area must get the approval of the plaza boss.

This effectively entangled officials with the drug trade.

The protection umbrella continued to expand.

In 1981, with Reagan in office increasing the crackdown on drug smuggling, he closed the dangerous routes, the Caribbean Sea pathways, used by Colombian drug traffickers. Gallardo contacted the two major Colombian drug trafficking organizations, Medellin and Cali, through an intermediary and they hit it off immediately.

The Colombians airdropped cocaine to Mexico, and Gallardo would transport it by land to different warehouses across the United States within a week. During its peak, the California, USA, Guard Corps also played a part in the transportation line.

In the 1985 Camarena incident, he sold out his technician Quintero and business connection Tang Neito, passing through the ordeal by paying extra protection money. However, what brought his downfall was at the end of the 80s when, during a routine inspection, the Drug Enforcement Administration found drugs worth over 7 billion US Dollars in a warehouse in Hilma, California, USA.

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Ironically, the safest thing in this warehouse was a lock worth 6 US dollars.

This was the largest single drug bust in the world, a record that still stands.

The 7 billion US dollars of drugs were the property of the Cali Cartel, and Gallardo, responsible for the shipment, had to compensate. Otherwise, do you think half of the stock would be so easy to take?

Colombians certainly won't pursue legal proceedings with you.

His protector, the Minister of Defense, immediately abandoned Gallardo. In an instant, he became a stray dog, which proves a point.

If gloves get dirty, just change them, but if power becomes dirty, then it's genuinely dirty.

This is also one of the reasons why Victor couldn't bear to take off his "police uniform."

Politics is indeed the most significant "nominal" power in the world. Maybe a drug lord can bribe the police to kill a congressman, but if I became president, I could declare that I'm pursuing greater interests.

After fighting for so long, Mexican drug traffickers still don't understand the principle of "having a justified cause." They simply resort to violence to solve problems.

As a newly emerged power, the Third District paid special attention to his detention. Apart from the necessary surveillance cameras, even his door was locked with two locks, and his bed was covered in US dollars, a quirk of his.

Sitting at the head of the bed watching TV, perhaps aware of his current situation, Gallardo's complexion wasn't looking good.

Victor stood at the door and glanced at the monitor, not conversing with Gallardo. What's your status now, compared to his?

He was accustomed to entering and exiting the residences of high officials, meeting governors, and mayors.

Would you now approach a mere jail guard and say, "I want to cling to your coattails"?

They certainly wouldn't give you the time of day.

It seems that I need to "create" an opportunity.

Victor took a deep look at him and turned to leave. Hearing the sound of footsteps, Gallardo turned his head, only to see a retreating figure.

Walking back to his office, he was about to unlock the door when he suddenly remembered he hadn't patrolled the armory. Just as he took two steps back, a huge explosion, accompanied by a shockwave, sent him flying out. He rolled on the ground twice and leaned against the wall, gasping heavily for air.

A raging fire erupted in the office, and the iron door was blasted off, lying twisted to one side. The noise was deafening; in an instant, alarms rang throughout the Third District, and then the entire prison.

A bomb!

Fuck your mother!

Someone wanted to blow me up.

Screaming colleagues rushed out, some with fire extinguishers, others escaping in a sorry state, the entire floor was in chaos.

...

The fire was quickly extinguished.

Victor sat on the steps of the green space downstairs, smoking a cigarette, hands slightly trembling.

Let's be honest, who the hell isn't scared?

His ears were still buzzing.

"Victor."

Casare ran over anxiously, holding his shoulder and giving him a thorough look-over, "How are you feeling? Need to go to the hospital?"

This was the God of Wealth; if he just died like that, where would he go to make his fortune?

"Someone wants to kill me."

Victor took a deep breath, pinching his cigarette between his thumb and index finger, slightly tilting his head back as he exhaled smoke, "Can't go to the hospital."

He looked around cautiously, lowering his voice, "And there's definitely a mole in the district, otherwise how could such a bomb have been brought in?"

"Who do you suspect?" Casare asked softly, equally nervous.

Victor's gaze swept over his colleagues and suddenly caught Anna glancing at him from the corner of her eye. When she saw him looking, she conspicuously turned away, hugging a colleague and offering comfort.

That bitch is suspicious.

Victor was a person of small tolerance for offenses; if you wronged him, letting it go was out of the question. Anna definitely knew something!

He nodded slightly, and Casare followed his gaze, "Anna?"

"You know her?"

"I know all the women from the psychology intervention department. I've wanted to get with them for a long time."

Victor nearly laughed out loud at that, covering his chest and coughing twice.

"I've checked the files of every one of them. This Anna has a brother, a college student. But I heard he's also a delinquent."

"Get Best to dig deep into this. I want to know who wants me dead!"

…

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