Working as a police officer in Mexico

But even if he was nervous inside, he kept a carefree appearance—if you wanted to act the part of the big brother, you had to look the part. However, bringing a bomb into the prison showed a serious determination to kill him.

The Warden Webster had also arrived, accompanied by Cona Velasquez, their brows furrowed as they looked at the smoking building, conversing.

"What do you think they're talking about?"

Casare glanced over, "Maybe they're figuring out how to embezzle some of the repair funds."

"I guess, they're wondering why the bomb didn't kill me, the bastard."

Casare was taken aback, just then Victor continued, "Here they come."

Upon hearing this, the former looked towards the two superiors and saw them hurriedly approaching. Cona Velasquez's face contorted as if he were constipated when he saw Victor.

While Webster's eyes seemed to flicker then immediately showed concern, "Victor, how are you? Are you injured?"

"No, just really frightened." Victor managed a smile and gestured towards his destroyed office, "If I hadn't suddenly had something to do, I'd already be meeting my father right now."

Webster's eyelids twitched, "Don't worry, I will definitely get to the bottom of this and give you an explanation. Do you want to take a few days off? I can give you a two-day leave."

A leave?

You really hope I die, don't you!

Victor appeared very resistant, "Sir, I still have work, and I can still work. I cannot hide just because I'm scared. This is retaliation against me, and I will never give in. God is protecting me, and also protecting Mexico!"

His voice grew louder, and nearly everyone heard, "Mexican Police will not be intimidated by fear! Justice will prevail!"

Casare could almost sketch out the characters with his toes at the side.

What's the difference between saying this in public in Mexico and taking a public dump?

But Victor truly was of "Hollywood" extra caliber, his facial expressions so solemn as if he were a martyr on his way to the scaffold.

His words were beautiful; it'd be a shame not to run for office.

Webster squinted his eyes, his temper flaring. It became clear to him that this seemingly honest and obedient Victor was no good either.

The death of Haggis was already full of doubts.

But how could this bastard, who should have died long ago, keep thriving like a weed, leaving Webster anything but comfortable?

However, after spending so much time in the cesspool of politics, he had long mastered the art of speaking to different audiences with ease. He patted Victor's shoulder, giving some compliments, and publicly declared an intention to follow up on the matter.

Casare's scalp itched just watching.

He couldn't learn to spout such blatant lies.

There's a saying, second-rate actors perform on a stage, while first-rate actors are in politics—especially in places like Mexico, where you can never tell which politician has been bought by a drug lord because their TV performances are all identical.

They appear righteous but are actually hypocrites.

But what could you do? If you wanted to live longer, you had to learn to lie.

Webster left, clearly unhappy.

"Check who else is in his family," Victor said, watching the boss's retreating figure and speaking to Casare.

"What are you planning to do?"

"Are you crazy? That's a government official."

"Seeing him so pitiful, we really should pay his family a visit."

A visit?

Casare always felt like you were out to kill his whole family.

"Relax, I haven't gone mad enough to lose my mind," Victor stretched out his hand, signaling for a pull up, "I just suddenly really want to see what his despair feels like?"

Casare tensed up.

Damn it, I knew it, there's no one normal in Mexico!

...

Boom!

The sky over Mexico City flickered with lightning.

The downpour began abruptly, drenching pedestrians by the roadside who scattered like wild dogs in a panic.

Magdalena Misuka District.

At the entrance of Ramon Lopez Belarde University.

A grey Toyota was parked by the curbside, its wipers old and squeaky, leaving greasy traces on the glass.

Inside sat two chain-smokers, puffing away one cigarette after another, filling the car with smoke.

Best was flipping through a Playboy magazine that had come from the United States, a coveted item. Its pages bore several unidentifiable white spots, evidently weathered by constant handling.

This was truly a valuable commodity.

A favorite among the lower echelons of Mexican gangsters and one of the reasons they yearned for the United States.

It was said that over there, women's busts were huge.

Like cows.

As the bell for the end of class rang, Best, who had been lying in the driver's seat, tossed the magazine aside, glanced at his watch, and with a cigarette in his mouth, straightened his seat and enlarged his eyes to look outside, although the glass was a bit foggy.

"Damn, finally, class is over. Do students now have so much pressure during school hours? Studying is truly tiring, might as well join a gang instead."

"Studying has a future," said the person beside him.

"Like being decent folks like us? Or end up working odd jobs after coming out."

Best's academic performance had always been poor and he even seemed to resent studying, a typical believer in its uselessness and couldn't be bothered to argue.

"Is it that one, Duke?" Suddenly, he noticed someone who looked similar, pointing at a student a little over 1.7 meters tall, with hair dyed red and green. He took out a photo and compared it.

Best was an experienced hand; he had prepared after receiving a call from Casare. He bribed a teacher inside the school, spending 100 pesos to get a photo, or else how could he recognize the target?

"Looks like it. I'll drive over and shout."

Best quickly released the handbrake and moved sluggishly towards him, planning to get closer, but the target was alert. He turned his head, sensed something amiss, and bolted.

"Duke, go after him!"

No man could outrun a car; with a press on the accelerator, they pulled up beside him, and Duke leaned out of the window, grabbed the person's collar, and forcefully yanked him in.

Covering the target's mouth, they pulled forcefully into the car with extremely rough movements. The target struggled vehemently, even reaching out to grab the steering wheel.

Best, infuriated, backhanded him with a punch, knocking him out cold.

"Duke, hold him down for me!" He gestured impatiently with his hand. "Call Casare and tell him the target is caught.."

Duke pulled out a Motorola DynaTAC 8000X from the back seat, the bulky cellphone used by the older generation, dialed the number, and after two rings, someone on the other end answered, "Hello!"

"The job is done."

"Good, bring him to the abandoned warehouse ten kilometers northwest of the prison, Best knows the place," the voice said before hanging up.

Duke turned to look at Best, who could hear everything clear as day due to the phone's poor sound insulation.

"Why pick that place."

"What's up?"

"Nothing. That place, before, forty-some Asians trying to smuggle into the United States died there, may Buddha bless us!"

Mexicans also have their superstitions.

"You've stopped believing in God?"

"My God has already been killed by drug traffickers, and the only faith in death is abandonment. Maybe it won't be long before I become a devout MSL."

"But right now, what I believe in most is cash. Once I get rich, I'll go to the Vatican and build a temple."

...