Working as a police officer in Mexico

Mexico City. Chimalhuacán.

In a warehouse, a rock heavy metal song filled the air, intensely captivating, though no star's name attached to it was known.

"Money, money, money, Spend it like it's fun, Take me to the dance floor I wanna go…"

Holder, who walked in from the entrance, frowned and pointed at the young man fiddling with the speakers, "Andrea, turn that idiot off."

The other party, clearly a music enthusiast, just kept gyrating and ignored him completely.

Pop!

Ryan raised his pistol and fired, knocking the speaker to the ground. However, the speaker was well-built and kept on singing.

Andrea jumped in fright, flailing his hands in protest before he could speak, only to receive a punch from Ryan. Stumbling and crashing to the ground, Ryan followed, mounting him, grabbing his neck, his facial muscles trembling, "Bastard, do you think this is a kindergarten or a bar?"

Shoving the gun into his mouth with his left hand, Ryan glared into his eyes, "Did your mother ever tell you, you got to show some respect when you're out in the world?"

"You believe I won't blow your damn head off right now?"

Andrea hastily raised his hands, now truly scared.

Ryan, with a grim face, stood up and kicked him, "Go stand over there, everyone get over here, and move it!"

The onlookers, who had been enjoying the show, promptly got in line.

There were 13 of them in total, all local "kids" from Chimalhuacán, most having mixed around for a few years, some even with blood on their hands.

There's really only one way out in Mexico.

Children from wealthy families join their family's trade—drug trafficking.

Children without money join someone else's family trade—drug trafficking.

It's all a damn criminal affair. How many famous Mexican scholars can you name?

Ryan, dressed in coffee-colored combat pants, with a Makarov pistol at his waist and hands on his hips, his expression stern, "I don't care which gang you were with before, or under which drug lord you served, but now you're part of the new generation of Mexicans."

"Anyone who doesn't want to stay, speak up now. But if I find out anyone betrays us, I'll bury him myself!"

Ryan's under-eye glare was fierce as it swept over them. His imposing figure felt very oppressive, "Anyone backing out?"

After asking two or three times, the 13 looked at each other but none stepped forward.

"Good," Ryan nodded, satisfied, and gave Holder a nod.

Holder pulled an envelope, bulging full from his inner pocket, and tossed it onto a nearby table, spilling some notes. The sight quickly caught their attention.

"Six hundred pesos each. We're not like other organizations. We pay punctually on the first of every month. Anyone joining in the middle or end of the month gets a month's salary, paid together the following month." Holder rasped, "Two hundred pesos for fieldwork, an extra five hundred for injuries, and a straight five hundred US dollars for death."

The 13 newcomers instantly forgot about Ryan and started whispering among themselves.

The benefits...

Were indeed too good to pass up.

These 13 screw-ups, not playing pivotal roles in their previous gangs, didn't make much. Ever seen a lackey get rich?

The Gulf Group offered farmworkers in the agriculture sector protection from threats by rival drug traffickers, and each earned six pesos, roughly three US dollars in the 80s, which was considered a decent income.

Ordinary transporters in drug trafficking got paid per trip, varying with the danger level of the cargo, but if you got caught by cops while transporting, you were done for, and so was your family.

The highest earnings belonged to the gunmen, whose job was violent actions like turf wars and kidnapping rival leaders. In 2019, an American blogger managed to contact a drug trafficker online, who showed him around the inside and introduced him to a gunman. Wrapped up like a mummy for the camera, the gunman revealed a salary of around 18,500 pesos.

But with inflation soaring and the exchange rate at 17:1, that was equivalent to 1500 US dollars. Even by US standards, that wasn't a low income.

So, 600 pesos in the 80s was a fantastic benefit.

"Boss!" Andrea, always sprightly, raised his hand, his eyes shining, "Can I call my brothers over?"

"Yeah, right, I've got a brother too, he's 11 this year, and he's as tall as I am," someone chimed in from the side.

Some even considered dragging their retired old fathers into this.

"Quiet!" Ryan shouted, silencing everyone. They stopped talking, but their eyes couldn't help wandering to the side, "One by one to take the money, Andrea, you first."

Grinning, Andrea bowed at the table, "Boss."

Holder counted out six hundred-peso notes and handed them over. Andrea took them, counted on the spot—Mexicans were that direct—and was about to leave when Holder called out to him, pulling a gun out from a box underfoot and tossing it in front of him.

"This is yours."

A genuine Makarov pistol from the Izhevsk Mechanical Plant.

"They issue weapons too?" Andrea looked up, blinking.

"We're an organization that uses force, not a daycare center. Would you rather we hand out pacifiers instead of guns?"

Ryan waved his hand impatiently beside him, "This is an organization benefit. Everyone who joins the new generation of Mexicans gets a pistol. I will choose four small leaders from among you. When the time comes, in addition to pistols, you will also be equipped with submachine guns and grenades."

It seemed that the organization was richer and more generous than he had imagined.

Isn't that what you hope for when you're out in this world, to meet a "generous" boss?

However, equipping everyone with a gun was indeed a bit terrifying. Weren't they afraid people would sell them?

Andrea, who had received a gun, smiled even more happily, jokingly gesturing to his colleagues. Ryan went up and gave him a kick, "Don't point the gun at your own people. If you do this again next time, I'll break your fingers!"

Scared, Andrea quickly shrank back, returning to the line and fiddling with his weapon.

Once everyone had received their salaries, Holder gave Ryan a nod of acknowledgment. The latter stepped forward and spoke up, "From now on, you need to come here every day and train with me. If anyone is late or doesn't show up without a good reason, don't say I'm heartless."

"Now everyone take your weapons and follow me." Ryan led them to the large courtyard inside, while Holder sat in a chair with a cigarette in his hand, not saying a word.

But he didn't know how to train people and had to let Ryan, who had a military background, take responsibility. He was only responsible for overall coordination.

And making money!

Earn money like crazy, then update the equipment like hell.

Recently, an old colleague did contact him, with a batch of goods that tempted him.

...

Aside from causing some ripples in Plateau Prison, Anna's death drew only a few words of regret from those who knew her and was otherwise quiet.

In Mexico, it would have been strange if no one died. Even its president could win a peace prize.

Victor stayed in the monitor room quietly for two or three days, going to work and getting off work on time every day. In the monitors, Gallardo looked as solitary as an injured wild wolf, shrinking into a corner.

He didn't even call for a woman.

Indeed, those who are to achieve great things are either extremely lascivious or have a terrifying self-discipline.

Victor made himself a cup of Nescafe instant coffee and stood by the window, which afforded a view of Third District across the way, airing out. Groups here and clumps there were visible, and he could even see a police officer distributing cigarettes to the inmates.

He even saw a burly man with a face full of tattoos grab a jail guard's hat and toss it away, setting off laughter among those nearby.

Victor blew on his coffee, seemingly entertained by the scene. Looking up, he saw that in one corner several people seemed to be fighting, then a jail guard stepped in to break it up...

Did he get hit?

That figure looked very familiar.

The jail guard turned around and blew his whistle, and Victor saw clearly—it was indeed Casare.

The two groups grew larger, eventually involving dozens of people. The alarm went off at that moment as well.

Victor's face had been downcast ever since Casare was hit. He gently placed the coffee on the windowsill, "Too bitter, needs sugar."

"I'll be right back", he told the jail guard who had come over to watch the commotion, picked up his hat from the table, and walked out of the office.

He was the type of person who stands up for his own, unable to stand by and watch this happen.

The wild dogs locked in the cell always needed a few lashes to remind them who was in charge here.

Casare held his face, the punch from the other side not a light one, making him a bit dizzy. His colleagues hurried to help him away from the fray.

Thankfully, due to the "Football Shooting" incident, the prison had carried out a crackdown, searching for and confiscating guns; otherwise, bullets might be flying right now.

After the alarm sounded, the emergency team quickly arrived and took control of the scene, but the Mexican drug traffickers were bold, and this time maybe they got really riled up, dragging the police into the fight.

The emergency team didn't dare to shoot. Even when Haggis was alive, he didn't have the guts. Many involved in the fight had powerful backers. If anyone was accidentally injured, there would be hell to pay.

"Since when do police wait for the inmates to finish fighting before stepping in?"

Casare heard the voice and turned his head to see Victor, holding his face, his voice changed, "Victor."

"If you won't listen, I'll take you down hard!"

Victor drew his pistol and fired several shots into the air. The two fighting groups immediately stopped and turned to look at him.

But the next second, they were at each other's throats again.

Victor laughed gleefully, "In my life, I've always liked the defiant ones."

He picked out an unlucky one, charged up, grabbed him under his armpit, and threw him back, firing three shots at his legs.

"I'll count to three. Cover your heads, squat down!"

He aimed his gun at the brawling crowd.

...