Victor is the kind who acts the moment he speaks.
Alejandro directly ordered the downsizing of the state and local police to form the National Guard!
It was like dropping a boulder into a cistern, triggering a violent reaction.
"Why are we being fired! We refuse!"
"Protest! Protest! Protest!"
"We demand Victor give us an explanation!"
Hundreds of officers protested inside the Mexicali Police Department, shouting beneath the office building. It made the police chief extremely nervous.
Mexican police, after all, have a tradition of defying superiors.
Especially in Mexicali, where city officers once arrested their superior on the street on suspicion of protecting drug traffickers.
"Brothers, Victor won't let us eat. Grab your weapons, and let's go ask him why he's treating us like this," someone shouted among the officers. "If he won't give us an explanation, we'll defect to Sinaloa!"
In fact, quite a few officers had been nursing resentment for a long time.
Victor's anti-drug sweeps wiped out their "Gods of Wealth," costing them a lot of gray income every month.
Who would feel good about that?
They were feeding their families with those tributes from dealers. Their salaries hadn't gone up, their workloads had, and they'd been grumbling for ages.
Downsizing didn't mean firing everyone. All over 40 would transfer to desk jobs, all over 55 would retire in place with a pension, and under-40s would be cut if they had obvious tattoos, criminal records, or bad habits.
They'd still get severance—about 4,000 pesos each.
It was written clearly, in black and white.
But many still refused—not because they loved the job, but because… they loved swaggering around in that uniform's skin.
"Move!! Move, move!"
Hundreds grabbed weapons and headed out, but before they reached the door they saw four AMX VCI infantry fighting vehicles blocking the entrance.
Forty EDTV officers dismounted from the troop bays, glaring at them like wolves.
"Get back!"
Zolf "M4" Sherman's face was dark.
The IFVs' machine guns trained on them.
"Drop your weapons and step aside. Anyone who refuses orders will be cut down!"
No sooner had he said it than the guns opened up. Rounds whistled over their heads and chewed the wall behind them.
The officers ducked on instinct. Some even hit the floor.
They… really fired!
Everyone looked at each other, and in the end reason prevailed. They tossed their weapons aside.
Inside, the mole fanning the flames was unwilling to quit.
"Don't listen to them! They want to smash our rice bowls and starve us! Go throw in with Guzmán!!"
Zolf Sherman's gaze swept the crowd and picked out the mole trying his hardest to hide. He waved, and several officers rushed in and dragged him out.
"What are you doing! What are you doing!"
The man had shifty eyes, a police sergeant's stripes—and looked like a rat caught by the tail.
He was a plant the traffickers had stuck in the department. You could even see a Sinaloa logo on his neck.
Absolutely lawless.
Victor's been here how long and you still haven't washed it off? That's the same as pressing your face to "taunt."
Zolf looked at him once, drew his gun, and put him down!
Decisive, direct, not a hint of dithering.
"Don't treat my words like hot air. Gentlemen, stand to!"
The example worked.
Everyone stood quietly off to the side.
Zolf nodded at four City Hall staffers behind him. They stepped up with rosters to verify names. One carried a briefcase that, when opened, was full of pesos!
"Domenico Borges Harry!"
A lance corporal raised his hand and ran up. By the look of him he was over 30—and lame in one leg.
"Age."
"Thirty-seven—no, thirty-six," the lance corporal said nervously.
Two City Hall staffers in masks checked his exposed skin.
"No obvious tattoos; leg disability."
"You have two choices—transfer to a desk or resign in place?"
The lance corporal glanced at the cash in the case, swallowed, and said softly, "Resign."
The City Hall man nodded. His colleague counted out 4,000 pesos and handed it to him. "Sign here."
Seeing real money handed out, eyes lit up behind him.
"I… I can't write my name," the lance corporal said, embarrassed.
"Then press a thumbprint."
They dabbed his thumb in ink and pressed it hard onto the roster.
"Next—Ladho Lansley!"
The lame lance corporal chuckled, pocketed the cash, and hobbled aside.
…
Victor certainly wasn't "stingy" over that bit of money.
Beyond streamlining the police force, he wanted to boost the Baja government's credibility—let everyone know Victor does what he says.
Mexico's government is so rotten even its own people don't believe in it. Sometimes it's just depressing to hear.
"Chief, Mexicali City and Ensenada together cut 972, leaving 419. Among them, one police sergeant and seven corporals. Total expenditure, 3.88 million pesos."
The secretary handed Victor the paperwork. He glanced at it and signed his name.
He reassigned two veteran officers from his EDM unit—both wounded and no longer fit for high-intensity training—to head the two city police departments.
To rapidly spin up the two cities' National Guard units, he also pulled 50 members from EDM and EDTV as the backbone, slowly recruiting locals with clean backgrounds into the ranks.
For now, Victor's use for the National Guard was internal security, patrols, prison security, disaster response, and rescue.
Later, as their territory grew, their authorities would expand.
By an internal Baja Security Department vote, signed by Alejandro, Victor was appointed head of the National Guard.
Only two people attended that "meeting": Alejandro and Victor.
With that extra title, his System recruitment count jumped from 200 to 400!
Victor thought he'd found a bug and considered piling on more "vanity titles," but it clearly didn't work. Looked like the System had its own criteria.
Like orders of merit—titles can't all be worth the same.
Victor didn't use all 200 on officers. What he needed more right now were other kinds of talent.
He exchanged for 160 municipal personnel at all levels to get Ensenada and Guadalupe Island on track faster.
With the remaining 40, Victor created an office called the "Mexican Department of International News," abbreviated MDIN!
Outwardly it was a news company.
In reality, it was an intelligence service.
Victor had money to burn, and these 40 were molded on the MI6 model. Only a few knew about the department—Alejandro was not among them.
They would be responsible for intelligence gathering.
They were sent out on missions the day it was founded.
He had considered calling it "La Gestapo," but thought better of it.
"Chief, City Hall says the prisons have a lot more inmates lately. Should we expand?" the secretary asked.
Victor thought a moment. "Drag the traffickers out to build roads. Since when is prison so comfy? Give them the most dangerous, hardest jobs. Tell them if they perform well, they get time off."
To get rich, build roads first.
Mexico's infrastructure is lousy.
"And the pay?"
Victor laughed when he heard that. "I'm not shooting them—that's already generous. Pay? Ask them if they eat shit."
The secretary chuckled awkwardly and left with the files, just as Casare came in. He nodded to him and hurried into the office. "Boss, we reached Mr. Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas."
…
Mexico City, Guadalupe neighborhood.
Only a few kilometers from the slums.
Most residents here were low-level civil servants with meager incomes.
At not yet 40, Cuauhtémoc already had some gray in his hair. He looked scholarly behind his glasses, pedaling his bicycle, greeting acquaintances as he passed, returning their smiles with a friendly nod.
Back at the public housing, he locked his bike and carried groceries inside.
The cabinet by the door was lined with medicine.
His son was at the table drawing. His wife sat beside him. When she saw her husband, the boy ran over to help carry the groceries, obedient and sweet.
"Home," Cuauhtémoc said, kissing his wife. "It's your birthday today. I bought your favorite fish."
His wife smiled gently. She had no legs—got around by wheelchair.
Traffickers had crushed them with a car.
The doctor said if it had been any later, she wouldn't have survived.
Cuauhtémoc tied on an apron and busied himself in the kitchen.
Dinner was simple: one fish, corn tortillas, chicken pozole, and a small cake.
He stuck candles into the cake.
"McClure, go turn off the lights," he told his son, who promptly did as he was told.
The candles' soft glow lit the faces of the three of them.
They were smiling.
"Make a wish, Mom," McClure said.
The woman pressed her hands together and smiled. "God, I hope my husband is always safe, I hope my son grows up smart, and I hope the three of us are together forever."
Cuauhtémoc felt a pang in his chest.
This woman he'd married ten years ago hadn't made a single wish for herself—only for her family.
"God will answer you, dear," he said, kissing her with a smile.
"Come on, McClure—help Mom cut the cake."
The boy happily slid off his chair.
Just as the family enjoyed a rare moment together, the doorbell rang.
"I'll get it," Cuauhtémoc said, rising to open the door—where four or five burly men stood.
The tattoos on their necks marked them as a local Mexico City crew.
The leader wore a nose ring and looked flippant. "Mr. Cuauhtémoc, I hear it's your wife's birthday. We came to celebrate it for her."
Trouble, at a glance!
Cuauhtémoc's face tightened. "Sorry, I don't know you. My wife doesn't need that." He started to close the door, but the man slapped a hand on it. "Relax. We're just paying a visit."
He shoved the door wide and they pushed in. Seeing the cake on the table, he smirked, walked over, and slapped it to the floor.
The boy, furious, lunged—but his mother pulled him back.
"Mr. Cuauhtémoc, this isn't fitting for a man of your stature. My boss sent a little something."
The nose-ringed man signaled, and his underling set a suitcase on the table and popped it open.
Inside lay stacks of U.S. dollars.
"As long as you don't make any statement about the 5.27 Gendarmerie Square incident and cooperate with us, this money is yours."
"You work for Carlos?"
"Of course not—we work for Mexico," the nose-ringed man said.
Cuauhtémoc shook his head. "Impossible! Take it back. I won't take a penny!"
The man fixed him with a hard stare. "You're making this very difficult, sir!"
He turned his eyes to the woman in the wheelchair and smiled cruelly. "Then I'm afraid you'll have to find a new wife."
"Throw her off the building!"
(End of Chapter)
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