Working as a police officer in Mexico

Tijuana: 2000 Pesos.

Juarez: 3000 Pesos.

Sinaloa: 4000 Pesos.

...

For Victor, this amount of money was considerable at the moment.

The tribute that Sinaloa had to pay to the Director of the Federal Police Bureau every month was 450,000 US Dollars. The 5,000 Pesos, merged and scraped together, were like a handout to a beggar.

"However, I assume that the Third District houses the heads of more than 17 organizations, right? Why don't the others pay up?" Victor pointed at the list as he spoke.

Anna was dumbfounded by this, her face freezing over in a strange expression. She tried to put it gently, "Sergeant Victor, perhaps some people are not aware of your appointment."

"That makes sense, but I'm a man who values fairness. Those who haven't paid should each give a greeting gift of 2000 Pesos. That's not too much to ask for, is it?"

"I'll pass on the message."

Seeing that he was all about the money, Anna could only bite the bullet and agree.

Victor seemed very calm. In the Third District, besides the Warden, Daddy was the boss. Didn't you know that if you don't use your authority, it expires?

He was in urgent need of money to grow his power, and if he could fleece anybody, of course it was for the best.

Anna thought this guy was too greedy to live long, so she didn't bother to waste more words on him, exchanged a few words, and left.

The Deputy Warden on previous duty only lasted 2 months, and although he received nearly 100,000 Pesos in tribute, his entire family was wiped out just the same.

All because he'd crossed a Drug Lord in the district.

Too much greed shortens one's lifespan.

If Victor knew what she was thinking, he'd definitely have a word with her, as if those who weren't greedy could live a century. "Just give money, you could kill my whole family and it wouldn't matter because I have nobody, and if you give enough money, I'd even take you to my ancestors' grave. If you don't mind the trouble and add more money, I'd let you blow up the grave."

After sitting in the office for more than ten minutes, feeling restless, Victor put on his hat, grabbed the keys, and planned to take a walk around the district to see which big shot would be best to cozy up to.

The Third District was much quieter than the first two.

Without yard time, there was no noise.

As soon as he reached the cells, he heard a woman's voice from inside, a provocative scream that echoed deeply in the empty corridor.

Damn it...

What time is it?

They're still at it?

Glancing at his watch, Victor walked with his hands behind his back toward the cell block. The cells here were single rooms with private bathrooms, about 20 square meters, equipped with air conditioning, TVs, and even game consoles.

Better accommodations than the police dormitory.

The hierarchy within the prison was clear, the most dangerous criminals were always kept in the deepest part.

"Hey!"

The prisoner in the outermost cell heard footsteps, turned his head and saw a cop, whistled casually and said, "For lunch, I want a tuna fish fry and a corn cake, and bring me a bottle of Tequila."

Victor glanced left and then right.

"Damn it, I'm talking to you, remember that!" the man got up from his bed and kicked the railing, causing a reverberating sound.

This was an older man, about fifty years old, with a rather violent temper.

Victor blinked.

Stepan Blanquart

Male

Born 1949 in Medellin, Colombia.

Dropped out of school at 16 to join gangs and start a criminal career, from car theft and street fraud to kidnapping, smuggling, and gradually making a name for himself.

Joined Pablo Escobar's Medellin Cartel in 1973, serving as a technical head.

In November 1985, Pablo financed the left-wing guerrilla attack on the Supreme Court building in Bogota, Colombia, taking 300 hostages. Stepan Blanquart played the role of a liaison officer in the incident.

Appointed as the chief officer for Mexico City, North America in 1986, working with organizations such as Sinaloa and Tijuana.

Arrested in 1987 for beating up a prostitute in the red-light district, he's been in prison ever since.

Crime Value: 77,000 points!

...

Indeed, a tough character.

The guy from the Medellin Cartel had shown up.

In fact, starting with the first generation Drug Lord, Pedro Aviles, Mexican drug traffickers have been doing business with Colombians, he was known as the first Mexican drug trafficker to cooperate with Colombians.

He was also the first to use airplanes for drug trafficking.

The payment for each trip was half the value of the cargo, but since Mexico was so close to the United States, the profit was lucrative for the Colombians too.

This became the cooperation model for subsequent international drug trafficking organizations such as the Guadalajara Cartel and Gulf Group.

With a high score of 77,000 points, killing him would be enough to exchange for a jet plane used for aerial spraying of pesticides.

You could even redeem a small boat with them.

This firepower was far more fierce than that of the "Mongol" under the Seven Warlords of the World.

"Hold on a second."

Victor pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket, which listed the drug lords they had given "courtesy" to, and carefully scratched with his right hand, "Are you from the Medellin Cartel?"

Stepan Blanquart raised an eyebrow and sized up the man before him.

"I'm sorry, but you didn't pay up, so I can't serve you." Victor folded the paper neatly and put it back into his pocket. "You don't pay, it makes things difficult for me."

Is this about money?

Stepan laughed in anger, with a grin that seemed capable of swallowing a child whole, "You know who I am, right? And you still dare to ask me for money." He suddenly reached out, grabbed Victor's clothes, and yanked hard.

Victor laughed. You threw the first punch, so officially, I'm allowed to hit back now.

Even if the warden called him in for a talk later, his actions would be justifiable.

He grabbed hold of Stepan's thumb and broke it with a forceful twist. The latter clearly tried to twist it back, clenching his teeth and exerting all his strength as if his life depended on it, but being older and out of practice, a crack was heard and his thumb was brutally broken by Victor.

Stepan cried out in pain, clutching his thumb and stumbling backwards.

Victor took out his keys and opened the door, then pulled the baton from his waist, extending the steel rod with a swing and smashing it down towards Stepan's head, frightening him into hastily raising his hands to block.

"Stop! Stop!"

"You motherfucker think you can be so arrogant without paying the gratuity? Medellin Cartel? This is Mexico. Do you not look at a map when you're out and about?"

Victor swore it wasn't just because the guy hadn't paid him and it was a blow to his pride; he genuinely wanted to teach the criminal a lesson.

After all, he had already offended the Gulf Cartel; what was there to fear in offending others?

A multitude of lice don't itch; a mountain of debts don't worry.

If you're meek and compliant, do you think these drug lords will respect you or look at you differently? To them, a cop is nothing more than a government-housed dog.

But if you beat them so bad they can't recognize their mothers, they won't dare to talk back.

They're vicious, so be even more vicious than them!

Patrolling jail guards, hearing the commotion, rushed over, stopping at the door, at a loss, only to see a sergeant beating Stepan Blanquart, known as the "Rat," with a baton. The once arrogant man was now curled up into a ball, covering his head and crying out in pain.

After tiring of the beating, Victor turned to see the two patrolling jail guards standing at the door, tossing the baton aside, startling them both too much to come inside.

Cowards!

Victor sneered, crouched down, and looked at Stepan's bloody face, grabbing his neck, "Fucking remember to have someone make up the courtesy visit fee, or else, I'll beat you up every day when I come to work."

After wiping the blood on his hands on the prisoner's uniform, he walked out of the cell, glancing at the guards, "Get him a doctor. And, my name is Victor, the new Deputy Warden."

Quite the fierce self-introduction.

Came up and started with the prisoners.

The two jail guards dared not enter the cell, afraid that Stepan Blanquart, with his bad temper, might take his anger out on them after the beating.

"Quick, go call a doctor. I'll report to the warden."

The over 200 jail guards of the Third District were in an uproar.

A tough new guy had arrived!

He had beaten a drug lord, making many guards look at him with new respect, but others scoffed. And still, some secretly placed bets on how he'd die.

The odds of getting shot to death within a week were 1 to 1.7.

The odds of being chopped up and stuffed in an oil drum were 1 to 7.

The odds of being dismembered were 1 to 6.7.

These were the three killing methods drug lords favored most.

Meanwhile, Anna in the psychological intervention office was applying red nail polish to her toes—quite sexy—and listened as a colleague barged in breathlessly, presenting the story as if they had witnessed it firsthand.

"What do you think, has he gone mad?" her colleague asked.

Anna was stunned. In her mind, like a movie, she could already envision him being shot dead by outside drug traffickers. She shook her head vigorously, slipped on her shoes, and ran off to notify her lover.

Watching her leave, several colleagues glanced at each other.

"That bitch is definitely going to take credit again," the colleague who had come in muttered jealously. This woman from the psychological intervention team had the best performance and was the most attractive.

The spite between the women was astonishing.

...

When Kona Belask returned from his meeting, he ran into Anna, who seemed in a great rush, and he even found the mood to pat her on the buttocks.

"Chief, Victor... he beat up Stepan Blanquart in Cell No. 1," Anna said.

Anna watched as Kona Belask's face turned green in an instant right before her eyes.

She swore...

It was just like the face-changing act she had once seen in the United States.

...

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