His cousin had done something major.
In the Tepito District, a significant shooting incident had occurred, which the police had now classified as a "terrorist attack," with a reward of 200,000 pesos.
The gunmen all wore hoods, making them unidentifiable on security cameras, but Casare knew them well; in Mexico, those who used AK47s were from Dragan's group.
If they could be caught...
Even if he had to share some of the credit, he could at least get promoted to Chief Inspector if not to Commissioner.
That rank wasn't enough to be the chief of police in a big city, but it was perfect for the three places he had selected, which were poor, chaotic, and remote. He had just gotten a hold of a lead.
To be honest, Victor was very tempted.
After all, it wasn't his own cousin.
Casare was willing to provide the information, which Victor welcomed, but he gave a polite word of caution, adding, "Are you sure your mother won't blame you?"
As long as you can deal with your family, feel free to sell out your cousins!
One of the reasons Guzman fell out with the Beltran Leyva brothers was that the Mexican Military Police had arrested Alfredo, the fourth brother in Culiacán, who was responsible for the money laundering. There were rumors that it was Guzman who had betrayed him.
Arturo, the oldest brother, was furious and wanted to confront his cousin. Just then, a son of Guzman's was released on appeal, and Arturo believed that Guzman had traded his younger brother for his son's freedom.
As a result, the cousins, who had been close for decades, had a falling out.
Upon hearing Victor's words, Casare appeared to be in turmoil, his features almost crumpled together.
"Relax, we're not there yet. What we need now is to build up capital. Without money and connections, being sent out would just be a dead end. You have to eat one bite at a time, and you have to be down-to-earth," Victor advised.
Down-to-earth?
Then might as well go get a job.
It was because he didn't want to play by the rules that Casare had looked for shortcuts, and he had already tasted the sweetness of success. But hearing Victor's words, he still hesitated before nodding in agreement.
"Alright, you rest up, you've been working hard lately." Victor stood up, tossed his cigarette butt into a plant at the doorway, opened the door, and left for his own dormitory across the way.
Casare sat on the bed, poured himself a glass of red wine, having recently received his salary with a bonus of 5,000 US dollars, an amount equivalent to his wages for the past three years.
What would you choose to do the moment you get your hands on a large sum of money?
A revenge spending spree?
He bought the suit he had been eyeing, new clothes for his siblings, and a new sewing machine for his mother. Of course, most importantly, that day he found himself two Colombian women...
This led him to have an almost worshipful "faith" in Victor.
Aren't his problems my problems too?
A cousin?
His aunt could just have another one.
Casare emptied his wine glass in one gulp, as if making a firm decision.
...
Collaborating with drug traffickers was, of course, no problem—who didn't? Just look at how in recent decades, no Secretary of the Mexican Department of Defense left office without issues.
Either they fled to the United States to be captured, or they stood trial domestically.
Webster's fear was exactly as Victor described, the fear of being killed.
High-level drug traffickers wouldn't hesitate to kill even a Cardinal.
"Don't stir trouble for no reason in the future. It's better for us to maintain mutual peace, or else, we both go down!" Victor pushed him forcefully, and Webster fell back into his chair, his face ashen.
Killing him would be easy, but that would lead to someone being parachuted in to take over as Warden, and it was impossible to know what the newcomer would be like. It was better to keep Webster for now while trying to rise in rank during this time, with the best outcome being to become Deputy Warden.
By then, if Webster died, he would be the natural successor.
A deputy is always a spare tire.
Just like when Kennedy died, his deputy, Lyndon Baines Johnson, took the oath of office on the plane.
Victor was no fool; he wouldn't be someone else's gunman.
Violence was just a means to accumulate wealth and climb the ranks.
Career progression is different from doing business. In business, at worst, you earn less, but with careers, one wrong step leads to many more.
In this industry, killings don't spill blood.
Ardama watched him walk away, then turned to see the Warden with a conflicted expression, furrowed brows, looking heavily preoccupied.
What exactly had they just talked about?
She was curious about this, but she soon shook her head, dismissing her curiosity.
It's not good to be too curious in life—it can lead to an early grave.
"Ardama."
"I'm here." She quickly responded.
Webster, furrowing his brows, seemed to want to say something but eventually just gestured, "You may leave."
His tone was indescribably weary.
He had underestimated Victor. If he had known, he would have listened to Haggis and just had someone kill him.
Have someone kill him?
The idea crossed his mind, suddenly accompanied by hesitation.
If Victor didn't die, could it come back to haunt him?
Long accustomed to the comforts of the Warden's position, with delicacies every day, living in a mansion, embracing mistresses, Webster had long forgotten his vicious nature.
Had it been his younger self.
He would have done the job himself, gun in hand.
It just goes to show, the longer you sit in a position, the more you forget where you came from.
...