Working as a police officer in Mexico

After visiting the school, Victor finally checked out the militia self-defense team of San Miguel village.

Their ages were uniformly between 19 and 25, in their prime.

There were about 40 of them.

They held AK47s issued by the government, which didn't require much skill; just pull the trigger, no grenades, landmines, or bulletproof vests.

One word: Fight!

The drug traffickers who come to such a village could not be on a large scale. A dozen or so, or even twenty-something, wouldn't they be pinned down and beaten?

Never underestimate the blood of Mexican villagers.

In 2012, a minor leader of the Knights Templar Cartel, with 30 drug traffickers, went to collect a "cultivation fee" and ended up clashing with the local villagers.

The villagers brought out RPGs, blew up the pickup trucks brought by the traffickers, and laid down suppressive fire with machine guns. The video was viral on the foreign internet.

Most importantly, they executed the drug traffickers from the Knights Templar Cartel, beheading them one by one!

The drug traffickers, of course, would not let this slide and soon launched an attack on the village. But the Village Head had already rallied other nearby villages, resulting in a fierce "war."

The battle raged for three days, and the police did not come to break it up.

About 70 drug traffickers and more than 20 villagers died.

This was also a result of the "Mexican Militia Self-Defense" system. In this country, even hunting dogs become as brave as lions.

Cowardice only brings death closer to you.

Mexicali City Hall had sent people three weeks in advance to train them, so they had a basic grasp of tactics, knew at least about crossfire.

With further training, these militia would make for excellent soldiers.

Consider it an early investment.

However, to prevent serious incidents or reduce accidents, firearms could not be carried privately. They were the responsibility of the Village Head, the primary person in charge of the village. Each village was allocated 2000 rounds of ammunition per month, with remote areas getting 3500, but there was always someone checking monthly.

Even one round missing had to be accounted for.

Victor's current policy was, "Do not control the circulation of firearms, but the bullets must be in control."

Anyone illegally possessing firearms and ammunition had to go to jail.

It was precisely because of such a high-pressure situation that Baja California could gradually become peaceful and stable.

"Not bad, having this level of techniques and tactics in such short time is great, but you still need good training. In a while, Baja California will recruit a large number of police officers, and they will preferentially select from among you. When that time comes, don't bring shame to your village," Victor said with a smile, clapping his hands.

Hearing this, the militia's eyes all lit up.

Joining the police force now meant a high salary, at least no more hungry days.

The welfare and benefits for Mexican police were gone after Carlos Salinas adopted IMF's low-salary civil servant system; things like ammunition, weapons, and bulletproof vests had to be bought by themselves.

That was one reason why police in different states had different models of weapons.

But under the governance of Victor and Alejandro, Baja California was completely different. Police became highly paid, and families of fallen military police received a monthly compensation of 1800 Pesos, which was equivalent to 800 US Dollars.

During Calderon's drug ban in 2006, he provided a monthly sum of 10,000 Pesos to families of the fallen, equivalent to 483 US Dollars.

The years were 1990 and 2006, and the exchange rates were different.

At that time, the Peso was quite resilient.

One of the reasons Victor wanted to finish off Salinas was that this guy directly signed the humiliating North American Free Trade Agreement, which robbed Mexico of any chance to rise again.

The people became nothing but tools for production, and likewise, with the economy flourishing, the ugly underbelly was the poor and the hungry amongst the lower classes.

Many believe that the increase in the number of drug traffickers after 1990 was due to the signing of the North American Free Trade Agreement.

Of course, that's a story for another time…

Two more years…

And then, Victor would not agree to this crap!

"When I go back, I'll discuss with Mr. Alejandro about providing support to rural schools throughout the state and offering scholarships to outstanding students, so they don't have to miss school because of poverty."

"We also want all children to understand that knowledge can change fate!"

"Education is useful!"

Upon hearing this, the Village Head's eyes welled up with tears, grasping Victor's hand, "Sir, we've suffered so much!"

Victor gently patted his shoulder and spoke softly, "Don't worry, with me here, the times will be different."

Click!

The accompanying journalist hurriedly captured this moment.

The sunlight behind Mr. Victor, the aged Village Head with a hunched back, and the mud houses in the background told of the desolation of the place.

The headline was ready.

"Mr. Victor—The Hope of Mexicans!"

Victor even glanced at the camera.

Without a camera…

You can't summon the spirit in your speech.

Uncle Victor was naturally camera-friendly.

...

Quintero had a long dream.

In the dream…

He was arrested.

Ha ha ha, how could that be possible?

Who would dare to arrest him in Mexico now!

He was in line with Salinas, and even with the DEA searching the world for him, what could they do but cry?

Bang~

Suddenly, he heard a faint sound by his ear, like tapping on something. It gradually grew louder, as if a hand gripped his neck and yanked him up.

"Ow, ha..."

Quintero suddenly opened his eyes, gasping heavily, with sweat dripping down his forehead, his pupils filled with panic. Subconsciously, he moved his hand, and the pain from above immediately spread to his brain.

He turned his head and saw his left hand… nailed to a wooden board.

And he himself was literally nailed to a cross.

"Aaaaahhh!"

The excruciating pain made him scream out loud.

"Sir, don't yell. Here, you could scream your throat raw and no one would respond," a shadow emerged from the darkness, wearing a mask, clad in a white lab coat, "Welcome to Mexico International News Department, oh no, welcome to Mr. Victor's hell, you can call me B2, that's my nickname."

As he finished speaking, the lights around lit up, revealing what looked like an ordinary factory hall.

"I'm sorry, time was too tight, we couldn't recreate it one to one. Does this place seem familiar to you?"

Quintero's mouth trembled with pain as he saw a photo hanging directly opposite and suddenly began to scream and struggle.

"It seems you recognize it, but let me introduce it to you anyway." B2 said with a smile, pointing at the photo, "Mr. Enrique Camarena, the famous anti-drug hero and also our idol. You tortured him and his colleagues for nearly an hour in a similar farm."

"The coroner found a total of 179 wounds on his body. Rest assured, we will leave an extra one on you."

B2 pointed to a box piled up to the side, "Inside there are a total of 78 tubes of adrenaline and 2000mm of type A blood, the same type as yours. If that's not enough, you'll just have to grit your teeth."

"Now let's begin with the first step…"

B2 picked up the scalpel with a smile, "Cutting off your ear."

Enrique Camarena's photo on the wall stared intently at Quintero, and he couldn't help but cry out as B2 advanced towards him.

"Don't come over... don't come over!"

How strong could the psychological defenses of a drug trafficker be?

Their bones...

had long been rotted away by drugs!

Quintero himself was a user, for him, it was a way of "enjoying life".

B2 brutally cut off his ear with a single slice.

Quintero let out a scream, his whole body trembling in pain.

...

At this moment in a dark room nearby, one could clearly see everything happening inside although those within couldn't see them.

Casare involuntarily touched his own ear, which felt chillingly cool, as he glanced at the boss.

Victor was very calm, still holding a cigarette in his hand.

With the recent stress, he had started smoking more than usual.

"Boss, could he be killed by this?" Casare hesitated to ask, "If the DEA receives a corpse, its value will be greatly reduced."

"Death is not so easy. A human can withstand 18 atmospheres of pressure, survive 26 minutes at 104℃, and the lowest temperature limit is about 14.2℃. A shot of adrenaline and as long as his blood loss isn't too severe, wanting to die? Heh, heh." Victor chuckled.

He looked around and threw the cigarette butt into the trash can.

Above the wall read: Littering fines five yuan.

You see, Uncle Victor follows the rules quite well.

"Missing a few parts won't matter, let's coax some secrets out of him first."

The methods of the CIA are even more "crude" than these.

Let's put it this way...

Some actions of the CIA, if performed on their own soil, would have the public believing they should be shot, completely heartless.

Who in the intelligence work had clean hands?

"Later, have Leanna come to see his lover. Let them talk intimately." Victor suddenly said.

Casare understood the boss all too well.

When the two met, wouldn't Quintero be done for, physically done for, and then wouldn't they possibly forgo the bounty?

Leanna's list of crimes was long, using her journalist status to cover for Quintero multiple times, even using journalist vehicles to help the Guadalajara Cartel transport drugs.

Victor kept his word only for two types of people, one who had never trafficked drugs, and one who he favored.

Unfortunately, Leanna was particularly displeasing to him.

An informant?

This woman only had value because of her connection to Quintero, she was no longer useful.

Casare nodded his head, looking inside at Quintero, suddenly feeling a bit sorry for him. If you had died earlier, how nice would that have been? You would have been extradited by the Yanks and at most spent a few decades in prison.

And now look...

Your body is not even intact anymore.

It is best to leave professional matters to the professional "Mexico International News Department." He's been in a good mood lately, cultivating his character.

As he walked out of the interrogation room, he saw the secretary hurriedly jogging over, "Boss, Mr. Cuauhtémoc and his team have arrived in Mexicali."

"Let's go meet them."

Victor had already encountered Mr. Cuauhtémoc, the father known to Mexicans as President "LS Cardenas."

Here's a way to describe him.

"The macho man of Latin America, Mexico's most dazzling eagle, a global asset!"

If he formed an association with him, Victor would no longer worry about Mexico's political issues, and he could stop worrying about backstabbers.

…

Cuauhtémoc stared out at the bustling streets, lost in thought.

He was a man of action, swiftly taking leave and arriving in Baja California with his family under the protection of a few agents. The agents handed them over to a policeman waiting in the border region and left.

The accompanying officer was a Senior Police Sergeant named Carlos.

This man had captured Zambada with bravery in combat, earning a well-deserved promotion, essentially being pushed forward as an "exemplar".

"What is that?" Suddenly, Cuauhtémoc's wife pointed to a platform nearby and asked.

"That's a gallows, ma'am," said Carlos, glancing at her with a grin.

"Every day a drug trafficker is hanged there!"

No sooner had he finished speaking than the sound of a gong rang out, and the people around started to gather to watch the excitement.

A drug trafficker with his head covered was led by police officers up to the gallows.

"Hang him! Hang him!" the crowd shouted.

The drug trafficker shivered in fear.

Helpless against the police officers fitting his head in the noose, then a lever was pulled.

The platform below him opened, and he was left hanging in the air, desperately struggling, but much like a fish on a chopping board…

It appeared rather comical.

All the people cheered, shouting, "Kill the drug trafficker!"

"Welcome to the drug-free city: Mexicali!"

…

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