Tijuana: 2,000 pesos.
Juárez: 3,000 pesos.
Sinaloa: 4,000 pesos.
...
This money was quite a lot for Victor at the moment.
Sinaloa paid $450,000 in monthly tribute to the federal police chief. These 50,000 pesos, collected together, were like alms for beggars.
"However, I think the third block should hold leaders from more than 17 groups, right? Why don't the others pay money?" Victor pointed at the list above.
This confused Anna. Her face froze, her expression strange. She tried to speak diplomatically, "Sergeant Victor, some people might not know about your appointment."
"Makes sense, but I believe in fairness. The remaining organizations that haven't paid should each pay 2,000 pesos as a meeting gift. That's not excessive, right?"
"I'll help convey the message."
Seeing that he had fallen into money obsession, Anna could only bite the bullet and agree.
Victor seemed very calm. In the third block, except for the warden, he was the biggest. If you don't use power when you have it, don't you know it expires?
He urgently needed money to develop influence. If he could fleece the sheep, that was naturally best.
Anna thought this guy was too greedy and wouldn't live long. Too lazy to waste more words on him, she chatted briefly and left.
The previous deputy warden had only lasted 2 months. Although he received nearly 100,000 pesos in tribute, his whole family also died cleanly.
Just because he offended the drug lord bosses in the block.
People who are too greedy don't live long.
If Victor knew her thoughts, he'd definitely chat with her about it. As if people who aren't greedy can live to a hundred. As long as you pay money, you can kill my whole family and it's fine. I'm alone anyway. If you pay enough, I can even take you to the ancestral grave. If you don't think it's too much trouble, pay extra and I'll let you blow up the ancestral grave too.
After sitting in the office for more than ten minutes feeling uncomfortable, Victor put on his hat, took the keys, and planned to walk through the block to observe which boss's thigh was suitable to hug.
The third block was much quieter than the first two blocks.
No exercise time meant no commotion.
As soon as he reached the cells, he heard women's voices from inside, very stimulating moans that echoed deeply in the empty corridor.
Damn...
What time was it?
Still going at it?
Victor looked at his watch, put his hands behind his back, and walked toward the cell area. These were all single rooms with independent bathrooms, about 20 square meters, equipped with air conditioning, televisions, and even game consoles.
Better treatment than police dormitories.
There was also a clear hierarchy in this block. The most dangerous criminals were often in the deepest areas.
"Hey!"
The prisoner in the outermost cell heard footsteps, turned to see a police officer, whistled, and said casually, "I want tuna tacos for lunch, and bring me a bottle of tequila."
Victor looked left and right.
"Damn it, I'm talking to you! Did you hear me!" The other got up from bed and kicked the bars, making a shocking sound.
This was an older man, about fifty, with a rather violent temper.
Victor blinked his eyes.
Stepan Blancard
Male
Born in 1949 in Medellín, Colombia.
Dropped out at 16, joined gangs, began criminal career, from initial car theft and street fraud to later kidnapping and smuggling, gradually gaining some reputation.
Joined Colombian tough guy Pablo Escobar's Medellín Group in 1973, serving as technical leader.
In November 1985, Pablo funded leftist guerrillas to attack Colombia's capital Bogotá's Palace of Justice, taking 300 hostages. Stepan Blancard played a liaison role.
Served as chief representative for North America Mexico City in 1986, cooperating with organizations like Sinaloa and Tijuana.
Arrested and imprisoned in 1987 for beating prostitutes in the red-light district, held until now.
Criminal value: 77,000 points!
...
Indeed, a tough character.
Even Medellín Group people had appeared.
Actually, starting from the first-generation drug lord Pedro Avilés, Mexican drug lords and Colombian drug lords had business dealings. He was the first known Mexican drug lord to cooperate with Colombians.
Also the first drug lord to use planes for drug transport.
Each payment was half the value of the goods, but because Mexico was so close to the United States, this profit was also lucrative for Colombians.
This was also the cooperation template for later international drug trafficking organizations like the Guadalajara Group and Gulf Group.
With 77,000 points, if he killed him, he could exchange for a crop-dusting jet.
Or a small ship.
This firepower was much fiercer than the "Seven Warlords of the Sea" Mongolia.
"Wait a moment."
Victor pulled out a paper from his pocket with drug lords who had given "meeting gifts." He carefully crossed out names with his right hand, "Are you from the Medellín Group?"
Stepan Blancard raised an eyebrow, looking him up and down.
"Very sorry, you didn't pay money, so I can't serve you." Victor folded the paper and put it back in his pocket, "You don't pay money, which makes it difficult for me."
This was asking for money?
Stepan laughed angrily, grinning like he could swallow a child's head whole, "You know who I am, right? And you still dare ask me for money." He suddenly reached out and grabbed Victor's clothes, pulling hard.
Victor smiled. You made the first move, so officially, I'm allowed to retaliate.
Even if the warden talked to him later, he could justify it.
He pressed Stepan's tiger's mouth and forcefully twisted it. The other obviously wanted to twist back, pursing his lips and using all his strength, but after all, he was old and had lived luxuriously for a long time. There was a crack, and Victor forcefully broke his finger.
Stepan cried out in pain, covering his finger and staggering backward.
Victor took out keys, opened the door, pulled out a telescopic baton from his waist, swung it hard to extend the steel rod, and smashed it toward Stepan's head, scaring him into quickly raising his hands to block.
"Stop! Stop!"
"You fucking don't give meeting gifts but act so arrogant. Medellín Group? This is Mexico. Don't you look at maps when you're out here?"
Victor swore it wasn't because the other didn't pay money and he lost face - he simply wanted to discipline a criminal.
Anyway, he had already offended the Gulf Cartel. Was he afraid of offending others?
When you have many lice, they don't bite. When you have many debts, you don't worry.
Being submissive - did you think these drug lords would respect you or treat you differently? To them, police were just dogs kept in the government.
But if you beat them so badly their mothers wouldn't recognize them, they wouldn't dare babble.
If they were fierce, you had to be fiercer than them!
Hearing the commotion, patrolling guards quickly ran over and stood at the door, at a loss, watching a sergeant holding a baton beating the prisoner nicknamed "Rat," Stepan Blancard. Usually arrogant and domineering, he was now curled up in a ball, covering his head and wailing.
Victor, tired from beating, turned and saw two patrolling guards standing at the door, casually threw the baton over, scaring both so they didn't dare enter.
Cowardly as mice!
Victor sneered, squatted down, looked at the bloody-faced Stepan, grabbed his neck, "Fuck your mother, remember to have someone make up the meeting gift, or I'll beat you every day I come to work."
He wiped the blood on his hands on the other's prison uniform, walked out of the cell, glanced at the guards, "Get him a doctor. Also, my name is Victor, the new deputy warden."
What a tough self-introduction.
Coming up and beating a prisoner first.
The two guards didn't dare enter the cell, afraid that the bad-tempered Stepan Blancard, who had just been beaten, would take his anger out on them.
"Quick, go call a doctor. I'll report to the warden."
More than 200 guards in the third block were in an uproar.
A fierce person had arrived!
He actually beat a drug lord, which made many guards look at him with new respect, but some mocked this, and some even privately opened bets on how he would die.
The odds of being shot down within a week were 1 to 1.7.
The odds of being hacked to death and stuffed in an oil drum were 1 to 7.
The odds of being dismembered were 1 to 6.7.
These were the three favorite killing methods of drug lords.
In the psychological intervention group office, Anna was painting her toenails red, very sexy, when she heard colleagues rushing in making a fuss, describing the incident as if they were there themselves.
"Do you think he's crazy?" the colleague asked.
Anna was stunned listening, her mind playing like a movie, already imagining how he would be shot to death by outside drug dealers. She shook her head hard, put on her shoes and ran to notify her lover.
Watching her leave, several colleagues looked at each other.
"That bitch must be going to curry favor again." The colleague who just came in muttered with slight jealousy. In this psychological intervention group, she had the best performance and was the most beautiful.
The hatred between women was incredible.
...
When Cona Velasquez returned from the meeting, he happened to encounter Anna. Seeing her hurried appearance, he was still in the mood to pat her buttocks.
"Sir, Victor... beat Stepan Blancard in cell number 1."
Anna watched as Cona Velasquez's face instantly turned green.
She swore...
It was just like the Eastern face-changing she had seen in America.