"Victor Carlos Vieri!!!"
Within a luxurious manor in Victoria City, the capital of Tamaulipas, a low, rage-filled curse could be heard.
The short and stocky Juan Garcia Abrego, with a dark expression on his face, shook faintly from a scar on his face left from a shootout.
The man who had once turned Gulf Group from a smuggling ring into a transnational drug trafficking organization hadn't been this angry for a long time.
It wasn't Claudia Abrego's death that pained him—she was just a cousin; if she was dead, she was dead. What pained him was the batch of goods that were meant for San Francisco. The local sales network had already started to distribute, junkies had been lined up, and the CIA had been taken care of.
The goods hadn't even been loaded onto the vehicle yet.
They were worth 100 million US dollars.
Although it wouldn't cripple him, this loss was enough to cause him heartache.
Revenge was necessary!
If every cop was as insolent as Victor, wouldn't he have to worry about the safety of his shipments in the future?
Back in 1988, during the joint US-Mexico drug eradication efforts, Abrego had a shipment from the Port of Guadalajara bound for Seattle in the United States that was messed up by two minor policemen, resulting in a loss of two tons of goods, and he had to compensate a good deal of money in the US as well.
A week later, those two policemen and 17 members of their families were found stuffed into a trash bin.
One can only imagine to what extent the bodies had to be manipulated to fit all 17 into one bin?
The incident left the Mexican Government extremely embarrassed, but what could they do?
Even the news media didn't dare to report it.
The goods could be forsaken, but face absolutely could not be lost.
"Cough cough cough... Garcia, don't let anger cloud your judgment," a hunched figure entered in a wheelchair, pushed by someone. Abrego quickly stood up, signaling medical personnel to let go, and personally pushed the wheelchair, bowing his head, "Uncle, why are you here?"
This was his real uncle, Juan Nepomuceno, also the founder of the Gulf Group, who had secured a "Protection Umbrella" by sparing no expense, and from time to time, made charitable donations, ensuring he never spent a day in jail in his life.
This boss, who had fought his way through the Prohibition era in the United States, possessed unique personal charm and life experience, and he had groomed his own nephew, Abrego, who led Gulf Group to become a comprehensive drug trafficking organization.
In Abrego's eyes, Juan Nepomuceno was the only person he respected.
"The disinfectant in the hospital smells too strong. I don't like it. If I have to die, I'd rather die at home," Nepomuceno said with a smile, then coughed violently as he ran out of breath.
Abrego hurriedly patted his back.
"Garcia, I've spent my whole life learning to be careful. Women and children can afford to be careless, but men cannot," said Nepomuceno.
"Take a deep breath before doing anything. Anger will only make you blind to your surroundings."
Abrego nodded, about to share the incident with his uncle, but Nepomuceno waved his hand, "I'm old, you don't need to tell me. You decide for yourself."
"The only thing I have to do is wait for death," Nepomuceno said with self-mocking laughter, patted his nephew's hand, then signaled the caregivers to push him to rest.
Watching his uncle's retreating figure, Abrego's eyes held an unwavering determination.
"Uncle, the Gulf Cartel will never sink!"
He took a deep breath and called over his confidant to announce a 5 million US dollar bounty for Victor's head.
Let those "mercenaries" who recognized money but not people probe the waters first.
Money, the drug trafficking group had plenty!
...
"If you tell them that longevity genes are found in feces, the latter would rack their brains to kidnap medical talents to extract substances they don't even recognize from the feces and then sell them to the wealthy who wish to live longer."
"You know, to make money, criminals will do just about anything. There might even be a plane laden with drugs taking off from Mexico and scattering them across the world. If we had planes, we could blow them out of the sky!"
"Didn't Best say that Juarez also formed a team of assassins? It might not be long before all the Mexican Drug Cartels will have to modernize their military force. Perhaps... they might even have fighter jets!"
Casare listened to such a "bold" assumption with his mouth half open.
He was aware that drug traffickers had some jet planes, which are used for crop dusting in Latin America.
But actually, Casare was still "short-sighted". Your next journey awaits at m v|l-e'-novelhall.net
Given the current changes in the situation, it might not take half a year for the Mexican Drug Cartels to gradually transform into "warlord-like" organizations.
Drug eradication work will become more and more difficult.
This gloomy topic even made Casare feel "tired". Yawning, he asked, "Boss, if it's so difficult, why do we still have to do it?"
"There must always be someone to hold up a torch in the dark, to tell everyone that there is a path ahead, and that we should move on, so that when we die, our gravestones can bear the words: 'He tried to change the world and never gave up.'"
Victor looked at him, "And moreover... I'm a cop!"
Sparks from fireworks fell from the sky, Casare lifted his head, and suddenly he thought of the time at school when he took an oath to the flag.
Back then...
He was young, he was honest, and he was full of hope for the future.
Latterly...
He was scared, he was cowardly, and he prayed the drug traffickers would just leave him alone.
But now, when Victor appeared, it felt like a seed in his heart eagerly sprouting.
How much did he wish to be a good cop?
"But boss, we only have a little over 200 people," Casare muttered.
"More people will join us!"
"Let's start with Guadalupe Island. I plan to open a civilian police academy on the island, recruiting students aged 14 to 19, then replenishing our police force with fresh blood. I'll choose a location right by the beach where there is an empty factory left by a drug trafficker. You go to the TV station and put out a notice, let all the islanders know."
People at that age, if you instill in them a sense of national duty, they will become Mexico's new generation.
Victor had no plans to change the country in a few years' time.
Killing is easy, just a fraction of a second with a bullet, but building a country requires a generation or even two.
"I will serve as the principal, you will be the vice-principal, and Kennedy will be the school's military training officer. At least they must become proficient in NATO-standard weapons and tactics when they graduate."
Looking at Victor, who was talking with great enthusiasm.
Casare didn't know what to say.
Boss, are you training "Police Auxiliary Staff" or "Mexican Soldiers" here?
But if it really develops as the boss envisioned.
Invading Mexico...
No, it should be, "Vuestro emperador ha vuelto. (Your Emperor has returned)."
...