Gun!
The young man who was urinating was so scared he quickly put his tool back in his pants.
The four looked at each other, and one who looked slightly more mature was about to speak.
Victor pulled out his police ID, directly opened the grip safety, and just started firing.
Rat-a-tat-tat...
This startled Casare greatly. He shrank his shoulders, eyes wide, looking at the bodies lying on the ground, his scalp tingling.
You could at least wait for them to speak! Did you have to shoot so decisively?
Hearing the gunshots, Best, who was curled up on the ground, hugged his body even tighter.
Only after all 25 rounds were fired and he heard the empty click did Victor lower his weapon. He glanced at Casare beside him and shrugged, "These guys intended to attack police. Not studying properly, they'd become drug dealer reserves sooner or later. Better to kill them first."
Actually, these four were also quite sinful - they'd done robbery, rape, and murder, providing Victor with 378 points.
Casare's facial muscles were trembling as he listened. He gave a thumbs up and walked to Best's side, smelling urine - quite pungent. Obviously that young man had some internal heat.
Internal heat - wouldn't live long anyway. Might as well rat-a-tat them.
"Best." He called twice, not touching him to pat - obviously a bit disgusted.
Hearing his name called, the other carefully revealed his eyes. Seeing the familiar face, his expression was obviously excited, his voice hoarse like someone damaged by fire smoke, "Casare!"
"Victor!"
"Buddy, I haven't seen you for how long and you're like this?" Victor frowned. Seeing the other wanted to speak, he waved his hand, "Come on, let's go outside first. It reeks of piss in here."
Victor smoothly changed magazines in his hands and walked out the door. He saw slum residents who heard the gunshots looking this way, but no one dared gather.
"What are you looking at your grandmother for? Get your heads back inside." He fired a burst at the wall, scaring them all into silence.
Arrogant!
Cocky!
Nuriel Best standing behind saw this scene and was somewhat stunned. This was completely different from the Victor he knew.
That one was a gentleman who rarely even raised his voice to argue with people. Occasionally, when meeting girls, he'd even be a bit shy.
But this one in front of him...
If you said he was a bandit, people would believe it.
"People change, Best, don't they?" Casare said with a smile.
Best was stunned, not knowing whether to believe it.
The three walked toward the main road. Hearing car sounds outside, Victor happened to see a red Beetle with its door open and a woman with a very perky butt buying something nearby.
"Get in the car!"
Victor directly got into the driver's seat. After Casare and the other got in, he turned the car key. The woman buying things in high heels heard the commotion, turned around, and saw a strange man driving her car.
Angrily, she was about to run over, cursing.
Victor raised his gun. She immediately wilted, shouted "OMG!" and ran to the side holding her head.
"Hold on tight, taking off!"
He pressed the clutch, shifted gears - looked quite skilled, but the car lurched forward then stuttered. Casare and the other in the back almost knocked their heads on the front seats.
"Sorry, let me try again."
Victor looked at the rearview mirror and smiled, muttering a few words, slowly getting the car moving. The Beetle's engine wasn't great anyway, almost like crawling.
"Who were those guys?" Now they had time, Victor asked.
"Gang members from Ximaxucan."
"How did you provoke them?"
The left side of Best's face twitched - that half of his face was somewhat wrinkled, like burn damage. "They wanted me to pay protection money, 5 pesos a week. I had no money. Damn it, they also wanted me to pay taxes!"
"I'm just a broker - what taxes should I pay?"
"This is already the fourth gang this month wanting protection money. I paid the previous ones."
Hearing this, Casare looked at him with some pity.
Mexican slums were huge leek boxes. Any gang could come collect protection money. They didn't ask for much - sometimes 5 pesos a week - but there were so many gangs! This was more fierce than taxation.
Many ordinary people simply couldn't handle it. These gang members would force you to sell your children. Families with sons would be forced to join gang organizations, providing them with "fresh blood." This was one reason why drug dealers couldn't be defeated.
They provided a continuous stream of criminals.
Brazilian gangs were the same. When military police entered slums - good heavens, all criminals. This was being deeply mired in anti-crime mud, the people's ocean warfare.
The foundation determined the height of the superstructure.
Think about it - Ximaxucan in Mexico City had over 1 million people. How much profit could these people bring to gangs?
Even poor people could be squeezed. When there's no oil, there's always blood.
"A few scumbags dare call themselves a gang." Victor said disdainfully.
"You're looking for me..." Best asked.
"No rush, let's take a bath first, have a good soak before we talk." Victor interrupted his inquiry, mainly because the urine smell on him was too strong.
Best nodded, glancing at the Uzi submachine gun on the passenger seat. Did the police force now have this equipment?
Haven't seen them for years - had the Mexican government gotten rich?
The car stopped in front of a bathhouse with signs in Chinese and Spanish: "Northeast Old Soak."
The owner was Chinese, emigrated in the 1970s, opened 6 branches in Mexico City, very wealthy. Reportedly had good relations with local gangs and government - ate from both black and white sides.
Getting out of the car, he threw the keys to the parking attendant, who looked at the cramped Beetle, then back at the three burly men walking in. These men had quite exotic tastes.
"Give us a private hot spring room."
"Also help me buy some clothes, the rest is your tip."
Victor generously handed over 200 pesos. The receptionist looked strangely at Best - why did he smell so bad?
Was this performance art?
Taking the money, she agreed with a smile and had someone take them to a very private room on the third floor.
"Wash up, you stink." Victor took off his clothes, wanted to put the Uzi in a locker, but thought about it and kept it, telling the naked Casare, "Bring your gun."
In Mexico, people being killed in bathhouses wasn't unheard of.
Best saw Casare holding the Colt and asked, "Where did these weapons come from? An Uzi? That's good stuff."
"Would you dare come out to play without some capital?"
Victor glanced at Casare and said with a smile, "I have connections to get arms. They deal drugs, we sell weapons. I provide them with force support. In business, if others don't do it and you do, that's called vision. If others do it and you follow, that's called eating farts behind them."
Lying in this hot spring, he couldn't help but let out a comfortable sigh.
"Go rinse off over there, don't make this place reek of piss."
Best ran somewhat embarrassedly to the shower head. He heard Victor's voice, "But in business, you're most afraid of meeting people who don't follow rules. If they rob us, I'll lose money. But Casare and I can't do this arms business openly - we need you to help us operate it."
Best was anxious, randomly rinsed his hair twice, wiped with a towel, and got into the hot spring.
"I know you're unwilling inside, you want revenge, but right now you have no money, no people, no power - what can you use for revenge?"
"Everything in this world is clearly priced, including people's youth, ideals, conscience, justice. We're busy every day for what? Money. Why did you work as a police officer before? Wasn't it for money? For justice? Money is our life force. If you have money, you put a 200,000 peso bounty on your enemy's head - no takers? Make it 500,000. Still no takers? Make it 1 million!"
"See if he'll die then."
Victor spread his arms on both sides, "Work with me, I'll help you get revenge."
Aren't they just drug dealers?
Later, when his position gets higher and higher, wouldn't it just be a matter of one sentence?
You have backing so I should fear you?
I am other people's backing!
Best had actually thought about joining other gangs for protection in the slums - being a middleman wasn't easy. But... he was crippled. Though the fire let him survive, he was severely injured. Half his face burned, knee meniscus removed, walking with a slight limp.
Looked quite pitiful.
He only thought for a moment before nodding, "I agree."
He had no choice. The forces behind the gang members who died in his house would definitely retaliate. If he went back, he'd die.
"Casare, get that stack of money from my bag."
The fat man responded, climbed out of the hot spring with his bird still trembling, opened Victor's locker, got the money and handed it to him.
"Here's 20,000 pesos, get yourself some new clothes, rent a decent place. Following me, I can't let you stay so miserable."
This was nearly $10,000, given just like that?
"You two get the same benefits - no monthly salary, but 5% sales commission. How about it?"
Casare calculated - 5%, if it was like that AK-47 for $800, he'd get $40!
Seemed little, but this was about volume. If they sold 50 in a month, that would be $2,000.
"I agree!" He was very straightforward.
Seeing Casare agree, Best understood this 5% wasn't low. He nodded. Victor climbed out of the spring and said, "I'm going to rinse off and get a massage. You guys chat first."
After he left, Casare twisted his neck.
Very comfortable.
"By the way, Casare, do you know Fremont Holder?"
This name seemed very familiar. Casare frowned.
"The former Altiplano prison deputy warden who robbed gang goods?"
"Exactly!"
Best's eyes lit up, "He's gotten rich recently."