Working as a police officer in Mexico

"He's so arrogant now! Sir, I even feel he's more brazen than any drug trafficker I've met, you didn't see it, he fired a shot! He fired a shot in Plateau Prison!"

Inside the Warden's office.

Haggis Baird's face turned red, and he waved his arms around, visibly agitated, leaned on the desk with both hands, staring intently at Webster, "I even suspect he's possessed by the devil, he's nothing like the man he used to be!"

Webster, with a cigarette in his mouth, replied, "The devil? Then you should go looking for a priest in the Vatican, but are you sure we don't have any little boys here, would they even come?"

The corner of Haggis Baird's mouth twitched, "Sir, there's nothing funny about this." He paused, his breath slightly labored, "You promised you would help me kill him!"

"My family gave you 20,000 US Dollars!"

Webster's eyelids lifted slightly, "He's requested a transfer to the Third District."

This news stupefied Baird, causing two "??" to flash across his mind.

Even the dogs wouldn't go to the Third District; although those big shots were physically restrained, their temperaments were downright bizarre. You never knew which word or action of yours might suddenly infuriate them.

Drug traffickers are utterly inhumane!

In Mexico, if you offend the president, you will face legal judgment.

But if you offend a drug trafficker, you will understand what it means to wish for death over life!

From mayors to villagers, if you anger them, tomorrow your head might appear in Mexico City, your arms in Santiago City, and your butt in Tijuana—don't doubt it, they have that capability.

"He... he..." Baird was at a loss for words.

"Inform him that he is to work in the Third District starting tomorrow." Webster took a transfer order from the drawer and tossed it in front of Baird, leaning back with his hands crossed over his stomach, "In memory of his deadbeat dad, I've granted his request."

"How long he lives is now in God's hands."

Looking at the transfer order in his hands, Baird felt it wasn't direct enough. In Mexico, such subtlety was unnecessary. They were the Gulf Group, the oldest criminal organization. He was just a little jail guard, wasn't he?

Just find some guys to kill him, and everything would be settled, right?

Police killings are all too common in this country.

"I know what you're thinking. If you're capable, go find someone outside to kill him. But inside the prison, we must play by the rules. You can't let a drug trafficker arm himself with a gun and storm into the jail guards' dormitory to kill him, can you? That's provocation.

Last time, to make Tijuana and Juarez go at each other, a lot of people died; settling the matter cost quite a bit, and some higher-ups have started to criticize me, so I need to keep a low profile lately."

Webster was a sly fox.

That soccer match was actually a premeditated murder against the two organizations!

Back then, a Tijuana underboss nicknamed "Clown" Gagliardo died. He was the illegitimate son of the Tijuana Group's leader Benjamin and was quite favored. His death triggered open warfare between the two major groups outside!

One of the three giants, Sinaloa, was also forced to join the battlefield.

The Gulf Group profited handsomely from this.

For that soccer match, the Gulf Group handed five million US Dollars to the Chief of the preventive police department.

Every action was for the sake of profit.

"As long as the price is right, even God could be sold."

"Jesus must have had a price tag at some point."

Baird wasn't too happy with Webster's arrangement, but what could he do? In any organization, the other person's rank was higher than his own. He saluted silently, and walked out of the office.

Standing at the door, he began to grumble under his breath. He tucked the transfer order under his arm and walked to Office No. 2 of the Second District, where Casare was sitting and making coffee. "Where's Victor?"

"Restroom," Casare pointed to the office's bathroom. As he finished speaking, he saw Victor shaking the water off his hands as he came out.

"Victor, Sergeant Baird is looking for you," the hefty Casare called out to him with a hint in his eyes.

"Your transfer order has arrived. The warden has approved your move to Third District as the Deputy Warden. Congratulations, buddy." Baird handed over the transfer order with a sardonic smile, "I hope you can last a long time in your new post…"

"Oh?" Victor took the transfer order and took a sigh of relief after seeing the seal on it. The first step of his plan was complete. He seemed not to notice the "curse" in Baird's tone and responded with an appreciative smile.

A bitter taste lodged in Baird's throat, and with a darkened face, he left.

He didn't forget to slam the door heavily behind him.

With a bang, even the dust settled.

As soon as Baird left, the anxious Casare couldn't wait to speak up, "Victor, you're going to the Third District? That place is dangerous… don't you know? Just last year, nine jail guards died. Even though it was outside the prison, it's obvious it was the drug traffickers' retaliation."

"I heard of some poor guy who got kidnapped with his wife and daughter during his vacation because he refused to wash a drug trafficker's feet. They were found dead in the forest three days later with not a single piece of good flesh on their bodies."

"And Quim Luca, you know him, the good-looking one—my classmate. When he was at the Third District, he caught the eye of a drug trafficker with homosexual preferences, but he wouldn't give in. Later... they cut off his genitals and hung them up in the street!"

Casare trembled as he spoke, and his pupils even dilated with fear.

Clearly, drug traffickers had left an indelible shadow in the heart of Casare, the police officer.

Thwack!

A hand landed on Casare's shoulder. "What are you afraid of?"

Casare lifted his head to meet Victor's gaze.

"All you're afraid of is death, but why shouldn't they be the ones to die? In this screwed-up society, words are useless. The only thing that can speak for you is a weapon. If a drug trafficker is holding a pistol and you have an AK, who do you think should be scared?"

"My old man used to tell me all the time that you have to have a sense of justice as a person, the young need to have drive, and need to understand that morality is the bottom line of being human. And what happened? He got beaten to death himself. I get it now, at any time, you have to climb up. The words of a mere underling don't get heard by anyone."

"Why did you become a police officer?"

"For..." Casare stumbled.

"Don't tell me it's for some bullshit justice. Don't be too rigid in life and work; absolute justice is doomed to fail. To survive, you have to be ruthless. In the cafeteria, if I hadn't taken that shot, do you think I'd still be standing? Those sons of bitches, are they afraid of the law? No, they're afraid of bullets!"

Victor patted Casare's face. "If someone bullies you, you fight back. If you can't fight back, you find someone else to take the fall. Drug traffickers are human too, they're also afraid of dying. I don't believe there's a bullet that couldn't be stuffed in their mouths."

Though he talked tough, the fear that had been ruled by drug traffickers for decades wasn't so easily dispelled.

"Don't worry, in Mexico, I'll live even longer than God."

"How about a drink after work tonight? My treat," Victor said with a smile.

...

The prison work hours were nine to five.

No overtime required.

Since Plateau Prison was about fifty kilometers from downtown, many officers chose to live in the dormitories, but not far outside the prison, a "night market" provided plenty of services.

Victor had little interest in the prostitutes by the roadside, mainly because he was afraid of becoming an AIDS Warrior, regretting it too late. If he was going to have some fun, it had better be with a Hollywood star.

All were selling themselves, just a matter of paying a bit more.

It was Casare who was less discerning, giving the women a once-over, "We're two guys here."

The lady sized up Victor, "For two, it'll be extra."

"How much?"

"Ten pesos each, half price for the second one."

At this, Casare's eyes lit up. He nudged Victor with his elbow, lowering his voice, "Victor..."

"Forget it, I'm not interested. You can go ahead if you want, but I think you should take precautions."

With a conflicted expression, Casare found the woman quite to his taste, but since Victor wasn't interested, he couldn't just leave his buddy behind. Just as he was about to refuse, he heard Victor say, "You go ahead, I've got something to deal with. When I'm done, I'll meet you at the open-air bar."

With that, he even pulled out twenty pesos and handed them to the lady, "Take good care of my buddy here."

He slapped Casare on the shoulder and walked off toward the distance.

Casare was puzzled, following the direction Victor was heading, he spotted a familiar figure. Was that... Haggis Baird?

"Sir!" The lady pushed him, taking his hand quite assertively and leading him into a tent behind her.

Victor indeed saw someone he knew; Haggis Baird's ugly mug was second only to Franklin in his mind, the latter being significant for one reason — he was US dollars.

This guy followed someone who looked tough to deal with into a secluded RV. Wanting to know this person's identity was easy for Victor, right?

One blink of his right eye.

All the information popped up.

"Mil Baird.

Male!

Born in 1970 in the Baird criminal family of Chihuahua City.

Nickname: 'Family Watchdog.'

At 18, robbed a French tourist with associates, killing and mutilating the victim; at 19, joined the family's drug trafficking business, using bodies for smuggling across the US-Mexico border, and in the same year, shot dead three Chihuahua City policemen.

He was listed as Chihuahua City's 67th most wanted criminal, with a bounty of 6,000 pesos; at 20, he tormented and murdered a Chihuahua City anti-drug councilor, killing and dumping the body.

Recent focus: The family assigned him to kill an opponent, nicknamed 'Madman,' the old-school boss of LOS Chihuahua City confined in Second District of Plateau Prison — Miguel H. Ramírez.

Criminal points: 900."

So the "family" had sent someone, no wonder Haggis, despite being horny as hell, hadn't sought out a woman.

In the past, he would be with his little crew, but now...

He was alone?!

Victor's eyes suddenly lit up.

He touched his waist; no weapon on him.

The prison didn't allow carrying firearms outside of work hours, and in Mexico, the restrictions applied mainly to government departments, while others were lax.

Maybe it was to give criminals a chance for retaliation.

But...

Victor still had the 1,000 points he had earned from killing Hoyle in prison.

Enough to exchange for a weapon of choice.

Having learned from one setback, he didn't like to leave danger behind. Now that Haggis was alone, it was time to take him out!

Kill him and toss the body outside, who the hell would know it was him?

He looked around and, with hands in his pockets, walked nonchalantly towards the back of the RV, listening with ears perked.

"What? You want me to kill Miguel H. Ramírez?" Haggis's voice.

"It's a family order," Mil Baird's voice was hoarse, as if his vocal cords were damaged.

Haggis was silent for a moment.

"No problem, but I want you to help me kill someone. He's annoying and getting in the way of my rise in Plateau Prison."

"Who?"

"Victor Carlos Vieri."

"No problem, he'll be dead outside soon."

The killing intent in Victor, leaning against the RV, grew stronger.

You damn want to kill me, but I'll kill you first!

He blinked once, and a redemption window appeared.

Balance: 1000.

He exchanged forty points for two old Russians-made F-1 hand grenades!

Time to blow you up, you son of a bitch!

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