Working as a police officer in Mexico

The two men bid each other farewell, Victor walked into the dorm and shut the door. Within seconds, the wooden door cracked open a sliver.

An eye watched Casare's retreating back, and only when he had entered his own dorm did the wooden door slowly close.

Victor turned on the light, and the dorm room was laid bare.

About 15 square meters, with a bed, a bathroom, and a desk.

One could see spider webs on the walls.

The air was permeated with a smell of decay.

The treatment of the Mexican Police was atrocious; having a roof over your head was already a luxury, let alone a bicycle.

Victor lifted the toilet seat, took a leak, then stood at the sink washing his hands. After all, no man washes his hands if he doesn't pee on them, right?

He looked up, meeting the gaze of the reflection in the glass. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, like those of a man who had just committed murder in a TV drama.

He fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket, put it in his mouth, and fumbled with a lighter, but the one-peso lighter was not cooperating. Victor flicked it hard, and with a snap, a tiny flame sprung to life.

"Join me for one."

He nervously touched his cigarette to the "person" in the mirror and cracked a small smile; the "person" in the mirror mimicked the gesture.

The death of Haggis Baird was a relief to him.

Because with fewer malicious eyes around, life didn't seem as precarious.

The next one... Webster Ashburn!

That man had many strengths but one glaring weakness; he was petty. You want to kill me? Why would I waste my breath on you?

But after all, he was the Warden, not some random beggar on the streets of Mexico City. He was considered upper echelon; the forces behind him were a tangled web. To kill him required careful planning.

One misstep could cost everything.

Lying on the wooden bed, his weight caused it to creak loudly.

Victor mulled over his next move.

Having killed Haggis and Mil, the Baird criminal family was unlikely to let things slide. A family that stands tall in the face of crime is by definition lawless, and retribution was nearly within reach.

The only consolation was that he was in Mexico City, and Chihuahua City was not close by.

It was essential to make money quickly!

Even years later, gang upstarts knew that aligning with a well-off leader was the key; just buy them a milk tea, and they'd happily bring a sweet young thing home at night.

Drug traffickers and gangs in Mexico openly recruit members, offering meager salaries and a cut from the drugs they handle.

The lowest rank, living conditions worse than a dog's.

"The first pot of gold."

Victor furrowed his brow and thought it through carefully.

Drug trafficking—too competitive, too tainted, under too close a watch by the United States Drug Enforcement Administration.

Kidnapping—low profit, slow money, too many poor in Mexico, too many rich with ample security.

Human trafficking?

Victor hesitated, wondering if he could sell African migrants to France?

But nowadays, people don't need cotton pickers.

Furthermore, most human trafficking involved forced prostitution, slave labor, body parts, etc. Unless you're dealing on a large scale, small operations hardly make money.

Mr. Gao actually took the matter seriously and analyzed the pros and cons.

What's the most profitable trade in the world?

Apart from finance and the internet, it must be arms dealing, drug trafficking, and smuggling.

During the Prohibition era in the United States, the precursor to the Gulf Group made its fortune smuggling alcohol into the U.S., later turning to drugs after Prohibition ended in 1933.

Compared to these, arms dealing seemed rather "low-key."

It wasn't that criminals in Mexico or Colombia didn't want to deal in arms; it just required investment, unlike marijuana, where any farm could quickly bring in cash.

A one-peso item in Mexico could quintuple in value when transported to the U.S.

Most importantly, you manufacture weapons for sale in America?

It's like hauling coal from Datong to Inner Mongolia to sell.

The profit margin for arms is even something drug traffickers hesitate over. You just need to understand that the real money isn't in the hands of individuals; state-level sales are where the real profit lies.

The Penal Code is nothing but a means for some elites to exert a monopoly under the guise of law.

Arms dealing?!

Victor's eyes brightened instantly; apart from disposable henchmen, weapons were the Mexican drug traffickers' fastest dwindling resource, and he had just the way to replenish their stock with points.

He blinked, and simple data appeared before him.

Points: 2160!

Haggis had 300 points, Mil Baird 900, and after deducting the points for two grenades, he was left with this total.

With 2160 points, he could buy 108 F-1 hand grenades.

World War II junk, I'm only asking for 10 US dollars apiece, not expensive, right?

All together, that comes to 1080 US dollars.

Damn, that's not a good deal at all.

Victor flipped through the panel again, which conveniently indicated what could be exchanged.

A genuine Swedish-made Carl Gustav M45 submachine gun — 70 points.

A Czech-made CZ 25 submachine gun with original factory markings — 120 points.

An AK-74 assault rifle produced by the Izhmash Company — 150 points.

This price is a steal; a Haggis could buy two AKs.

And the international selling price of an AK ranges from 300 to 800 US dollars, of course, I'm talking about the genuine articles from the original factory, not those fakes from the outskirts of Darra in Afghanistan—you certainly can't mention those.

With its high cost-performance ratio, AK47s are drug traffickers' favorites, outgunning military and police forces.

With 2160 points, I could exchange for 14 guns. Even if I sold each for 200 US dollars, that would be 2800 US dollars. That earns more than selling hand grenades.

2800 US dollars, nearly two years' salary.

Victor's eyes reddened as he did the math.

People who've really been poor get really red-eyed at the sight of money.

He took a deep breath, forcing down the surging excitement in his heart, trying to stay calm.

You can't just go up to anyone on the street and ask if they want to buy; that's asking to get double-crossed.

I need to cover myself with a layer of protection.

Better yet, find a "tiger's skin" to bolster my courage.

That means using my job to find a decent "mountain" to lean on in the Third District.

In the game of careers, you always need someone to lend a hand.

Otherwise, you won't get far.

Though impatient at heart, he knew that haste wouldn't bring success. Now that he had a target, the thing to do was to sleep.

But the moment he closed his eyes, thoughts of getting rich filled his mind.

Tossing and turning, sleep eluded him.

It wasn't until nearly dawn that his eyelids began to battle, and he fell asleep.

…

Just as he starts work in the morning, Casare hears a "shocking news" in the prison cafeteria.

"Haggis is dead!" said a colleague at a nearby table "quietly," but somehow managed to draw the attention of everyone around.

"Really? Impossible," his chatting coworker asked in surprise.

"True. This morning when I went to the Warden's office to submit some documents, I heard it mentioned over the phone. It happened last night at the night market. I also contacted some friends outside, and they said, Haggis and Mil Baird's bodies were carried off to the Sinaloa Group. Apparently, Guzman paid them 150,000 pesos."

This amount elicited a round of gasps from the jail guards.

150,000 pesos, that's like 75,000 US dollars, damn...

Do you know what this represents?

Some shook their heads in feigned regret, "Can't believe Haggis is dead. He was a bit proud, but still a decent guy."

Of course, there were those who disliked him and made some snide remarks, which were quickly silenced by their mates who had good relations with them, reminding them that you can't talk about someone with a family backing them.

Casare chewed on his potato, but it tasted like wax. He couldn't hide the shock in his eyes.

He hadn't expected Haggis to be the one who died!

This made him even more suspicious of Victor's whereabouts yesterday.

Suddenly, a pair of hands slapped down on his shoulders, startling him so much that his spoon fell to the floor.

"Huh? What are you thinking about? You look scared."

The newcomer picked up the spoon from the ground, placed it on the table, and sat across from him with a smile, "Thinking about a woman?"

Looking at that familiar face, Casare swallowed the potato mush in his mouth and then squeezed out a smile, "No... not really, your sudden slap just reminded me of a horror movie."

Victor unceremoniously grabbed a potato from his plate, broke it open, stuffed it into his mouth and said, "Tastes good, looks like Uncle Sals is in a good mood today."

Casare gave an awkward laugh, took a sip of soup, and looked up, his eyes hesitant but still questioning, "Victor, Haggis is dead."

"Oh? That's too bad, but may God bless him," Victor replied casually, without any sign of surprise.

"Aren't you curious how he died?" Casare asked urgently, licking his dry lips.

Victor glanced at him, "Buddy, asking and paying too much attention to how the deceased died is disrespectful. Do you think Jesus would like it if people discussed how he was nailed to a cross?"

I wonder what those medieval priests were thinking.

Using a cross as a LOGO, how is God supposed to bless you?

It's like whispering in your ear, reminding you, "Hey buddy, you died quite uniquely."

If God blesses you, that'd be something.

Looking at Victor's demeanor, Casare glanced around, leaned forward, and with urgency in his brows, he asked in a lowered voice, "Has Haggis's death got nothing to do with you?"

Victor's smile gradually faded until it vanished.

…