Working as a police officer in Mexico

Victor was the type to "do as he said."

Alejandro directly ordered the reduction of state troopers and local police to form the National Guard!

This was like throwing a huge rock into a water tank, causing a violent reaction.

"Why fire us? We won't accept this!"

"Protest! Protest! Protest!"

"We demand Victor give us an explanation!"

Hundreds of police officers protested inside the Mexicali Police Department, shouting beneath the office building, making the director extremely nervous.

After all, Mexican Police had a tradition of insubordination.

Especially in Mexicali, there had been an incident where city police arrested a senior officer on the street under suspicion of providing protection to drug traffickers.

"Brothers, Victor won't let us eat. Grab your weapons, and let's ask him why he's treating us like this," someone shouted loudly among the police. "If he doesn't explain, we'll turn to Sinaloa!"

In fact, many police officers had been nursing grievances for a while.

Victor's drug crackdown had wiped out their "God of Wealth," costing them a significant amount of extra income every month.

Who would be pleased about that?

They were dependent on the drug traffickers' "blessings" to support their families. With no increase in salary and an abundance of work every day, they had long been full of complaints.

Not all officers were laid off during the cut. Those above 40 were all transferred to civilian roles, and those above 55 were retired in place, receiving a retirement sum. Those under 40 who had obvious tattoos, criminal records, or bad habits were laid off.

But they would also receive a severance pay, about 4000 Pesos per person.

These terms were written out clearly for all to see.

But many were dissatisfied not because they loved the job but because... they loved the power that came with wearing the uniform.

"Let's go!! Move out!"

Hundreds, armed, started heading out, but before they reached the door, they saw four AMX VCI armored fighting vehicles blocking the entrance.

40 officers of the Counter-Terrorism Mobile Unit (EDTV) descended from the carriers, eyeing them with a predatory gaze.

"Get back inside!"

Zolf Sherman, nicknamed "M4," frowned darkly.

The machine guns on the armored vehicles were aimed at them.

"Put down your weapons, step aside. Anyone who disobeys will be shot on the spot!"

As soon as he finished speaking, the machine guns fired, the bullets whizzing over their heads and hitting the wall behind them.

The officers were so frightened that they immediately ducked, and some even lay flat on the ground.

They were really firing!

Everyone looked at each other, and in the end, reason prevailed; they laid down their weapons to the side.

Lurking inside, the agitators not content with the situation.

"Don't listen to them! They just want to take away our livelihood and starve us to death. Let's turn to Guzman!"

Zolf Sherman's gaze swept over everyone, instantly spotting the ringleader trying hard to conceal himself. With a wave of his hand, several officers rushed in and dragged the person out.

"What's happening? What is this?"

The man had a shady look, the rank of Senior Police Sergeant on his uniform, looking like a rat caught in a trap as he was pulled out.

He was a pawn the drug traffickers had placed in the police department, identifiable by a Sinaloa LOGO around his neck.

Utterly lawless.

Uncle Victor had been around for so long, yet he hadn't removed it; wasn't it equivalent to openly mocking?

Zolf Sherman glanced at him, drew his gun, and shot him dead!

Decisive, direct, no beating around the bush.

"Don't take my words for flatulence, gentlemen. Please line up!"

The effect of making an example was good.

Everyone quietly stood aside.

Zolf Sherman nodded towards four clerks from city hall; they walked over with a list to confirm names, and one of them carried a suitcase full of Pesos!

"Domenico Borges Harry!"

A Police Junior Sergeant with his hand raised ran out, looking to be in his thirties and limping on one leg.

"Age."

"37, no, 36," the Police Junior Sergeant said nervously.

Two city hall officials wearing masks checked his exposed skin.

"No apparent tattoos, leg disabled."

"You have two choices, transfer to a clerical job or retire on the spot?"

The Police Junior Sergeant eyed the cash in the suitcase and tentatively chose, "Retire."

The city hall officials nodded, and a colleague counted out 4000 Pesos and handed it to him, "Sign here."

Seeing real money being distributed, the crowd behind him lit up with eagerness.

"I... I can't write my name," the Police Junior Sergeant said, embarrassed.

"Then leave a fingerprint."

The man inked his thumb and firmly pressed it onto the register.

"Next, Radho Lansley!"

The Junior Sergeant with the cash grinned, limping to the side.

...

Of course, Victor wouldn't fuss over such a small amount of money.

Aside from streamlining the police force, he aimed to enhance the credibility of the Baja California government, making everyone aware that Victor delivered on his promises.

The Mexican Government was so corrupt that even its own people didn't trust it; sometimes it seemed pitiful to hear about it.

"Director, a total of 972 were cut from Mexicali city and Ensenada City, leaving 419. Among them, there is one Senior Police Sergeant, seven Sergeants, and the total cost was 3.88 million Pesos," reported the secretary as he handed the file to Victor, who glanced at it and signed his name.

He transferred two seasoned officers from his own trusted force, EDM, to be the new chiefs of the two city police departments, both of whom had been injured in action and could no longer undergo intense training.

To rapidly build up the National Guard in both cities, Victor also relocated 50 members from EDM and the Counter-Terrorism Mobile Unit to serve as the backbone, slowly recruiting locals with clean backgrounds into the police force.

After all, Victor's intended uses for the National Guard were internal defense, patrols, prison guards, and emergency rescue, among others.

Once they expanded their territory, their authority would become even greater.

Of course, the decision for the head of the National Guard was made through an internal meeting of the Baja California Security Department, followed by Alejandro's signature, appointing Victor for the role.

There were only two people in that meeting, Alejandro and Victor.

After adding another title, the number of people he could exchange in the system directly jumped from 200 to 400!

This had Victor thinking he'd found a bug, considering adding some "empty titles" for himself, but it was obviously to no avail, as it seemed that Golden Finger had its own standards for judgment.

Just like Xunzong, not all titles could be valuable.

Out of the additional 200 people, Victor didn't exchange them all for police officers. For him at this time, what he needed more were other types of talent.

He exchanged for 160 municipal talents of various levels, making Dan Senada City and Guadalupe Island progress more quickly on the right track.

As for the remaining 40 people, Victor established an office named: "Mexico International News Department," abbreviated as MDIN!

It was outwardly claimed to be a news company.

In fact, it was an intelligence agency.

With Victor's abundant resources, these 40 people were molded after MI6's model. Only a few knew of this department, and that didn't include Alejandro.

They would be responsible for intelligence gathering.

On the very day of its establishment, they had been dispatched on missions.

Originaly, he wanted to name it "La Gestapo," but then thought better of it.

"Director, City Hall is indicating that the prison has admitted quite a few inmates recently. Should we consider expanding it?" the secretary asked.

Victor thought for a moment, "Drag the drug traffickers out to build roads. Prison isn't meant to be comfortable. Give them the most dangerous and difficult tasks. Tell them, anyone who performs well will have their sentence reduced."

To get rich, build roads first.

Mexico's infrastructure is quite poor.

"What about their salary?"

Hearing the secretary ask this, Victor laughed, "I'm already lenient for not having them shot. You're asking about salary? Go ask them if they're willing to eat shit."

The secretary chuckled awkwardly, taking the document and walking out, just in time to see Casare coming in. He hurriedly greeted him, and Casare nodded and rushed into the office, "Boss, I've made contact with Mr. Cuauhtémoc Cárdenas."

...

Mexico City. Guadalupe District.

Only a few kilometers away from the slums.

Most residents here are low-income, grassroots public servants.

At not even 40 years of age, Cuauhtémoc's hair was already greying, and wearing glasses gave him a scholarly appearance. As he rode his bicycle, acquaintances he passed would greet him, and he returned the greetings with a friendly nod.

Arriving back at his public housing unit, he locked up his bicycle and entered the home with groceries in hand.

Medicine occupied the cabinet near the door.

His son was concentrated on drawing at the table, while his wife sat by his side. When they saw him, the son ran over and called out, helping lift the groceries in an obedient manner.

"I'm back." Cuauhtémoc kissed his wife, "Today's your birthday, and I bought your favorite fish."

The wife smiled gently. She had lost both legs and relied on a wheelchair for mobility.

Drug traffickers had crushed her legs with a vehicle.

The doctors said she would have died if they had been any later.

Cuauhtémoc donned an apron and got busy in the kitchen.

The dinner was simple: a fish, corn tortillas, a soup of chicken, corn, and hominy, plus a small cake.

He inserted a candle into the cake.

"McClure, go turn off the lights," Cuauhtémoc told his son, who obediently switched the lights off.

The candle's faint light illuminated the faces of the family of three.

They were smiling.

"Make a wish, Mom," McClure urged.

With a smile, the woman clasped her hands together, "God, I hope my husband stays safe always, I hope my son grows up smart, I hope the three of us stay together forever."

Cuauhtémoc felt a pang in his heart.

This woman he had been married to for ten years hadn't made a single wish for herself; her words were all for her family.

"God will answer you, my dear," Cuauhtémoc kissed her and said with a smile.

"Come on, McClure, help Mom cut the cake."

The boy happily climbed down from the chair.

Just as the family was savouring this rare moment, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get the door," Cuauhtémoc stood up and walked over, opening the door to find four or five burly men standing outside.

The tattoos on their necks belonged to a local Mexico City drug trafficker.

The man in the lead with a nose ring looked frivolous, "Mr. Cuauhtémoc, I heard it's your wife's birthday. We came to celebrate with her."

It was clear they were up to no good!

Cuauhtémoc's face stiffened, "I'm sorry, I don't know you, and my wife doesn't need it." He said, ready to close the door, but the man slapped his hand on it, "Don't be nervous, we've just come to visit."

He pushed the door open forcefully, stormed in with his group, saw the cake on the table, sneered contemptuously, and smashed it onto the floor with a slap.

The little boy, furious, wanted to rush forward, but his mother held him back.

"Mr. Cuauhtémoc, this is hardly fitting for your stature. My boss sent me to deliver something," the man with the nose ring gestured to a lackey, who placed a briefcase on the table and opened it straightaway.

Inside, a large amount of US dollars was revealed.

"All you have to do is keep quiet about the incident in the Constitutional Army Square on the 27th and cooperate with us, and this money is all yours."

"You work for Carlos?"

"Of course not, we work for Mexico," the man with the nose ring said, staring at him.

Cuauhtémoc shook his head, "Impossible! Take this money back, I won't take a cent of it!"

The man with the nose ring stared him down hard, "You're making this very difficult for me, Mr. Cuauhtémoc!"

He turned his head, his eyes fell on the woman in the wheelchair, and a cruel smile appeared on his face, "Then I'm afraid you'll have to find yourself a new wife."

"Throw her over the railing!"

...