Working as a police officer in Mexico

Chapter 40: 40: Read More, Speak Less!

"If you've got connections in the arms trade, I think we could make a good profit together," Alejandro said.

Getting into business?

Victor was certainly interested.

He leaned forward slightly, "Please elaborate."

For him to use "please," the matter must be significant.

"I'm being transferred as a senior assistant to the security department in Mexico, tasked with drug enforcement in Chihuahua State and coordinating with the military. Last night, an old classmate whom I hadn't contacted in a long time suddenly reached out to me. He hopes I can help him connect with the military to buy some weapons for him," Alejandro explained.

On hearing this, Victor raised his eyebrows, "What does your classmate do?"

The Mexican Military has always been on the forefront of corruption. They sell their weapons to drug lords in exchange for cash, and these traffickers then use those weapons to kill civilians on a large scale. To some extent, the military is an accomplice.

But to tell the truth, the military budget of the Mexican Government is really trash.

Can you believe that in 1989, the military budget was less than 1.5 billion US dollars?

The army doesn't even have proper tanks, only armored vehicles.

And the air force?

US-made F-5E fighters.

The navy has nearly 40,000 personnel and has set up two fleets with two Knox-class frigates and escort ships made by Americans in the '60s.

Knox-class? What kind of warship is that? Those were hastily built by the Americans towards the end of World War II with the intention of fighting the Japanese in the Pacific. However, by the time they were ready, Japan had surrendered, so these ships never saw action.

By the '80s, the Americans stopped using them and began to offload them in a fire sale.

These ships, even the Seven Warlords of the World wouldn't take a second glance at them; they prefer their own little boats.

Military pay is generally the lowest across all industries. You might as well beg.

You don't pay, yet you expect these people to fight drug traffickers?

It's like putting a condom on your head—it's the wrong end you're trying to cover.

So in the brutal drug enforcement gunfights, you might even see Mexican soldiers wielding wooden sticks.

The magical and abstract world of Latin America.

"You might have heard his name; he's Aguilar, a former commander at the Mexican Federal Security Directorate, now in charge of Juarez," Alejandro said.

Fuck!

Dude, your old classmate is that kickass, and you're struggling this bad?

But on second thought, it makes sense. Drug lords usually prioritize "interests first." If you're not useful to them, they couldn't care less about old friendships.

"So, you haven't contacted the military?"

Alejandro's tone escalated, "Of course, I have. I reached out to Brigade General Derek Alvarez of Chihuahua's 18th Brigade. He told me that the unit's weapon inventory is less than 25%, all sold off by a former commander!"

"Even the armored vehicles got sold off," he added.

Victor was dumbfounded by the level of corruption within the Mexican Army.

Taking a deep breath, Alejandro continued, "Aguilar is a very proud man; he doesn't like being rejected. I had no choice, which is why I'm coming to you, buddy."

"I do have some contacts, but what exactly do you need, boss?" Victor asked directly.

All about benefits here, why bother with sentiment?

In Mexico, if you talk about sentiment, you're not far from death.

"$30,000 in introduction fees, and rest assured, I'll put in a good word for you," Alejandro stated.

"No problem, I'll have it sent to your place," Victor agreed instantly. Money-related issues are never big problems as long as they can be solved with money.

After agreeing on a time, just as Victor was about to hang up, Alejandro on the other end called out again, "Wait, there's one more thing."

"The Day of the Dead is the day after tomorrow. Security tasks in Mexico City are quite burdensome, and the security department hopes you can dispatch some people starting tomorrow to take care of the safety of the small town of Miski," Alejandro requested.

They're pulling out the jail guards for patrol duty?

Can it get any more ridiculous?

Victor frowned; he knew that it was an order from the security department, and there was no use in complaining. "How many do you need?" he asked.

"No specific requirement, but the more, the better. You know how some drunks like to cause trouble during the Day of the Dead. Your own safety is the most important," Alejandro advised.

After hanging up, Victor rubbed his chin in thought.

The Day of the Dead often brings trouble; it's best to bring more people, ideally an armored vehicle so you won't have to fear gunfights.

But he looked at his points balance: 10789 points.

That wasn't even enough to exchange for a wheel, let alone enough to trade for weapons with Juarez dealers.

When it comes to life and work, one must take big strides; even if it involves straining yourself, it doesn't matter.

We can just slap a band-aid on the egg.

Victor's eyes flashed with malice, it looked like he'd have to drag out one of Third District's immortals for a sacrificial offering. He pressed the internal line phone, "Casare, come here for a moment."

...

Night.

The Sicilian Falcon slept soundly, curled up in a corner.

Suddenly, he heard the noise of the cell door opening. Already a light sleeper, he woke up instantly, jerking his head up only to see three figures rushing towards him, one of them clamping a hand firmly over his mouth.

The Sicilian Falcon's pupils dilated as he kicked his feet violently, making muffled noises, attempting to resist. But his body was frail to begin with, and being in prison without money meant a poor diet.

His nutrition couldn't keep up.

One of the attackers pulled out a thumb-thick rope and looped it around the Sicilian Falcon's neck, squeezing it tightly.

The Sicilian Falcon's eyeballs seemed to pop out, his face turned red, cheekbones trembling, and he even smelled a stench of urine, as a wave of liquid spread out.

A "huh huh" noise came from his throat, his hands flailing, but soon his body stiffened and then he lay limply on the floor.

He was strangled to death!

These three worked efficiently, hanging the rope on the bed and then placing the Sicilian Falcon's head inside the loop, making it look like a hanging. Their technique was amateurish.

After everything was done, the three men locked the cell door and left.

They didn't see the pair of eyes in the first cell, staring intently.

...

The Sicilian Falcon was dead!

This news shocked the Third District. Warden Kona Belask swallowed hard at the sight of Falcon's ghastly state before him.

A prison doctor squatted beside, surveying the marks on the neck and the scene. "Warden, it appears he hanged himself."

"Hanged?!"

Kona Belask felt it absurd, pointing at the rope casually hung on the bed and laughed angrily, "You hang it up and try?"

The prison doctor found himself in a difficult position.

At that moment, a voice came from the door, "What happened here?"

Kona Belask turned and saw Victor at the doorway, which complicated his expression. What was once a mere Deputy Warden had now become his boss.

"Warden," the Jail Guards inside the cell called out. Kona Belask reluctantly followed, "Deputy Warden."

Victor gave him a glance.

You don't want to improve at all, do you?

"The Sicilian Falcon hanged himself. The time of death was over 8 hours ago," the prison doctor said.

Upon hearing this, Victor became furious, confronting Kona with a menacing air, "How is this under your watch? How could there be a suicide? Haven't you been patrolling?"

Kona was completely taken aback by the barrage of questions.

"You can't do the job properly and you're nowhere to be seen. Take a suspension for self-reflection. Casare will act as manager of the Third District," Victor stated sternly, frowning.

Kona's face went sour at once.

But under Victor's gaze, he could only begrudgingly accept it.

"Process and cremate the body according to procedure," Victor ordered.

Before leaving, Victor glared at Kona, while Casare patted his shoulder, speaking softly, "It's okay, the Warden is just like that. I'll speak to him. Once he calms down, you'll come back. I'll manage things for you in the meantime."

As Victor was about to leave the cell, he suddenly turned his head and saw Stepan Blanquart hurriedly shift his gaze to the book in his hands, sweat dripping from his temples.
Read further on m_vl em,pyr

"Stepan," Victor suddenly called out.

"Yes, here..." The other instinctively answered.

"Read more books, pay good attention. The more you read, the less you'll have time for idle thoughts."

Stepan Blanquart met Victor's gaze and turned pale, nodding frantically.

Victor gave him one last profound look before leaving the cell.

Standing at the door.

He said to Casare, "Stepan doesn't seem to be in good health. Do you think he might have a contagious disease?"

Casare immediately got the hint.

"Then I'll move him to another cell for isolated observation and management."

"You take charge of the Third District. No more suicides," Victor instructed.

"Understood," Casare replied.

...