Dormitory building.
Many people heard the commotion and stood at the windows, pointing and discussing.
Webster held a cigarette in his hand, his brows furrowed as he looked at the Second District. His face, already deeply lined with age, now looked even more worried.
"Let them make trouble, once they become unbearable to others, naturally someone will take care of them."
After mumbling to himself, he violently pulled the curtains shut.
This "new official's first fire" burned all through the night.
More than ten people were hung up on the playground, all troublemakers, now beaten beyond recognition, not even their mothers could tell who was who if they came looking.
Kennedy could still recognize his own skull.
On the ground, to the left was a pile of cigarettes and magazines, and to the right were the confiscated weapons and drugs.
There were quite a few good items.
Victor even found a .38-caliber special police revolver produced by the Miroku Corporation.
"Boss."
Casare came over excitedly, "I've counted. This time we confiscated a total of 43 handguns, 326 bullets, and various other contraband items."
This prison under Webster's management was like a sieve.
43 weapons?
Nurhachi himself only started his army with thirteen sets of armor.
"Idiots!"
Victor threw the handgun on the ground, it was uncertain whom he was cursing, "Tell the Jail Guards from now on, if anyone helps a prisoner smuggle items, they better not get caught by me, or else, I'll throw them out."
Casare nodded hurriedly.
"What about these weapons and drugs?"
"Give the weapons to Best to sell. Damn it, we found them ourselves, so of course we take care of them ourselves."
In the Mexican arms market, you could bring a weapon from World War II, and they'd still want it, sooner or later reaching the point where every one of the 128 million people has a gun.
Sooner or later we will counter-attack America!
"Destroy the drugs somewhere."
"What about the drug addicts?"
Victor was still quite humane, "Hang them up so they don't run around. If they don't make it through, have the prison doctor issue a notice of accidental death."
As long as he was in this skin, he could even openly replenish the emergency squad members, and maintain justice with his fists, right?
As long as I have enough men, I won't be the one to die.
Power lies in the hands of those with the strongest fists.
Why was Pablo so arrogant? Because he was strong enough, having formed a warlord strength capable of subverting a regime.
He had a private army of more than 40,000 men, equipped with armed helicopters, warships, submarines, tanks, armored vehicles, and even missiles.
In Africa, he could have swept through almost unchallenged.
By then, the Colombian Government was on the brink of collapse, its forces less advanced than Escobar's private army.
He even publicly offered bounties for police heads, $1,000 US Dollars per head.
There were rumors of criminals from neighboring countries going there to "make some extra money."
Compared to him, the current Mexican drug trafficking organizations were still "gentle." At most, they would dismember and break bones, but developing a military capability that was a threat to Government Forces would have to wait for "Los Zetas" and the "Jalisco New Generation."
The current government still had "skills" in terms of armed forces.
If Victor were in Colombia now, would he dare to make such a fuss? Perhaps he'd already be cheering for Pablo.
But no matter what, if this "farce" gets out, his name, Victor, would really be notorious far and wide.
He wasn't the first cop to fight back against the drug traffickers, but he was definitely the first to take them head-on like this.
"You butcher!" Webster shouted furiously.
"Thank you, that's a nice nickname. I think you should go and take care of those sheep's feelings now and tell them to keep in line. In this prison, I can kill them easily if I want to!"
"Make sure they don't spoil my mood."
Having said this, Victor left with an unconcerned back turned to him.
"I will definitely make a complaint to the warden about you."
The only response he got was a middle finger.
Do you know what kind of person gets promoted and makes money?
The brash!
Smart people pride themselves on being cautious and looking ahead, quietly waiting for the so-called right opportunity, only to grow old and lament that they were born at the wrong time.
The strong never complain about their circumstances.
After all, it's only one life; how could they kill me twice?
Victor's thoughts were always so bold; in Mexico, having no family meant having no burdens or leverage.
...