Working as a police officer in Mexico

The gunmen all wore hoods, making them unidentifiable on security cameras, but Casare knew them well; in Mexico, those who used AK47s were from Dragan's group.

If they could be caught...

Even if he had to share some of the credit, he could at least get promoted to Chief Inspector if not to Commissioner.

That rank wasn't enough to be the chief of police in a big city, but it was perfect for the three places he had selected, which were poor, chaotic, and remote. He had just gotten a hold of a lead.

To be honest, Victor was very tempted.

After all, it wasn't his own cousin.

Casare was willing to provide the information, which Victor welcomed, but he gave a polite word of caution, adding, "Are you sure your mother won't blame you?"

As long as you can deal with your family, feel free to sell out your cousins!

One of the reasons Guzman fell out with the Beltran Leyva brothers was that the Mexican Military Police had arrested Alfredo, the fourth brother in Culiacán, who was responsible for the money laundering. There were rumors that it was Guzman who had betrayed him.

Arturo, the oldest brother, was furious and wanted to confront his cousin. Just then, a son of Guzman's was released on appeal, and Arturo believed that Guzman had traded his younger brother for his son's freedom.

As a result, the cousins, who had been close for decades, had a falling out.

Upon hearing Victor's words, Casare appeared to be in turmoil, his features almost crumpled together.

"Relax, we're not there yet. What we need now is to build up capital. Without money and connections, being sent out would just be a dead end. You have to eat one bite at a time, and you have to be down-to-earth," Victor advised.

Down-to-earth?

Then might as well go get a job.

It was because he didn't want to play by the rules that Casare had looked for shortcuts, and he had already tasted the sweetness of success. But hearing Victor's words, he still hesitated before nodding in agreement.

"Alright, you rest up, you've been working hard lately." Victor stood up, tossed his cigarette butt into a plant at the doorway, opened the door, and left for his own dormitory across the way.

Casare sat on the bed, poured himself a glass of red wine, having recently received his salary with a bonus of 5,000 US dollars, an amount equivalent to his wages for the past three years.

What would you choose to do the moment you get your hands on a large sum of money?

A revenge spending spree?

He bought the suit he had been eyeing, new clothes for his siblings, and a new sewing machine for his mother. Of course, most importantly, that day he found himself two Colombian women...

This led him to have an almost worshipful "faith" in Victor.

Aren't his problems my problems too?

A cousin?

His aunt could just have another one.

Casare emptied his wine glass in one gulp, as if making a firm decision.

...

The next day.

Webster arrived at work in a good mood, only to find on his desk a notice: "Notice of the Reinstatement of Victor Carlos Vieri from Suspension Pending Investigation."

He had a bad feeling about this and called Ardama over with the document in hand, asking, "What is this? When did it arrive?"

"It came early this morning. Someone from the Prison Administration Bureau dropped it off and left. Even if I had tried to stop them, it wouldn't have been any use," Ardama said, looking troubled.

Webster's face darkened as he made a phone call, his complexion visibly falling as the conversation went on, and after hanging up, he cursed, "Damn it!"

Knock knock knock~

The sound of knocking came from the door, and there stood Victor, smiling, "Chief, who upset you this early in the morning?"

Webster looked at him, and the latter fearlessly met his gaze.

It was as if a more virile and robust challenger had entered the wolf pack.

"You're doing fine, Victor. I thought you were going to be punished."

"Are you disappointed, Chief?" Victor approached the desk unabashedly, picked up a cigarette from it, and held it to his nose, "Treasurer, a product from the United Kingdom, nice choice."

He began to smoke right there in the office.

Ardama felt the atmosphere was off and realized that Victor must have deep connections to have his suspension overturned. With two "immortals" clashing, was it not best for him to steer clear of potential trouble?

Bang!

Webster, finding it hard to swallow his pride, slammed his hand on the desk and pointed at him, "Victor, who said you could smoke here?"

The two men had all but torn up any semblance of civility during their last encounter in the yard.

Victor glanced at Webster, then looked down at his cigarette, a Treasurer worth 2 US Dollars, took two puffs, threw it on the ground, and stamped on it forcefully with his shoe. He then smiled at his opponent, pulled out another cigarette, tilted his head, and calmly lit it again.

He blew a cloud of smoke directly into Webster's face.

"You're going too far. Can't you distinguish between superior and subordinate?!!"

"Too far? Boss, say that again?" Victor grabbed Webster's tie and pulled him close, glaring at him, while pointing a cigarette at him with his right hand, "I'm giving you face by calling you 'boss.' Don't think you're anything special."

He whispered threateningly in the other's ear, "You don't think I'm unaware that you belong to the Gulf Cartel, do you?"

Webster's eyes suddenly widened.

Sitting in their positions, only a few knew his identity; after all, he was meant to be a pawn, not something to broadcast loudly. The Mexican authorities needed to preserve their dignity.

"How many people in prison do you think want you dead? If I shout in the district, do you believe that what they'll be tossing next time during yard time is your life?"

As a drug trafficking group that once contested the Guadalajara Cartel, the two were practically mortal enemies, often fighting over territories. The three major groups based in Tijuana, Juarez, and Sinaloa had no love for those from the Gulf.

Yet it was the people from these three groups who made up at least one-third of the population in the Second District.

If the word gets out that the Warden is with the Gulf, do you think Plateau Prison will riot?

It's not like riots haven't happened before.

Restlessness is ingrained in the bones of Mexican drug traffickers.

Webster understood the stakes involved; he was so choked up by this remark that he didn't even know what to say in rebuttal.

Collaborating with drug traffickers was, of course, no problem—who didn't? Just look at how in recent decades, no Secretary of the Mexican Department of Defense left office without issues.

Either they fled to the United States to be captured, or they stood trial domestically.

Webster's fear was exactly as Victor described, the fear of being killed.

High-level drug traffickers wouldn't hesitate to kill even a Cardinal.

"Don't stir trouble for no reason in the future. It's better for us to maintain mutual peace, or else, we both go down!" Victor pushed him forcefully, and Webster fell back into his chair, his face ashen.

Killing him would be easy, but that would lead to someone being parachuted in to take over as Warden, and it was impossible to know what the newcomer would be like. It was better to keep Webster for now while trying to rise in rank during this time, with the best outcome being to become Deputy Warden.

By then, if Webster died, he would be the natural successor.

A deputy is always a spare tire.

Just like when Kennedy died, his deputy, Lyndon Baines Johnson, took the oath of office on the plane.

Victor was no fool; he wouldn't be someone else's gunman.

Violence was just a means to accumulate wealth and climb the ranks.

Career progression is different from doing business. In business, at worst, you earn less, but with careers, one wrong step leads to many more.

In this industry, killings don't spill blood.

Ardama watched him walk away, then turned to see the Warden with a conflicted expression, furrowed brows, looking heavily preoccupied.

What exactly had they just talked about?

She was curious about this, but she soon shook her head, dismissing her curiosity.

It's not good to be too curious in life—it can lead to an early grave.

"Ardama."

"I'm here." She quickly responded.

Webster, furrowing his brows, seemed to want to say something but eventually just gestured, "You may leave."

His tone was indescribably weary.

He had underestimated Victor. If he had known, he would have listened to Haggis and just had someone kill him.

Have someone kill him?

The idea crossed his mind, suddenly accompanied by hesitation.

If Victor didn't die, could it come back to haunt him?

Long accustomed to the comforts of the Warden's position, with delicacies every day, living in a mansion, embracing mistresses, Webster had long forgotten his vicious nature.

Had it been his younger self.

He would have done the job himself, gun in hand.

It just goes to show, the longer you sit in a position, the more you forget where you came from.

...