Working as a police officer in Mexico

Those who understand Mexican history couldn't possibly be unaware of Joaquín Guzmán Loera.

Born in 1957 in the state of Sinaloa, the cradle of drug lords in Mexico, an agricultural stronghold, the traditional crops became unprofitable due to the free market and cheap US agricultural products, prompting many farmers to start growing DM or YP.

Guzman's father was one such farmer, fond of drink and women, a trait that might have been inherited through DNA, as evidenced by his later formalization of four marriages and countless mistresses.

Guzman dropped out of school in the third grade, frequently beaten by his father. As the saying goes, the children of the poor must take on family responsibilities early, and at 15, he pooled money with a few cousins to contract farming ventures, taking on the role of breadwinner. These same cousins later fell out with him and split from the Sinaloa Group to form the Beltrán-Leyva Cartel.

They managed a plantation for a while,

but soon discovered that middlemen were making all the profit.

Hence, his first entrepreneurial endeavor was declared a failure.

He then joined the ranks of Pedro's operation, one of the first-generation drug lords in Sinaloa, working under one of Pedro's lieutenants, Palma, tasked with transporting goods to the US-Mexico border to be handed over to cross-border smugglers. Due to his short stature of around 1.6 meters, he was nicknamed "Shorty".

But you wouldn't dare call him that to his face, or he would make you understand what it meant to prefer death over life.

Cool-headed, ruthless, and with a good business sense, he quickly stood out and became an invaluable aide to Palma, When the boss Pedro was killed in the late '70s, Gallardo took over and became the decision-maker.

Guzman even served as a driver for Godfather Gallardo.

It was well known that being a driver for the boss could lead to a prosperous future, and soon his talents were recognized. Gallardo put him in charge of logistics, often running to Colombia and Honduras, thereby expanding his connections significantly.

After the Guadalajara Cartel fell apart, Gallardo's lieutenants convened to divvy up territories, and the Sinaloa Group reestablished itself as independent. By then, the capable "Shorty" began to earn his reputation as a "tunnel-digging maniac."

He built tunnels at the border, ferrying goods into the United States around the clock.

The Colombians' wares would reach designated warehouses in the United States within a week through his operations, a logistics phenomenon that could put some courier companies to shame.

Of course, as things stood, Guzman was quietly amassing a fortune and was not yet famous, mainly because he kept a low profile and hadn't yet made the United States' most-wanted list.

Ten o'clock in the morning.

Victor and Casare arrived at the agreed-upon district, where they could clearly feel an increase in unfamiliar faces on the streets.

In a neighborhood café, Victor met this legendary figure.

He blinked subconsciously.

"6,750,000!"

Guzman was still the number two man at the moment, so his points hadn't exceeded expectations, but Victor had discovered something remarkable in his recent focus.

The killing of Palma!

Victor looked at him deeply, brimming with ambition. Indeed, a real man could not contentedly remain subordinate forever.

"Welcome, Mr. Guzman."

The other man sat upright, sparing his words and smiles. When he saw the extended hand as if he hadn't seen it, you could tell he was a very proud man.

"I've come here to purchase a batch of goods."

Seeing him not giving face like this, Best and the others clearly frowned, stepping forward. Victor blocked them with his hand, squeezing his palm, smiling, "I know, you want guns, we have them! 1300 US dollars each, bullets 5 for 1 US dollar, RPGs 3000 US dollars each, with shells at 600 US dollars apiece."

"However, the international situation isn't great now, with the Middle East in turmoil. There's not much left in my hands, I can give a maximum of 30 guns, 100,000 bullets, and 2 RPGs, with the rest to be delivered within a month."

They raided a gang and made a fortune.

Gained over 6000 more points, bringing the total to 9781 points.

From this, you can tell that whatever the Beheading Gang presents themselves as, they're nothing but lowlife scum, not fit for the public eye.

But just 100 AKs would be worth 15,000 points.

Where to find some unlucky souls to shoot?

Guzman had a nasty temper. At the words, his brow furrowed, "Are you joking with me? 1300 US dollars? I can buy an M4 on the US black market!"

"American prostitutes don't taste the same as Soviet ones, Mr. Guzman. Shooting a gun is like doing X, you've been pressing her for a long time, you ought to find another target for your finger. AK47 has many customers, the whole world needs their comfort, and exports are always a bit pricier."

"$1,300 is just a tip you give to the FBI in the United States, but of course, if you really think the price is too high, then I can recommend other goods to you, but you'll have to wait a long time, you know, the whole world is at war."

Guzman felt that the initiative was all in the other party's hands, which made him very uncomfortable. He didn't like this feeling, but Sinaloa had indeed suffered heavy losses in the recent battles with Tijuana and desperately needed weapons to stabilize their territory.

If the house was robbed, everyone would die.

Of course, he wasn't here specifically to seek the other party out. Would he be uncomfortable digging holes at the border for a deal worth hundreds of thousands of US dollars?

Guzman was called by the boss, Palma, to see the Protection Umbrella, hoping someone could mediate in the middle.

Hearing that someone was selling arms here, he came by the way.

He didn't like this bastard named Victor, didn't know why, from the first glance he just felt very annoyed inside, maybe... because the other party was taller than him?

Guzman nodded to a guy beside him, and the latter placed a box on the table, opened it, and inside, cocaine was revealed, a stack of packages piled up.

"There are 60 packs here, in exchange for your weapons."

"I'm sorry, we accept US dollars, British pounds, Mexican pesos, French francs, but we just don't take drugs. Can I deposit them in the bank? What kind of joke is this, we are a legitimate company," Victor said with a wave of his hand and a smile, but this gesture aggravated Guzman, who drew his gun and pointed it at the other's head, "In Mexico, no one can refuse Sinaloa!"

Seeing him draw his gun, Best and Duke each raised their weapons, confronting the drug traffickers on the other side.

Victor was still sitting with his legs crossed, lifted his head to look at him, and pointed to his own head, "Shoot here, don't hit my chest, I just changed into this suit."

"But, Guzman, if I end up lying here today, you'll join me in death. Let's see if your lousy pistol has more bullets or if my submachine gun has fiercer firepower."

"You're acting like the boss on my turf? Didn't your mother teach you anything!"

Victor kicked the table forcefully, exuding a powerful aura.

He didn't say he was a cop because for drug traffickers, this identity would be even more stimulating.

Guzman squinted his eyes, and the henchmen behind him all watched the boss; they didn't want to die here. The other side was right, once the submachine gun unleashed a volley, they'd all be lying here.

Beacon-sized beads of sweat seeped from the temples of Best and Casare, their hands gripping the guns were a bit nervous.

Guzman truly lived up to being called: the last slippery veteran drug lord.

If it were the "Z3" Cascano from the Millennium era, he might have already been in a direct confrontation by now.

That guy established Los Zetas.

Guzman suddenly relaxed his grip on the gun, placed it on the table, and squeezed out a smile on his face, "You're impressive, Victor, I admire people like you. You're right, drugs can't be deposited in a bank, so let's deal with cash."

The guy played cowardly when he sensed something was wrong, but Victor knew that this guy must already hate him enough to grind his teeth.

Mexican drug lords are accustomed to solving problems with violence, facing difficulties with one word: "Barge". It was rare for someone like him to voluntarily play the coward.

No wonder the Yanks later put up a $15 million bounty on him.

The subsequent transaction went smoothly; they were given cash, loaded the goods into the car, and left directly.

This was the first encounter between Victor and Guzman, and it was not friendly at all.

Casare, with lingering fears, said, "Victor, they are Sinaloa, they are brutal, doing this..."

"The most brutal violence organizations in the world are always national governments, but aren't we still offending them for the sake of money? The constitution is their tool for collecting wealth, and the army is their violent means to maintain power and riches, just like the United States."

"Are you afraid of its weapons? Or its power?"

Even the smallest drug trafficking group in Mexico wouldn't yield to you just because you're awesome; at worst, they'd fight you. If you don't kill me, I'll join your enemy and go after you.

Pablo even directly funded the rebels because the Colombian government was giving him trouble.

"What I fear has never been death, but someone encroaching on my interests, earning one point less is as uncomfortable as killing me!"

...

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