Catching the last bus back to prison.
Best took the stolen Beetle to handle - Mexico had plenty of used car dealers, sold it as organizational activity funds.
Getting off the bus, standing by the lonely bus stop sign, he could see the bustling "night market" not far away. Even though an attack had just happened two days ago, so what if people died?
Could anyone's death stop the earth from turning?
When Kennedy died, it didn't stop Americans from celebrating, did it?
"In a couple days there's a shipment coming from the Soviet Union, sell it as quickly as possible." Victor said with a cigarette in his mouth.
Casare's eyes lit up - he had tasted the sweetness, "How much?"
"10 AK-47s, 10,000 rounds of 7.62mm ammunition, 10 F-1 hand grenades. Pretty big order."
Victor checked his points - currently 2,028. Ten AKs would be 1,500 points, bullets were very cheap, almost free, 1 point could exchange for 100 rounds, so that was 100 points, and hand grenades were 200 points total. He'd still have 228 points left. In a couple days he'd find some unlucky criminals, kill them, and have points again.
Places like Mexico and Colombia - danger and opportunity coexisted.
Perfect for Gao. Drug dealers were endless to kill.
Hearing these numbers, Casare's whole body trembled, muttering calculations. Don't look at this batch as small in quantity, but it could fight a small-scale intense war.
Brother Hao with 2 AKs plus an old Black Star dared suppress the Flying Tigers, then called "Special Task Company," keeping them from raising their heads.
You have 10 AKs, 10,000 rounds, plus grenades.
Who are you planning to attack?
Many Mexican police stations didn't even have standard pistol configurations.
"How to price it?"
"AKs same as before, $800. Bullets $1 for 5 rounds, grenades $30. If they want everything can give a bit of a discount."
Casare held out his hands - mathematics obviously wasn't his strong suit.
But he knew this deal would net him at least $600. His fat face was trembling with excitement, "Getting rich, getting rich."
"Get to know more people in the second block. Those locked up here are backbone members of various organizations, also our potential customers. We'll sell big shipments in the future - they have money and can afford it."
"I understand."
To make some money wasn't easy at all - police had to properly flatter prisoners now.
"By the way, what Best mentioned at the bathhouse about that Fremont Holder guy - have you heard about it? Quite inspiring really."
"Buddy, anyone who becomes a boss in Mexico is inspiring, but that doesn't mean it's the right path. Never know when you'll die. You wouldn't want your head kissing your ass, would you?"
The two chatted as they entered the prison. The guard seeing them return so early asked, "Casare, did the market ladies cheat you out of all your money?"
As for Victor?
He didn't dare mock him - this guy dared beat drug lords in the third block, let alone himself.
Casare gave him the middle finger - universally understood.
When separating at the dormitories, Victor gave him two more boxes of Colt ammunition, reminding him to be careful, and if the situation looked bad, shoot first.
Seeing his seriousness, Casare agreed.
Back in his room, Victor opened his notebook, suddenly remembering what Best had said about that person.
Fremont Holder's story.
Quite legendary indeed.
...
This Fremont Holder robbed from criminals. He also had a tragic background - reportedly his family was also killed by drug dealers, which made him decide to become a police officer.
But Mexican police simply didn't dare trouble drug dealers.
He figured out his own method - single-handedly broke into a gang's sales bar and robbed $4,000 worth of goods!
By 1987 standards, killing one person in Mexico cost about "1,200 pesos." Of course, you weren't hiring some organization member, but grabbing some half-grown kid from the street - they'd do it.
Of course, now it was 1989 - maybe prices had gone up, maybe down.
After all, social unrest and reduced welfare - even started getting competitive.
But $4,000 was enough to sell your soul.
This world put interests first. Even your best friends, best brothers - when interests conflicted, they'd forget everything. Human hearts were very complex. Money could not only make ghosts push millstones, but make millstones push ghosts.
But coincidentally, Holder had "cheap" morality. He harbored hatred. When he closed his eyes he could see his parents and siblings asking him why he didn't seek revenge.
He couldn't sleep.
He originally thought his life would be like this - maybe rot to death on that street, relief workers would collect the corpse, then no one in the world would remember you.
But he was unwilling!
He wanted revenge. Since they were drug dealers, he'd use violence against violence!
He had flexible moral bottom lines.
This world was about being ruthless. If you weren't ruthless, your position was unstable.
If you couldn't be remembered forever, then be infamous through the ages.
At least someone would think of you on Day of the Dead.
He knew he needed help. He took a taxi to the Condesa district. As soon as he got in the car he pulled out his gun, and the taxi driver immediately behaved.
Looking at the neatly arranged houses around, his eyes flashed with nostalgia. Before, he had also lived here.
Limping along, following door numbers to find number 27. Dogs in the yard had already smelled the visitor and barked incessantly.
A man around 30 came out, stood at the door scolding the dog, saw a figure standing at the gate, felt alarmed, and instinctively wanted to run back.
"Ryan, don't you recognize me?"
Holder took a step forward. Moonlight mixed with the weak light in front of the yard illuminated his face.
Seeing him, the strong man's expression instantly changed. He quickly walked over and opened the gate, "Holder! You're alive?!"
"God doesn't need my soul." Holder smiled, voice hoarse, "I didn't die."
"Come in quickly, don't let that damn Songwu see you." Ryan seemed to think of something and pulled him into the house.
Songwu was the neighbor who killed his whole family.
From the name you could tell his father was Vietnamese, mother Mexican. Bastard.
Ryan was his childhood friend who grew up with him. Their fathers were also close.
"You're alive, this is wonderful! I thought you..." Ryan was obviously very excited seeing his childhood friend. The grown man's eyes reddened, gritting his teeth, "I knew it was your house that caught fire. I thought it was strange, reported it to police, but they never came to look. Just said it was an accident. If that Songwu hadn't gotten drunk and shouted on this street admitting he killed you all, I wouldn't have known he was the murderer!"
"Later, my brother Arrieta also reported to police, but they said Songwu was talking nonsense while drunk, no evidence he was the killer."
Seeing someone had worked for him, Holder was also moved, "Where's Arrieta?"
Ryan lowered his head, "Dead."
Holder was shocked, "How?"
"After school, hit by a cement truck. The killer went to prison, but I know it wasn't an accident."
Silence was the powerless lament.
Tears were the fundamental powerlessness of the weak.
"Songwu!" Holder gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, looked at Ryan, "Do you want revenge?"
Ryan suddenly looked up.
"I want to work alone and need manpower. I know you served in the Mexican military. I want you to join."
"You want to be a drug dealer?!" Ryan's face looked ugly.
Mexicans thought of crime when thinking of organizations, thought of drug dealers when thinking of crime - after all, it was nearly a century of history.
"Ryan, we can't change the world, can't change Mexico. All we can do is survive. Don't you want revenge?"
"Mexico doesn't believe in the weak. People without voice are destined to not be accepted. I don't want... to die in some stinking ditch someday. When I close my eyes, all I think about is hatred. I need power!"
"I believe you'll help me."
Ryan looked at him, thought for a moment, slowly nodded, "I believe you won't let me down."
Holder also looked at him, nodded heavily, "I won't. Let's collect some interest first. Who else lives in his house?"
"His mother."
"Kill her!"
"Shaina is a good person." Ryan hesitated.
"She's a good person? Then we should send her to see God even more. God seeing good people will definitely be happy!"
Holder now just wanted to collect some interest, "Arrieta was also a good person."
Ryan clenched his fists.
"Kill her!"
Holder's eyes were deep. He just wanted a pledge of loyalty. It wasn't that he didn't trust Ryan, but these years he'd seen through it - all feelings were bullshit. Like slum boys desperately chasing women - spend some money and you could drive off with them.
Kill Songwu's mother, then Ryan and he would truly be on the same side.
Never act on emotion.
If something went wrong in Mexico, it was a dead end.
...
Victor had breakfast in the cafeteria and took his keys to the cells.
Passing Stepan's "single room," he saw the other enjoying care - a woman beside him feeding him fruit with her mouth.
"Bang bang bang~" Victor knocked the wall with his baton. Stepan, who was comfortable inside, looked up, and the curses in his mouth immediately shrank back.
Damn, why wasn't this bastard dead yet?
Didn't Sinaloa people say they'd kill him?
"Surprised to see me, Mr. Stepan?" Victor opened the cell door and walked in. Seeing cut prickly pear fruit, he casually took a piece and spat the seeds on his face, angering him enough to want to get up.
Victor pressed his baton against his face, "Want another round?"
Stepan remembered how that baton felt hitting his body and ached all over, but his status made him unable to lose face. He spoke tough, "What good does offending me do you?"
Victor smiled, "I'm making you understand the rules. On my turf, dragons coil up, tigers lie down. What about that meeting gift you mentioned? You haven't made it up to me."
As he spoke, the baton slid down, pressing against his treasure.
"Give it, I'll give it!" He was scared and quickly said - that place couldn't be injured.
He crawled out of bed, walked to the safe - yes, there was a safe - took out a stack of dollars and handed it to him.
This stack looked like about $2,300.
"Wouldn't it have been better to pay earlier?"
However much the other gave, Victor took it all without hesitation, patted his shoulder, "Have fun."
Before leaving, he even closed the door for him.
Victor had only walked two steps into the block when he heard a deep voice very abruptly.
"Aren't you afraid of offending him?"
He turned his head and saw a thin middle-aged man sitting disheveled in his cell, looking up with eyes as sharp as an eagle's.
Victor blinked.
Immediately saw those glowing red points.
"1,078,000!"
"Sicily Falcon!!"