"Good night, Victor."
"Sweet dreams, Casare."
The two said goodbye to each other. Victor walked into his dormitory and closed the door. After a few seconds, the wooden door opened a crack.
One eye stared at Casare's retreating figure. Only after seeing him enter his own dormitory did the wooden door slowly close.
Victor turned on the light. The dormitory was clearly visible at a glance.
About 15 square meters, with one bed, one bathroom, and one desk.
Spider webs could be seen on the walls.
The air was filled with a decaying smell.
Mexican police had extremely poor treatment. Having a place to live was already good enough - what more could you ask for?
Victor lifted the toilet seat and took a piss, then stood at the washbasin to rinse his hands. Men - if you didn't piss on your hands, who would wash them?
He looked up at the face reflected in the glass, his eyes somewhat bloodshot, just like the criminals in TV dramas... who had killed until their eyes turned red.
He pulled out a cigarette from his shirt pocket, put it in his mouth, and took out a lighter. He flicked it several times, but clearly this 1-peso lighter wasn't very cooperative. Victor shook it hard, and with a snap, a small flame ignited.
"Have one with me."
He somewhat neurotically touched the cigarette against the "person" in the mirror, with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The "person" in the mirror mirrored his movements.
Hagis Baird's death made him breathe a long sigh of relief.
Because you discovered that the malicious gazes around you had decreased, and your life was no longer walking on thin ice.
Next...
Webster Ashbourne!
He had many good points, but one flaw - he was petty. You want to kill me? What's the point of chatting with you?
But after all, he was the warden, not some beggar rotting on the streets of Mexico City. This was considered high-level, with complex forces behind him. To kill him, he'd have to plan carefully.
One careless move and he'd lose everything.
Lying on that wooden plank bed, his weight made it creak and groan.
Victor was thinking about his next path.
Having killed Hagis and Mill, the Baird family behind them definitely wouldn't let this go. Criminal families could stand tall precisely because they were lawless - revenge was imminent.
The only consolation was that this was Mexico City, and Chihuahua City wasn't close.
He had to make money hard!
Even decades later, those young troublemakers knew to recognize someone rich as their boss. As long as you bought them a cup of milk tea, they'd bring home spiritual little sisters at night.
Mexican drug dealers and gangs would openly post job advertisements when recruiting. Most only offered small salaries plus partial commissions on handled goods.
Bottom-level thugs lived worse than dogs.
"First bucket of gold."
Victor frowned, thinking carefully.
Drug dealing - too much competition, too much stigma, DEA watching too closely.
Kidnapping - low profit, slow money, too many poor people in Mexico, rich people had too much security.
Human trafficking?
Victor hesitated. Should he sell African blacks to France?
They didn't need cotton pickers anymore.
Moreover, human trafficking was mostly for prostitution, slave shows, human dissection, etc. Unless you operated on a large scale, small operations couldn't make money.
Gao actually seriously analyzed the pros and cons.
What made the most money in the world?
Besides finance and internet, it should be arms, drugs, and smuggling.
During American Prohibition, the Gulf Group's predecessor made their fortune smuggling alcohol to America. After Prohibition was repealed in 1933, they switched to smuggling drugs.
Compared to these, arms dealing seemed very "low-key."
It wasn't that Mexican or Colombian criminals didn't want to do it, but this required investment. How could it compare to marijuana - open a plantation and there were people willing to work, making money extremely fast.
Something worth one dollar in Mexico could be sold for at least five times more when transported to America.
Most importantly, manufacturing weapons to sell in America?
Wasn't this like hauling coal from Datong to Inner Mongolia?
The profit from arms was something even drugs had to look up to. You just had to understand that truly profitable businesses couldn't be controlled by individuals - things sold at the national level made the most money.
Criminal law was just a means for certain elites to create monopolies in disguise.
Arms?!
Victor's eyes immediately lit up. Besides their subordinates, the fastest thing Mexican drug dealers consumed was weapons, and he happened to be able to exchange points for weapons.
He blinked, and simple data appeared before him.
Points: 2160!
Hagis had 300 points, Mill Baird had 900, minus the points exchanged for two grenades, this was exactly right.
2160 points could buy 108 F-1 hand grenades.
WWII junk - selling them for $10 each wasn't expensive, right?
That would total $1,080.
Damn, not cost-effective at all.
Victor flipped through the panel again, which helpfully marked what could be exchanged.
Swedish authentic factory-produced Carl Gustaf 45 submachine gun - 70 points.
Czech original factory-labeled CZ 25 submachine gun - 120 points.
Izhmash-produced Kalashnikov 1974 (AK-74) assault rifle - 150 points.
These prices were cheap - one Hagis could buy two AKs.
The international selling price of an AK was about $300-800, of course referring to legitimate originals. You couldn't count those counterfeits from Darra village in the Afghan suburbs.
The AK-47 had high cost-effectiveness and was drug dealers' favorite for suppressing police and military forces.
2160 points could exchange for 14 guns. Even if he sold each for $200, that would be $2,800, much more profitable than selling grenades.
$2,800 was nearly two years' salary.
Victor's eyes turned red just calculating this.
People who had truly been poor could really see red when seeing money.
He took a deep breath, suppressing the surging excitement in his heart, trying to calm down.
This business couldn't just involve randomly finding someone on the street and asking if they wanted weapons - that would definitely result in being robbed.
He needed to create a cover for himself.
Best to pull a tiger's skin to embolden himself.
So he'd have to use his job to find a good "patron" in the third block.
Those climbing the political ladder always needed someone to give them a boost.
Otherwise, they couldn't go far.
Although he was urgent inside, he also knew that haste makes waste. Having determined his goal, what he needed to do now was sleep.
But when he closed his eyes, all he could think about was how to get rich.
Tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
Only near dawn did his eyelids finally fight each other and he fell asleep.
...
Just starting work in the morning, Casare heard "shocking news" in the prison cafeteria.
"Hagis is dead!" a colleague at the next table said "quietly," but strangely still attracted everyone's attention.
"Really? That's impossible." His conversation partner asked in shock.
"Really, this morning when I went to the warden's office to submit documents, I heard them on the phone talking about it. It happened at the night market last night. I even contacted friends outside, and they said Hagis and Mill Baird's bodies were taken to the Sinaloa Group. Reportedly, Guzman gave them 150,000 pesos."
This number caused gasps among the prison guards.
150,000 pesos, equivalent to $75,000. Damn...
Do you know what this represents?
Some people also shook their heads in feigned regret, "Can't believe Hagis died too. Although he was a bit arrogant, he was still decent."
Of course, others who disliked him made some sarcastic remarks, but were quickly pulled aside by close companions - he had family backing, couldn't be criticized.
Casare ate his potatoes, but they tasted like chewing wax. His eyes couldn't hide his shock.
Never expected it was Hagis who died!
This made him even more suspicious about Victor's whereabouts yesterday.
A pair of hands suddenly slapped his shoulders, startling him greatly. The spoon in his hand dropped to the floor.
"What? What are you thinking about? So scared."
The person picked up the spoon from the floor, placed it on the table, walked to sit across from him, and said with a smile, "Thinking about women?"
Seeing that familiar face, Casare swallowed the mashed potatoes in his mouth, then forced out a smile, "No... no, it's just when you slapped me, I thought of a horror movie."
Victor unceremoniously took potatoes from his plate, broke them apart, and stuffed them in his mouth, "Tastes good. Looks like Uncle Sals is in a good mood today."
Casare gave an awkward laugh, lowered his head to sip some soup, then looked up at Victor, who seemed nonchalant. His expression hesitant, he still spoke up, "Victor, Hagis is dead."
"Oh? That's really unfortunate, but God bless him." Victor said casually, showing no surprise.
"Aren't you curious how he died?" Casare licked his dry lips, urgently pursuing the question.
Victor glanced at him, "Buddy, inquiring about and excessively focusing on the deceased's manner of death is disrespectful. Do you think Jesus would like people discussing how he was nailed to death?"
Who knows what those medieval priests were thinking.
Using a cross as your logo - how could God bless you?
Wasn't this like telling you in your ear, "Hey, buddy, you died in quite a unique way."
It would be strange if God blessed you.
Seeing Victor like this, Casare looked around, leaned forward, his brow filled with anxiety, and questioned in a low voice, "Hagis's death - it has nothing to do with you, does it?"
The smile on Victor's face gradually faded until it disappeared completely.