Dragan almost choked on his own saliva.
"What? Eight hundred dollars? Are you robbing me?"
The spit almost sprayed onto Casare's face.
His head instinctively dodged backward, mainly because the other's breath really stank. If I were robbing you, would I negotiate prices? I'd just stick a gun to your head.
But in business, don't you start with high prices?
You think this is preaching?
"What, too expensive? AK-47s cost around $200 to manufacture. Shipping from the Soviet Union to Mexico, I'm only charging you cost. Dragan, have I ever lied to you since we were kids?" Casare took back the rifle and removed the magazine, "Standard 30 rounds. When you go out for shootouts at night and he has a pistol, he'll go limp immediately. But you, my cousin, you can use this to tell him who's the real boss of this street."
"Most Mexican organizations use American goods. If you become the first to use Soviet weapons, that would be so cool. Didn't you always say since childhood that you wanted to be the most unique one? American rifles shipped here would cost way more than $800, and among similar firearms, the AK has real combat experience."
Terrorists going out all use AKs - tried and tested.
Every word from Casare hit Dragan's heart. He looked at the driver and the two strong men in the back seat, tilting his chin slightly, "What do you guys think?"
"I think it's good, boss. If we had this thing, would the Whale Brotherhood dare compete with us for those two KTV venues? We'd kill them directly." The driver said bluntly.
The two strong men in the back seat also nodded.
Their organization wasn't large, just about twenty people, controlling two streets, collecting protection money from shops, especially big earners like KTVs and brothels. Annual revenue was about $500,000!
Regular subordinates earned about 1,000 pesos monthly. Dragan, as a "security backbone" responsible for charging, could get $1,000 monthly - absolutely high pay.
With money, of course you want more!
The boss said to take down the neighboring street, and salaries would double.
Don't think ordinary Mexican gangs are very powerful. They also use machetes. Firearms are scarce. Arms smuggled from America are all pre-ordered by major drug lords. The scattered ones that come through are divided up by big organizations with many informants as soon as they cross the border.
Small organizations like Dragan's had difficulty developing.
"Fine, $800 it is. Write me a receipt - I need to reimburse this." Dragan pulled out green bills from his wallet. Franklin's bald head looked damn handsome to Casare.
"Oh, make it $900."
Good guy, even taking kickbacks!
Scribble, scribble, scribble - he wrote the receipt and handed it over. Casare received the dollars with both hands and tossed over the backpack, "There are 100 rounds inside. This is my gift to you - others don't get this. But this is all the authority I have. Next time you want bullets, you'll have to pay."
Dragan's eyes lit up. Opening the backpack, there were indeed two boxes of ammunition inside. He looked at Casare even more warmly.
Getting the money, Casare was ready to leave. Just as he pushed open the door and his foot touched the ground, he seemed to remember something, "Oh right, we also provide rocket launchers, landmines, hand grenades. If you need them, you can contact me anytime. I guarantee you a good price."
Can't forget the advertising.
This was moral integrity.
After saying this, he got out and closed the door, waved to Dragan in the passenger seat, and walked away coolly with his hands in his pockets.
"Boss, your cousin wouldn't be an arms dealer, would he?" The driver watched his retreating figure in the rearview mirror and couldn't help asking curiously.
"Arms dealer? How's that possible? He's never even left Mexico."
Dragan frowned, "Maybe he's working for some big shot."
"Forget it, let's go back and tell the boss. If this thing really works, I'll ask the boss to approve funding. Then we'll have a dozen AKs and can grow big and strong!"
...
Engaging in "illegal activities" for the first time, Casare still found it somewhat thrilling. This was different from ordinary dirty money - that was others' charity, but this was his own solid enterprise.
He ran to the market across from the prison. Though lively at night, it did business during the day too. Barely awake prostitutes leaned against tents, cigarettes in their mouths, yawning, skinny as rails, looking like addicts.
Experienced Casare could tell at a glance these were rotten - fishier than scallops. One bite and you'd become a biochemical host.
Just as he was about to walk inside, he saw an ice cream truck. Licking his lips, he walked over, "Give me one."
Holding the ice cream and licking it twice, his eyes lit up.
As a child, he loved ice cream most, but his family was poor. His mother had to support four children alone, very tired. He was the eldest and sensible, reluctant to eat ice cream. Though it only cost 2 pesos, that money could let the family eat one more bite of food.
After growing up and working, police treatment was worse than dogs'. At least military dogs had a daily food standard of 10 pesos. Casare kept his salary to give to his parents - his younger siblings needed schooling, hoping to make mother less tired.
But now...
He had $800 in "huge money" in his pocket. He could finally indulge once.
"Psst~"
A whistle interrupted Casare's thoughts. He saw Victor in black clothes sitting under a roadside umbrella with a glass of juice in front of him.
"Been here long?" Casare trotted over and asked.
"Just got here half an hour ago. How did it go?"
Casare pulled out the money from his pocket and placed it directly on the table, pushing it over, "Sold for $800 total."
Victor looked at the green bills on the table, very satisfied. He picked up two bills and pushed the rest back, "As we agreed, I only want $200. The extra is yours."
Looking at the dollars on the table, Casare's Adam's apple bobbed. He thought Victor was just talking, but who knew he was serious?
He smiled awkwardly and pulled out one bill, "I'll just take one. I didn't really do anything - you provided the goods."
He was self-aware, understanding his position and who the main leader of this business was. Taking too much would make Victor unhappy, and then would he still have money to earn?
Don't be naive enough to believe when leaders say: "No problem, you can give me personal feedback."
Then you actually believe it and point out his shortcomings.
The next day, you're fired for stepping in with your left foot first.
Also don't trust those school grading systems that seem random - haven't you noticed the rows and columns are all arranged? If you really grade badly, just wait.
The world is full of tricks - learn to distinguish them.
Casare thought Victor's previous statement about only wanting $200 was just casual talk.
Seeing Casare so "sensible," Victor was obviously very satisfied. At least this person understood the big picture. He pushed the money in front of him, "In my work and life, I stick to my word. My money, no one can touch. What belongs to you, I won't touch either. Take it - we'll make big money in the future."
In "gray business," you have to let your subordinates all make money. If you just paint them pretty pictures, sooner or later they'll put a hole in your head.
What's in your hands is real.
No amount of talking is as good as one coin.
Seeing Victor was serious, Casare looked up at him. The latter smiled at him and pointed to the money, "Put it away. Leaving it on the table, someone will rob it soon."
After saying this, he drained the juice in front of him and stood up supporting the sides of his chair, "Let's go to the city to find Best."
Hearing this, Casare grabbed the money on the table and stuffed it into his inner pocket, looking around. He saw a woman not far away staring at him intently. He bared his teeth like a dog guarding food.
Whoever dared touch his stuff, he'd bite them to death!
In Mexico, try not to take taxis because you don't know where they'll take you, or whether they're drug dealers doing part-time work. If they see you're good-looking, oh boy, tomorrow you'll be the star at a nightclub.
So take qualified buses when possible.
But buses are dangerous too.
In 1985, when Guadalajara Group's number three Donnetto was arrested, his subordinates launched riots to fight the government. Armed drug dealers rushed onto the streets killing anyone they saw.
An elementary school bus passing through downtown was stopped, and these vicious, inhuman bastards opened fire directly, killing 24 students and teachers in the vehicle. Average age of the children: 7 years old.
A bus carrying workers who had labored all day and were finally going home was also forced to stop. Six males were directly beheaded, their heads thrown at city hall.
This country was rotten to the extreme!
You can't expect someone to save it. Even if Jesus came, he'd have to learn to smoke marijuana or he couldn't fit in.
Fortunately, Victor and his companion didn't encounter such bad luck. After reaching their stop, they found a diesel three-wheeler and headed straight to Ximaxucan.
Ximaxucan was actually Mexico City's large slum, with about 1 million people - one-fifth of Mexico City's entire population.
Much bigger than Tiantongyuan.
Victor knew the exact address. Showing it to the talkative driver, the other made an OK gesture, twisted the throttle, and weaved through streets and alleys.
This driver was also reckless. Passing through narrow roads, he used his throat as a horn. When people sat at doorways and wouldn't move, he charged right through, angering women who almost got hit and cursed loudly behind him.
Bold, reckless children chased the vehicle. If they had seen foreigners, they probably would have already started overturning the vehicle to rob them.
Entering Ximaxucan, Victor's face became grimly serious. He handed the Colt M1911 to Casare, "Hold this, just in case."
"What about you?"
Victor glanced at him and opened his clothes, revealing the Uzi submachine gun inside, "Going out, you always need to carry protection, or I don't feel secure."
Casare's eyes bulged, not knowing how to describe it. He nodded and took the pistol, tucking it into his waist.
The three-wheeler was fast. In just over half an hour they reached their destination. However, Best's door had been kicked down, lying directly on the ground, with sounds of smashing and cursing coming from inside.
"Seems we've come at a very unfortunate time."
Victor walked into the house. Casare paid the fare and followed, seeing four teenagers in their early teens surrounding a man lying on the ground.
One young man was urinating on him.
Hearing movement at the door, all four turned their heads and saw the man who entered holding a submachine gun pointed at them.
"Gentlemen, urinating anywhere means your tools will be confiscated!"