José Herrera Duarte was very busy!
Busy collecting money.
He had business dealings with the Gulf Cartel, Juárez, and Sinaloa.
As Marshal Commander of Baja California, he had been in this position for a long time, relying on two words: tactful!
When Tijuana's Benjamin brothers were around, he provided them with police anti-drug intelligence, indirectly or directly causing the sacrifice of many colleagues.
But his interests in Baja California ran too deep. Even the governor Rafael Marx who died in the "toilet" had to give him concessions to some extent.
In his mansion, after finishing his liaison with several female models, he lay in bed smoking when he heard the phone ring.
On the bedside table sat four or five phones.
Red was Juárez, white was Sinaloa, black was Gulf Cartel. Other colors weren't important.
The white one was ringing.
He picked it up, opening very enthusiastically. "Hey, good evening, sir!"
"Help us with something." Alfredo, fourth of the Beltrán Leyva brothers, said dully on the other end. "Zambada was caught by Victor."
José Herrera Duarte's cigarette immediately felt stuck in his throat. He couldn't help coughing uncomfortably. "What?!"
His voice was loud. The female models playing with each other turned to look. He kicked their butts with his toes, waving his hand to signal them to leave.
After the models left, Duarte threw the cigarette on the ground and sat up straight. "You want me to help fish him out?"
The other side fell silent. "Kill him!"
Duarte raised an eyebrow. He heard Alfredo offer a price. "$600,000!"
"He's your Sinaloa's number two figure. This price isn't appropriate." His heart stirred. He immediately understood what Guzmán wanted and couldn't help raising the price.
Typical of doing anything for money.
"$2 million!" Duarte called out a price himself.
"Deal, but you must do it beautifully." Alfredo's tone didn't pause at all, as if this money meant nothing to him.
Damn!
Asked for too little!
Duarte couldn't express how much he regretted it, but if he dared to change the price now, he might get killed by the other party.
"Don't worry, can't you trust my work?"
After hanging up, Duarte sat on the bed, his mind beginning to think about how to kill Zambada.
Victor...
Duarte had never met him, but supposedly he was very fierce, making drug dealers wail on Guadalupe Island. He could really fight and had some people under him.
"But in Mexicali, being able to fight isn't enough."
He stuffed the cigarette into the ashtray.
What use was being able to fight? Out here you needed connections!
Tomorrow he'd bring marshals to meet this Victor. Could he actually kill him?
...
The sun in the sky was mildly warm.
Rare good weather.
Victor hadn't slept all last night. The first and second teams successfully took down the police station and city hall, though they encountered drug dealer resistance.
Two or three "blowpipe" surface-to-air missiles later.
The drug dealers shut up.
The police station officers also shut up.
"Let me... let me down!" On the flagpole in the middle of the TV station, four drug dealers hung front, back, left, and right.
Victor didn't have time to find them doctors. If they could endure, endure. If not, go die. Zambada's status was different - had to give him some "respect." After all, if he died, who would they execute by cannon?
In the temporary office, when Victor felt tired he stood up, made a cup of coffee, then listened to the screams outside. A unique "warlord" pleasure.
Just after sipping coffee, his gaze focused. He saw over a dozen sedans suddenly appear at the gate outside, all government vehicles.
Looks like this group finally understood they needed to pay respects at the dock.
"Boss." Casare knocked and entered. "Mexicali marshals and law enforcement departments are here."
"Let them in."
"We came to Mexicali, we should meet the local snakes, right?"
Casare looked around, first checking the desk - there shouldn't be an ashtray, right? Seeing only a small teacup for cigarette ash, he breathed a sigh of relief.
TV station entrance.
José Herrera Duarte was blocked outside.
No matter how much he talked, the gate officer wouldn't let them through.
This made him somewhat angry, but considering himself a person of status, he could only fume silently.
Casare walked out, glanced at them. "Who among you has the highest rank?"
This first question stunned everyone. They looked at each other.
"I'm Baja California Marshal Commander José Herrera Duarte."
"I'm head of the inspection department..."
"I..."
Four people stepped forward. Casare looked at them and nodded. "You come in with me. Everyone else rest in the room beside us."
This immediately caused an uproar.
"No, we all came together. Why only see them? By what right?"
"Right, right, we also want to see Mr. Victor."
Casare looked at them coldly, extending his finger. Officers behind him directly raised guns. Those people simultaneously shut their mouths as if rehearsed.
"What status are you? If you have something to say, talk to the police dog at the gate. It'll report later! Make more noise and you'll all be shot!" Casare pointed at a Neapolitan Mastiff not far away.
This was also "acquired through connections" by Boss Victor.
Actually exchanged.
Dogs didn't count toward personnel numbers.
Just not very useful in modern warfare. Victor exchanged a dozen on Guadalupe Island for catching ordinary criminals. Good for security battles too. Brought them out this time to let "them" see the scene.
Of course, if there were dog executions of drug dealers that would be even better!
José Herrera Duarte took a deep breath, his heart sinking. He planned to use his connections in capital Mexicali to give Victor some "pressure," but now only a few of them remained. They might not even out-argue the other side.
He exchanged glances with other department heads, then followed behind Casare. The drug dealers hanging on the flagpole screamed continuously. One even saw him, obviously recognizing him. "Duarte! Save me, save me!"
Casare stopped and turned to look at him. "You know him, sir?"
Duarte quickly shook his head. "Don't know him."
"Better be so. Mr. Victor hates evil like enemies. He can't tolerate any sand in his eyes."
The group entered the office.
Victor casually glanced at them, sighed deeply. "Take them out and shoot them."
"??????"
Everyone's head was confused.
But the officers outside reacted quickly, directly dragging them out!
"No! You can't do this, Victor. I'm Marshal Commander, I'm Superintendent. I'm the superior officer. This is indiscriminate killing!" Duarte's expression was ferocious as he shouted.
You didn't let me say anything and want to shoot me?
"I don't accept this!"
Victor waved his hand. "Use shotguns!"
He didn't want to waste words on these people.
Just glancing over, good lord, all drug dealers gone legitimate. Duarte was even more garbage - he directly killed two mayoral candidates and participated in human trafficking.
Not smuggling in the traditional sense, but selling!
The UN published an investigative report in 2020 - globally about 50 million slaves still existed, meaning these people were bought to be used as venting tools or some bottom-level laborers.
This deserved death!
In Victor's eyes, he couldn't tolerate crime!
The other few weren't good either - smuggling drugs, harboring drug dealers, all there.
"Damn you! Victor, you'll die a horrible death, you'll die horribly!" Duarte's mouth was very foul.
"Give him three shots!" Victor's light voice came from inside.
Several people were dragged to the courtyard downstairs, directly tied to the steps of the flagpole with drug dealers hanging above.
Duarte still cursed. "I'm Marshal Commander, I'm Marshal Commander!"
An EDM officer shoved a Winchester Defender 1300 shotgun into his mouth and decisively fired!
Bang!
Gone... meaning the head was gone.
Blood splattered on others beside him.
"Ahhh!!!" Grown men screamed.
The EDM officer wiped blood off his face, fired two more shots at Duarte's corpse's chest. Chief Victor said shoot you three times, absolutely couldn't shoot four.
Though using a shotgun for Mozambique drill, this... was a first.
"I was wrong, I was wrong, spare me."
The remaining two had gun muzzles pressed against their chests and triggers pulled.
Hearts directly blown apart.
Executed without pain.
These people were drug dealers!
Just wearing police skin.
Victor didn't allow anyone to trample this profession.
The drug dealers above were scared to piss themselves, really scared to piss.
Trickling down.
That's what drugs do.
Casare's gaze swept to the small house not far away, indeed seeing people who came in with Duarte all looking terrified.
He ran upstairs quickly and reported this to Victor. "Boss, should we kill them all!"
"Kill who to do the work? You going?"
Victor looked at him. "Don't be so violent. Can you learn some self-cultivation from me?"
Casare: "???"
You play with big guns and still want self-cultivation?
"Find a place to lock them up first, interrogate them properly later. Anyone cooperating with drug dealers gets killed."
In Victor's eyes.
His world was black and white. Color?
That meant you had too much shit, needed Victor to treat you.
Drug dealers were black and had to die!
Forgiveness?
Impossible!
Mr. Victor was justice walking among men!
He stood up, walked to the window, looking at those drug dealers hanging on the flagpole, his eyes showing disgust. "Can't even control their own urine. Are they beyond saving?"
Casare immediately understood.
"Then before the televised speech, give the people a pick-me-up. Pull these few out and shoot them all."
"Let everyone see what happens to drug dealers."
"Boss, what gun should we use?"
Casare found that Victor, depending on his mood each day, would choose different calibers to execute drug dealers.
"What methods do drug dealers usually use?"
"Beheading, dismemberment, burning..." Casare rattled off a dozen horrifying methods in one breath.
Victor raised his hand to signal him to stop.
"Then we..."
"Use RPGs!"
(End of Chapter)
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