Abandoned warehouse.
A police cordon had been set up, with quite a few officers standing around.
A Mercedes-Benz was parked outside the cordon, from which Kona Belask stepped out with a grave expression. He immediately spotted Anna lying on the ground and a male corpse not far from her.
"Samboerne." He lifted the cordon tape, noticed a plainclothes officer standing by Anna's body, and patted him on the shoulder.
Anyone who could show up in plainclothes at a crime scene had to have a certain level of clout.
"You're here."
Samboerne looked solemn, pointing to the bodies on the ground, "These are your people, right?"
Kona Belask looked at the dire state of the bodies, pursed his lips, and nodded.
"The abdomen took four shots, the head three. We've also identified the other corpse, Torsten Shipley, Anna's brother, died from a skull fracture caused by a blunt force strike to the head, and he was tortured before his death. He still had ropes tied around him."
"Did she offend anyone recently?"
This was clearly targeted at her.
Kona Belask thought for a moment. What kind of enemies could a bitch in prison have?
While he was pondering, a roaring sound caught his attention. He turned his head and saw a dozen motorcycles zooming in, brazenly "surrounding" the police by the warehouse.
This behavior frightened the officers to the point that none dared to move.
Shooting police officers in broad daylight happened all too often, depending entirely on the drug trafficker's mood.
"From Juarez, a few of theirs died at the warehouse door." Samboerne whispered to Kona Belask by his side, obviously recognizing the leader, putting his hands on his hips and calling out, "Walker, what are you doing here?"
To stand like that against a drug lord in Mexico, one has to be involved in drug trafficking themselves or have a powerful background behind them. But think about it, even Camarena, backed by the DEA, was tortured to death, so it's clear how complex Samboerne really is.
The leading criminal looked anything but friendly, with bushy eyebrows, tightly closed thin lips, and a cruel gaze that was chilling to the bone. Even the police around him didn't dare look at him.
"Is there anywhere in Mexico we dare not go?" Walker barked, tearing through the cordon and walking into the scene with his entourage, he glanced down at Anna and flicked his teeth with his tongue, then ordered the henchmen behind him, "Go inside and check."
"We've taken over here," Samboerne said, frowning.
Walker turned to look at him, "Are you serious?"
Immediately grabbing his throat, he pulled out a pistol and pressed it to his forehead, "Do you think I wouldn't dare shoot? Your cheap stepfather has already been killed. Do you still think it's 1978?"
Samboerne's mother was a top prostitute in the red-light district, who met a man and later became his third wife when Samboerne was only five years old.
That man was Pedro Aviles.
Although he's dead, his influence still lingers. Within Mexico's 1.96 million square kilometers, leaders or high-level members of hundreds of drug trafficking organizations had once worked under him. This bit of residual goodwill was enough to let Samboerne live "safely."
The premise is, you have to keep to yourself.
Don't think the drug lords really fear you. What residual power could a dead old man still hold? It's just the remnants of "mob loyalty."
It's somewhat ironic that the drug traffickers, who disrupt social order, are sometimes the ones who uphold "rules" the most. When Colombia's Escobar was cornered and taken down by the Cali Cartel, DEA, and government forces, the Cali Cartel didn't trouble his wife and children.
Dragan sniffled, "Not at all, not at all. Get in."
The underling next to him opened the car door obligingly, flashing a smile at Casare—he knew well enough the importance of the man they were dealing with.
Unused to being served by others, Casare felt awkward as he got into the car. Dragan immediately asked, "Where's the stuff?"
"What's the hurry?"
Despite his words, Casare still opened his suitcase, revealing neatly packed parts of AK47s, "Here are parts for 5 AK47s, 500 rounds of 7.62mm bullets, 10 F-1 Defensive Grenades..."
"Didn't you say on the phone—10 rifles and 10,000 rounds?" Dragan asked, anxious.
"Do I look like someone who can carry that much? An AK weighs 4.3 kg, and that doesn't even include the ammo. Do you think I'm Superman or Batman?" Casare retorted, annoyed, as he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, "The address is here. Go and get the rest from a guy named Holder; he'll give them to you."
"Good, good," Dragan said, moving towards the suitcase. But Casare blocked him with a hand, "Money first. $1,000 for each AK, $1 for 5 bullets, $40 for a grenade."
"So that's..."
Casare frowned, struggling with the math, and under the baffled looks of Dragan and others, he pulled out a calculator, "$12,400 in total. We take cash only, no checks."
"Why the price hike? Weren't AK47s $800 each?"
"The Soviets got defeated in Afghanistan, and the price went up when we sourced directly from the factories. We have to make some profit, too. Don't worry, I wouldn't cheat you."
Dragan looked at him doubtfully.
"I'll hand over the money once I've got the goods," Dragan suggested.
But Casare was just shaking his head, "No, that's not how it works."
Dragan, with furrowed brows, proposed paying separately for this deal and the rest, but was refused again since the other location had no financial staff, and it left him livid.
"You think I would run? You know where my home is. We in the arms business value trust; it isn't a one-time deal. You've tested the goods; you know their quality. If you pay, you take them. No payment, I'll sell to someone else."
"In Mexico, arms are more in demand than virtue."
With a stern look from Dragan, Casare remained unfazed. Exasperated, Dragan motioned to his underling, "Pay up!"
"Don't cheat me; I know where you live."
The threat was heavy with implication—family betraying each other was all too common. Take Guzman for instance; he had four cousins who formed the notorious Beltrán-Leyva Cartel and then became sworn enemies.
Those four had joined Guzman in the cannabis business at the age of fifteen, sticking with him into middle age, yet disagreements about interests led to conflict.
It didn't matter who you were.
Over $10,000 and Dragan was fully capable of eradicating Casare's entire family.
With money in hand, Casare was unfazed by the threat, counted it in front of Dragan, and said with a smile, "If you have customers needing weapons, remember to contact me. I can give you a referral fee. Oh, and we're called 'New Hope'."
Best had set up the company as per the boss's orders.
Main business: Trading in pork, beef, and lamb.
...