Working as a police officer in Mexico

Chapter 29: 29: The True Mexican.

Islaparolada district. A factory covering an area of about 400 square meters.

The sign hanging at the entrance had a semblance of legitimacy: "Mexican New Generation Hope Technical School."

It was October and fall had arrived, yet Ryan was still wearing short sleeves, shouting through a megaphone at the twenty-odd skinny adolescents sprawled on the ground, "Hold it up! Hold it up! What the hell are you doing? Fucking the ground?"

While speaking, he stepped on the buttocks of a kid next to him, and the latter collapsed to the ground, both arms shaking.

"If you want to make money, you must endure hardship. Even whores have to wear out the sheets every day, and you don't have what it takes for that. You can only suffer more. Let me tell you, if you don't pass in 3 weeks, you all can fuck off."

This technical school was just a front, as Holder and his guys advertised it around the district with megaphones, offering room and board, and promising job placement for those with good grades, with a minimum monthly wage of 600 Pesos.

With that kind of deal, I would even kill for it!

Many parents sent their children here, and at first glance, it seemed rather shady.

But it's also said that there are so many poor people in Mexico, and families there typically have lots of kids; ordinary families simply can't afford to raise them all.

Having a place to eat for free, who gives a damn?

On the first day, over 100 showed up, but Ryan picked out thirty of them, including 8 girls, with an average age of 18.

Don't underestimate women...

Perhaps it's the perceived deficiencies of their gender that cause them to be "looked down upon" in many industries, but it's precisely this advantage that allows them easier access to targets and a higher likelihood of completing missions.

And when women get vicious, even "Jesus would fast."

Not to mention the Colombian "Black Widow" Blanco, who was dealing drugs while Pablo was still peddling electronics. Later, when he could no longer make ends meet, he sought her out and asked the big sister to bring him into the business.

Who would have thought, Blanco was Pablo's leader, and she even invented the motorcycle assassination technique, where two people work as a team, one drives while the other sits behind to shoot the target, a method commonly seen in film and television dramas.

Besides her, there's also the "Pacific Queen" Sandra, the new queen of Los Zetas, Claudia Ochoa Felix... and many more.

Why are firearms known as the great equalizers?

Because they transcend the chasms of gender, ability, money, and power.

Bang bang bang~

The squad leader of the gunmen, Sergio and Juan, pushed in two tricycles frothing with steamy aroma. The trainees, who had been starving and growling on the ground, couldn't help but lift their heads and stare.

Mexican wraps, chicken and corn red and white soup, tortilla chips.

Just the cost of food per day would be about 30 US Dollars.

Well, 30 US Dollars to feed 30 people...

The capitalists are getting goosebumps.

Ryan glanced at his watch, stood with his hands behind his back, and nodded, "Get up, everyone get in line."

A few days of training had yielded some results; there was no raucous behavior anymore, and basic discipline was established. What can you train in 3 weeks?

Better than African "militiamen," anyway.

"Ryan!" Holder walked out of a room in the factory and gestured to him. When Ryan came over, he asked, "Have you collected the rent? Go buy some goods from Best."

Rent is the euphemism for protection money.

Now that the Islaparolada district was in their control, of course they had to collect protection fees. Wasn't Holder providing them with help? Wasn't that a labor income?

Luckily, this wasn't the United States; you'd even have to pay taxes for robbing a bank.

All the gunmen of "Mexican New Generation" were under Ryan's control; 50 percent was kept for organizational expenses, and the rest was used to purchase weapons.

"Collected it, a total of 87,475 Pesos. I'll buy some bullets this afternoon," Ryan said.

This one street alone brought in over 40,000 US Dollars in protection fees, not including other charges such as heat allowances, winter subsidies, and all other sundry items.

You think gangs do charity work?

Without money, who the fuck would fight to the death?

The Popes of the Middle Ages even sold "Indulgences," what would Jesus eat and drink without money? How would priests find their altar boys?

In 1989, just from protection fees, you could bring in 400,000 US Dollars a year. No wonder many illiterate mobsters got rich.

But precisely because they were illiterate, they lacked reverence. Read too much? Then you remember your place.

Holder!

The fucker hadn't even finished elementary school.

"Boss."

Someone rushed in through the door, face fierce, and with a bulky waistband, "The cops are here."

The cops? What for? Distributing flyers?

Holder's brow twitched, and he saw seventeen or eighteen policemen walking through the door, dressed in their uniforms, led by a Subinspector.

Holder, who had been involved in the police force, understood the significance of this rank; it was already considered a high-level police officer, many levels above Victor.

"Police patrol! Mexican Preventive Police Department Violent Crime Investigation Division, Danilo Sanborn," the leading Deputy Police Commissioner lifted his badge.

"What's the matter, Officer?" Holder limped forward, Ryan and his goons in tow, to meet him.

Sanborn scrutinized him, "I've received information that you're trafficking arms here, and that it's highly related to the Tepito district shooting incident. I need to conduct a search."

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Holder thought he had heard wrong and said with a laugh, "Officer, are you joking? This is a technical school. Ryan, bring over 2000 Pesos for the officers' afternoon tea."

"Bang!"

But who would have known that Samboerne would raise the gun in his hand and fire a shot at the ceiling.

Instantly, the entire factory fell silent, followed by the gunmen of "Mexico's Next Generation" going berserk. The police dared to swagger into their territory?

If they got kicked around by their peers, that was down to their own lack of strength, but to be scared off by the police? What's the point of being in the game then? Might as well go home and sell corn.

Juan and the others all drew their weapons, and the tension escalated as Samboerne and his police backup instantly tensed up, facing off against them.

"So the technical school has guns too?" Samboerne asked with a frown.

Holder looked at him, frowning, "Sir, what's a technical school for if not to learn to shoot? This is the Islaparolada district, my territory. You want to make trouble here with that antique in your hand? Are you fucking high?"

"Watch your mouth, I have the authority to question you!"

"Sorry, I won't cooperate. Show the police what firepower looks like," Holder said to Ryan.

The latter pulled out a box from under the table next to him. From it, he took an AK47, clicked a magazine into place, pulled back the bolt with a reverse grip, and then sprayed a burst at the ceiling.

"Sir, you don't even have the firepower I have, and you're trying to control me? Is your medical insurance enough to cover it, huh? A few hundred bucks a month, why are you so serious?"

"I'm charging you with illegal possession of a weapon now!" Samboerne's eyes lit up when he saw the AK47; it was identical to the weapon used in the Tepito district shooting. Soviet weapons were rare in Mexico, and this absolutely involved the man in front of him.

He said to the officers beside him, "Cuff him!"

"You want to arrest me? Where's your evidence? Tell him what this is," Holder pointed to the police officers next to Samboerne, Ryan's gun barrel quickly shifting towards him.

The officer swallowed hard, visibly nervous.

They were already reluctant to deal with the Tepito district shooting. Those guys had more firepower than the entire police force. Why should they confront them? Were they looking for death?

But the new boss was determined to make a name for himself, got some "informant" from who knows where, claiming that there were people here selling arms, and so he brought his crew over.

Pure idiocy!

Did you really think they wouldn't resist?

"So tell me! What is this?" Ryan asked loudly, frightening the officer, who glanced at Samboerne's grim face, "Fire...fire stick."

"Did you hear that, sir? This is a fire stick, not an AK47. You've got the wrong place. Next time if you have the guts, don't bring cops, bring the army, come in a tank."

Holder walked over unapologetically, patted Samboerne on the face, "Are you out of your mind? This is Mexico, not America. Deputy Police Commissioner? Pfft," he spat on Samboerne's badge.

That was the last straw for him, and he slapped Holder across the face.

Seeing this, Ryan quickly kicked Samboerne to the ground, smashed his head with the butt of his gun, while Juan and the others began shooting at the police. One unfortunate soul got hit in the shoulder, crying out, while the rest hurriedly fled.

The police in Mexico were just that disgraceful.

The bigger drug lords even had them watching the doors, like the later "Sky King" Armando, who had the police guard his mansion.

Pitiful combat ability, very pitiful...

Samboerne, his face covered in blood, wasn't satisfied with the beating he received. He raised the gun to pull the trigger, but Holder pushed down the cover, "Don't kill him here."

After all, he was a high-ranking police officer.

Not some lowly punk.

Even Guzman had to be sneaky when killing cops.

"Throw him out."

Holder heard Samboerne mumbling something as he lay on the ground. as he crouched down to listen closely, "I will definitely catch you guys."

Jesus, what a madman!

Is it worth all this...?

Samboerne's head lolled to the side as he passed out.

He remembered his childhood.

Back in the fifth grade, the tutor asked him and his cousin what they wanted to be when they grew up.

Cousin: "I want to be a bandit, make lots of money."

Samboerne: "I want to be a cop, the most righteous cop in Mexico."

Back then, the tutor gave him a candy. He still remembered—it was very sweet. As he grew up, doors opened for his career advancement, but everywhere he went, he was seen as rigid, aging, and his colleagues couldn't wait for him to leave.

He had felt the isolation, the loneliness, the helpless resignation before.

But he still remembered—the candy was very sweet.

He also remembered the tutor telling him that this path would be dangerous, brutal. But at that time, as he ate the candy, he said with a smile,

"Teacher, darkness will eventually yield to light! Just like Miguel Hidalgo, a true Mexican can never be defeated!"

But this path, it is very difficult.

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