Working as a police officer in Mexico

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."

"Today, punish all the prisoners in the Second District by not letting them eat. They're in prison to be reformed, not to enjoy themselves."

"Yes, sir!"

The fire caused complete turmoil in Plateau Prison; the main prison zones were separated only by chain-link fences. When the "minor offenders" from the First Prison Zone came out for activities in the morning, they saw a row of people hanging in the adjacent area.

Many prisoners were also tied up by the emergency teams and dragged onto the playground as if to make a public example.

Many of these people knew each other, and even among the mass of bruised faces, some found their own older brothers.

Noises from the commotion, curses, and incitements rose and fell. Even the Jail Guards in the First Prison Zone didn't dare step forward to interfere.

As the crowd grew, they began picking up stones from the ground and hurling them at the Jail Guards, and the situation grew increasingly dire.

Webster, who had just lain down not long ago, was trembling slightly at the sight; there were nearly 700 people in the First Prison Zone!

"Release them!"

"Damn mongrels, let them go!"

The chain-link fence was shaking violently, and the prisoners in the Second District, hearing the commotion, became excited. With enough people, they weren't afraid of the police.

"Look what you've done, now what do we do?!"

Webster's face was ashen as he turned to Victor with reproach.

Victor's expression was cold, "I haven't had breakfast, and I'm in a very bad mood. Since the prisoners choose to arm themselves for a riot, we have the right to choose armed suppression!"

This made Webster's eyelids twitch.

"What are you going to do?"

Victor, with a rubber baton in hand, looked at the prisoners from the First Prison Zone nearby who looked like zombies, and gave a wave of his hand.

"¡¡ todos listos!! (Everyone, get ready!)" Casare shouted at the top of his lungs.

The emergency squad's jail guards all raised their weapons, causing an uproar from the opposite side.

"Fire!!"

In Webster's horrified gaze, the prisoner at the very front screamed in pain after being shot, proving.

Bullets are more lethal than words.

The group of prisoners who had been crowded together suddenly scattered, panicking and causing incidents of overcrowding and stampeding.

"Do you know what you're doing, Victor? This is a slaughter, stop it, everyone stop!" Webster's face flushed with agitation, his spittle nearly spraying Victor's face.

"Sir, I just want to tell you that in Mexico, the way to deal with criminals is through violence. Only if you are more brutal than them will they shrink away like sheep!"

As for whether the situation would get too out of hand and then someone outside would take a potshot?

There were too many who wanted him dead; what were a few more?

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.

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