Working as a police officer in Mexico

Casare belched as he walked out of Chief Inspector Victor's office, clutching a cardboard box and heading toward the emergency squad on the fourth floor.

Brothers who've been in the slammer know that if you're not honest inside, you'll have to "hang it up," but if the criminals in Mexico aren't honest, there can be riots.

So quite a few young and strong jail guards were organized to form an emergency squad, tasked with suppressing any sudden dangers.

The team had about 170 members, and they'd carry out different contingency plans according to the alarms, with varying numbers of participants for each plan.

"Good day, Commander!" A jail guard with a Policía Tercero (Police Junior Sergeant) patch came out of a room carrying a washbasin. Upon seeing Casare, he rushed to salute him.

Boss Casare's status was different now.

"Is Harrison around? Go call him over."

This guy was close to him and was one of the six who had helped to kill Dragan.

The jail guard acknowledged and ran toward the captain's office in his slippers. In no time, a nimble Sergeant followed him out.

Casare patted his shoulder, seeing his tense appearance, "Everyone assemble, time to hand out money!"

At a glance at the box on the ground, Harrison couldn't help swallowing hard at the sight of the green Pesos inside. He took a whistle out of his pocket and blew it.

Suddenly, the sound of scrambling footsteps rose, and members of the emergency squad in short sleeves ran out, whispering to each other in confusion.

"Colleagues, I've been entrusted by Chief Inspector Victor to come here and give you your pay."

Casare's opening statement instantly ignited the crowd.

"We're really getting paid!"

"Chief Inspector Victor is serious? I thought it was a joke!"

"We're getting paid today?"

That was the effect he wanted.

If you don't hand out money, they'll think you're just "drawing" pies in the sky.

Just like how the government says every year that they will improve the welfare of the police, but look... even after the Minister of Police is arrested, nothing happens.

Those on top just don't have the "heart" to look down.

Mexican Police can endure; they don't march and protest like the Yanks, shouting for their welfare. But they're also quite volatile, watching their earnings shrink and going straight to drug trafficking.

Their moral bottom line is quite flexible.

Casare saw that at least half of the emergency squad in front of him had tattoos. Who says police forces need political vetting? Does Mexico need that thing?

Go out with a gun and fire at random; you might hit the wrong person, but you're bound to hit a drug trafficker.

"Line up for your money. Anyone who doesn't follow orders will forfeit this month's extra allowance," Casare yelled, then added, "Right, this is an allowance, overtime pay!"

Upon hearing him, the jail guards quickly formed a line. Harrison brought a table into the corridor, and Casare personally handed out money to each person.

Those who received the money saluted him "genuinely," definitely not just for the sake of the money.

After over 40 minutes, everyone had been paid, and Casare tossed the empty box aside nonchalantly. Watching the excited jail guards, he felt a twinge of sadness.

Really, Mexican police are like "model workers."

"Later, take everyone to the Second District, everyone wear masks, Chief Inspector Victor wants to raid the Second District for contraband tonight!"

Having received his pay as well, Harrison got an additional 600 Pesos for being the captain. Could a clerk or a director compare to that?

With money in hand, now they'd be willing to go head-to-head with drug lords, weapons in hand.

Money is most valuable in the poorest places.

"Yes!"

Harrison stood to attention and replied loudly.

...

Powerful floodlights above the compound made the yard exceptionally bright.

Dressed in a black raincoat, Victor carried a baton under his arm, a gun on his waist, with Casare and other officials standing behind him.

In front, 170 emergency squad members stood with masks on, weapons in hand.

"Search the district for all kinds of contraband, including cigarettes, magazines, and guns and ammunition. If you encounter resistance, I authorize you to kill them. Understood?"

"Sí, ¡Señor!" (Yes, Commander!)

All 170 stood at attention and responded.

See, with money, the morale BUFF is added.

"Move out," commanded Victor, and the 170 personnel were divided into dozens of groups, darting toward the cells.

"Boss, even the cigarettes need to be confiscated?" Casare asked quietly.

"If they want to smoke in the future, they either behave or buy from us. Anything brought in privately is smuggled. Do you understand?"

"I'll sell them for 1 US Dollar apiece, not expensive, right?"

No worries, the Second District houses many gang and drug trafficking leaders anyway; they've got the means. If worse comes to worst, just have someone from outside bring in the money.

Could I even say their money is "smuggled"?

Even if someone doesn't like him (Webster) and reports him to Alejandro, right now, they are partners.

If you're out of money...

Let me tell you, in prison, you won't have an easy time either!

Casare glanced at Best, and the two exchanged a look, mutually seeing three words in each other's eyes: "black-hearted".

A cigarette for one US dollar...

Excluding the female prisoners, the men alone probably smoke at least ten thousand a day.

That's another hefty income.

Victor had it all figured out, though. When the time came, he would continue to increase the jail guards' income. As long as they made more money, the cost for outside drug traffickers to bribe them would rise, and he himself would be safer.

After the emergency squad took action, Victor and his group arrived at Cell Block One.

They were met with shouting.

"Damn it! Dog police! Don't you know we're trying to sleep? What are you doing coming in here? Get out!"

A prisoner who was short and scrawny but had a fierce look, with "MS-13" tattoos visible, led a crowd of heckling inmates.

There are roughly twenty people in one cell, and it appeared very cramped.

They certainly didn't have the private apartments like the big bosses in the Third District.

Tap tap tap~

The sound of boots on the floor drew the attention of everyone in the cell, and as Victor stood at the entrance, he scanned the room and slowly walked over. The sound of his footsteps seemed to pound in their chests, suffocating and oppressive.

"You got a problem?" Victor looked down on him, his gaze pausing on the arm, "MS-13? A United States gang? Ha!"

No sooner had he made that scoffing sound than the rubber truncheon in his hand smashed down on the man's head. It was solid inside.

If anyone thinks that's not painful, they're welcome to buy one and try for themselves.

One blow, and the man was on the ground, clutching his head, blood oozing from between his fingers; it was a pitiful sight.

The other prisoners, seeing their leader beaten, rose up in righteous indignation.

"Emergency squad, ready to fire!" Casare shouted from behind.

The group of jail guards immediately unlocked their safeties, facing the prisoners.

One of them was even holding a Winchester Defender 1300 shotgun!

The emergency squad's weapons were quite decent.

They just didn't have many.

But there's always some hard-headed fool, perhaps too used to being brash.

"I don't believe you have the guts to fire. If you kill me, I'll have people kill your entire family!" roared a big guy who looked like "Kiko", cursing as he charged forward.

Bang!

Do you know what it looks like when someone is shot at close range with a shotgun?

It's not like the movies where they fly backward; that's too exaggerated.

But it certainly counts as a terrible way to die, with the chest to stomach area turning into a bloody mess, without even a scream.

The shooting jail guard's hands were shaking.

He was ecstatic!

In prison, they were always looked down upon by inmates, but this time they finally got to hold their heads high.

And with hoods on, who would know it was them?

This gunshot significantly intimidated the prisoners. They looked at each other, hoping someone else would step out, but once they knew the cops would really shoot, it was a different story.

"From now on, in prison, my rules are the rules. If I say 1+1 equals 3, it has to equal 3, even if Einstein himself comes and says it's 3!"

Victor, looking at the prisoners in front of him, had a gleam in his eye.

Because...

The prisoner that the jail guard had just shot dead had given him an additional 6000 points!

He really wanted... to clear out The Second Prison.

But that thought was fleeting, immediately extinguished, knowing that if they all died, he wouldn't survive another day.

However, now that he had power, he could perhaps bring out a few of those old timers from The Third Prison to kill, right?

He still needed to climb higher.

He truly wanted to kill all the drug traffickers in the country!

"Take this guy out to the yard and hang him up. If he's not dead by morning, send him to the infirmary."

Victor glanced at the prisoner lying on the floor, stepped on his wrist, and the man screamed in agony.

"MS-13?"

"I need to remind you that in Plateau Prison, God should be worshiping me!"

...