"Why did you beat him!"
"Don't you know the first rule of our third block is that we don't allow abusing prisoners?"
"Are you new to prison? Idiot, they're more precious than your parents in prison. If you want to die, why drag us down with you!"
Cona Velasquez angrily slammed the table, pointing at Victor and cursing, not because he truly "cared" about the other party, but because he was afraid.
That was someone from the Medellín Group!
If the Guadalajara Group used the "plaza" system to let all Mexicans make money, then Medellín's Pablo was simply arrogant.
He even wanted to run for president.
At that time he had already become a congressman, but was publicly exposed by a conscientious justice minister. How did Pablo, who always cared about face, handle it?
He directly had the justice minister killed.
Might as well flip the table - your bones definitely aren't harder than bullets anyway.
Kidnapping high officials' children, torturing and killing Supreme Court justices, attacking the president, bombing civilian aircraft - who would want to mess with that?
Of course, that's not to say the Guadalajara Group wasn't fierce.
At least they dared to target DEA (Drug Enforcement Administration) people. Even Pablo at his most arrogant knew that killing ordinary Americans was fine, but if you touched the DEA, they would really fight you to the death.
Stepan Blancard's arrest was also an accident, because Mexico and Colombia had no extradition clause and both sides were arguing. Most importantly, the US also wanted to extradite him for domestic trial.
But that didn't mean you could just bully Medellín people.
This was fucking courting death.
Cona Velasquez was afraid of being dragged in. Medellín always killed to the roots when they killed.
Looking at the superior in front of him who wanted nothing more than to draw his gun and kill him, Victor appeared very calm, pointing to his clothes, "He attacked first. I could feel his intent to harm me. This was forced retaliation."
"Go tell that to the drug dealers!"
Cona Velasquez was too lazy to waste his saliva on a "dead man." This morning he was still friendly, now he was full of disgust, pointing outside, "Get out, you idiot. If you don't believe it, go to the cell with a dog chain and kneel, begging for their forgiveness."
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
"Very sorry, my profession doesn't allow me to do that. I'm a police officer. It's not that I fear criminals, but that evil should fear me!" Victor refused, saluted, and walked straight out the door.
"Bastard! Son of a bitch! Idiot!"
Cona Velasquez was stunned hearing his words, complex emotions appearing in his eyes, but they were quickly replaced by ferocity as he cursed loudly, "Just wait to die."
Police officers passing by outside also saw this scene and heard their conversation.
Some looked at him with respect, others looked at him like a dead dog.
There were always people who still held moral bottom lines in this dirty society.
...
But actually it was all bullshit.
That sentence was completely Victor's own addition. If he didn't say it out loud, how could he improve his "positive image"?
The Mexican government was corrupt, but that didn't mean everyone was a lackey. Some people were trying to save this country. They hoped to find like-minded people and give them power.
Pablo was wild outside, but he also knew to maintain his base. When he died, tens of thousands of people in his hometown Medellín saw him off.
People have two faces when alive: one for others to see, one for themselves.
In the light, I raise the patriotic flag high.
In private, patriotism is a business.
This was called building a persona. If he had money in the future, Gao planned to publish books and start a TV station, all to build up his image.
Brother, it's just a matter of saying a few words. No one would take it seriously, right?
Victor looked at his watch and left work early. No one criticized him. Even the guards thought the deputy warden wouldn't live much longer. Life was already shortened, let alone work hours?
But obviously the events in the third block quickly swept through the entire prison.
When he walked out, familiar people pointed and whispered, not daring to approach and talk. When he reached the cafeteria and stood at the window, no one came to serve food.
Everyone was afraid of getting involved.
Avoiding danger was the instinct of carbon-based life forms.
Victor wasn't annoyed. If no one would serve food, he'd do it himself. He even scooped up more than ten chicken legs, packed them back to his dormitory. What he couldn't finish could be a midnight snack.
"He's still not running? Not afraid of retaliation?"
"Run? Run where? Even if you go to the government building you could be assassinated. The prison is actually safer. If I were him, I'd stay here for life and never go anywhere."
Colleagues gathered in groups pointing and whispering, but one pair of eyes looked at him with very complex emotions.
...
Evening.
It got dark quickly.
The light in the dormitory was somewhat dim. Victor was writing in a notebook, stopping and starting, occasionally frowning in thought.
You could see dense writing covering much of it.
For example: Strive to be externally assigned as a bureau chief with real power within half a year to a year.
Try not to choose locations in territories of large cross-border organizations like Sinaloa or Tijuana, but going through the states one by one, damn it, the territories controlled by drug dealers covered the entire country.
The poorest Chiapas state, because it bordered Guatemala and led directly into Central America, had too good a geographical position and was now also rampant with drug lords.
He could only settle for second best.
He selected three places: Guadalupe Island in Baja California state, this island in the center of the Pacific, with a population of about 80,000. Because it was close to the United States, drug lords were rampant, but because it was surrounded by sea on all sides, it would be more difficult for drug dealers to launch large-scale "armed attacks" like on land.
Traditional homeland territory of the old power Tijuana.
The second option was: Taxco in Guerrero state. This city was in deep mountains and old forests, previously inhabited by Indians. Later, because the Indians' scalps were too itchy and they cut off their scalps, this place became a gathering place for Mexicans. Population over 100,000. Because transportation was inconvenient but convenient for hiding, this was a cultivation area.
The third was: Juárez city in Chihuahua state, ancestral stronghold of Juárez, located on the south bank of the Rio Grande, across from El Paso, USA. Classic smuggling paradise where you could see small submarines transporting drugs at night.
These three places were his choices. In the notebook, he wrote even more detailed plans. When externally assigned as bureau chief, he needed to develop at least 30 gunmen under his command.
Some of these people could be added to police departments through connections. Then he could take his team with him when taking office, freeing up many constraints.
The rest would get involved in the local "black gold" market, contracting arms business, continuously providing him with intelligence and US dollars.
Then use this money to invest in higher-level powerful people.
The plans in the notebook were very detailed. If thrown out and picked up by someone on the street, they might think it was some "idiot's" dying fantasy. But for Victor, who had life goals and aspirations, this was his starting point!
If a person has no goals, what's the difference from a salted fish?
"Knock knock knock."
Just as he was adding to his notebook plans, the door sounded with heavy, deliberate knocks, perhaps not wanting others to hear.
Victor stuffed the notebook into the desk, took out a Colt M1911 from nearby - exchange value 120 points, about the same as a CZ 25 submachine gun.
He released the pistol safety and carefully walked over.
Even in prison, you had to be careful.
"Who?"
"It's me, Casare." The voice at the door was deliberately lowered.
Victor opened the door, looked out, and only after seeing who it was did he remove the door chain, pulling the fat man inside and looking left and right before closing the door.
"Figured it out? Working with me?" Victor asked directly.
Casare wanted to be a whore while building a memorial arch, waving his hands, "I don't deal drugs. My father was killed by drugs. I swore I'd never touch drugs in this life."
"That stuff has too much competition. With your small frame sticking your foot in, you'd probably be lying dead in the wilderness tomorrow."
Drug dealers certainly didn't want anyone competing for their market.
If one more person came, they'd make one less dollar.
Colombia's famous "gentleman" drug lord, the Cali Group, still had to apply to Pablo to do business. One of the founders, Gilberto, was childhood friends with Ochoa, one of the Medellín Group leaders, which got them a sales permit for the US cocaine market.
Ironic, right?
But this business - if you don't have the strength, really don't get involved.
Those with strength dealing drugs were called warlords, those without strength were called gangs, and those with even less strength were called petty thugs.
Victor bent down and pulled out a big red suitcase from under the bed, like the kind used for weddings. Under Casare's gaze, he opened it. Inside lay quietly an AK-47 and a CZ 25 submachine gun.
He picked up the AK, pulled the bolt with his other hand, and patted the metallic gun sound, "I'm in this business."
"Weapons?" Casare was truly shocked.
Before coming, he'd thought of many possibilities - maybe Victor would steal cars, organize prostitution, or even sell blood. But he never imagined he'd play this big.
"I have a route in the Soviet Union. The risk is a bit high, but the profit is very high. I just don't know how much guts you have?"
"This AK-47 is pure Soviet goods. I don't care how much you sell it for, I only want $200. The extra is your salary. If you have the guts to sell it for $1000, I still only want $200."
"How about it? If you have good salesmanship and sell this gun, it would be enough for your whole family to eat for a year. The scariest thing about being out here is not making money. I'm giving you a chance to make money now. My principle is that when there's food, brothers eat together; when there's money, brothers earn together. I won't forget you for good things like this."
Before Casare could speak, Victor stuffed the AK-47 into his arms.
"Take it and test the waters first."
"But I think you should find an acquaintance first, or if you run into someone who robs you, I might have to attend your memorial service."
Did you expect to distribute flyers for the arms business?
Drugs might destroy people's will, but arms could collapse an entire system. See if Mexican military police would take you out.
Casare listened carefully.
"I have a cousin who works for a Mexico City gang as a leader. I can contact him."
Victor wasn't surprised at all.
In Mexico, which family didn't have some relatives who were drug lords?
Even now, several major drug lords were related to each other.
"Alright, let's make money together!"