Working as a police officer in Mexico

Jose Herrera Duarte was busy!

Busy collecting money.

He had dealings with the Gulf Group, Juárez, and Sinaloa.

As the Judicial Police Commander of Baja California, he had held the position for a long time, all thanks to being "sensible."

When the Tijuana Benjamin brothers were in power, he provided them with police anti-drug intelligence, indirectly or directly leading to the sacrifice of many colleagues.

But his interests in Lower California were so entrenched that even Governor Rafael Max, who died in the "bathroom," had to yield to him to a certain extent.

In his own mansion, after he had just gotten acquainted with the finer points of life with several female models, he lay in bed smoking when he heard the phone ring.

On the bedside table there were four or five telephones.

Red was for Juarez, white for Sinaloa, black for the Gulf Group, and the other colors were less important.

The white one was ringing.

He picked it up and said enthusiastically, "Hi, good evening, sir!"

"We need a favor," the voice of Alfredo, the youngest of the Beltran Leyva brothers, came over gruffly. "Zambada's been caught by Victor."

The cigarette in Jose Herrera Duarte's mouth suddenly seemed to get stuck in his throat, and he couldn't help but cough in discomfort, "What?!"

He spoke so loudly that the frolicking female models turned to look at him; he kicked at their butts with the tip of his foot and waved them away.

Only after the models had left did Duarte toss the cigarette on the floor and sat up straight, "You want me to fish him out?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end, "Kill him!"

Duarte raised an eyebrow, then listened as Alfredo named the price, "600 thousand US dollars!"

"He's your second-in-command in Sinaloa, that price doesn't seem right." His mind raced, quickly understanding what Guzman wanted, and he couldn't help but raise the price.

Typically willing to do anything for money.

"2 million US dollars!" Duarte blurted out his own figure.

"Deal, but you have to do it cleanly," Alfredo didn't even pause, as if the money meant nothing to him.

Damn!

Undervalued!

Inside, Duarte regretted his mistake immensely, but if he dared to haggle now, he might just get himself killed by the other side.

"Don't worry, haven't you always trusted my work?"

After hanging up, Duarte sat on the bed and started to think about how to kill Zambada.

Victor...

Duarte had never met him, but heard he was fierce, causing drug traffickers to cry out on Guadalupe Island, quite the fighter, and he had some men under him.

"But in Mexicali, fighting isn't everything."

He pushed his cigarette into the ashtray.

What's the use of being able to fight, one must have connections!

Tomorrow he would take the Judicial Police to meet this Victor; it's not like he could kill him!

...

The sun was lightly scorching in the sky.

Rare good weather.

Victor had not slept at all the previous night; the first and second teams had successfully taken the police station and the town hall, although they encountered resistance from drug traffickers.

A couple of "Blowpipe" surface-to-air missiles fired.

The drug traffickers shut up.

So did the cops at the police station.

"Let me... let me down!" Hanging from the flagpole in the middle of the TV station, front and back, left and right, were four drug traffickers.

Victor didn't have time to find them a doctor; those who could endure did, and those who couldn't went to die. Zambada's status was different, after all, he deserved some "respect" – if he died, who would face the firing squad?

Standing in his temporary office, Victor felt drowsy. So, he stood up, made a cup of coffee, and listened to the screams outside, a different kind of pleasure for a "Military Leader."

Just as he took a sip of coffee, his gaze sharpened, and he saw a dozen cars suddenly appear at the front gate, all from government agencies.

It seemed that these people finally understood the need to pay their respects.

"Boss," Casare knocked and entered, "the Mexicali Judicial Police and law enforcement are here."

"Let them in," he said.

"We've come to Mexicali; we should meet the local big shots, right?"

Looking around, Casare first checked the table to make sure there wasn't an ashtray; seeing that the small cup only held cigarette ashes, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Outside the TV station.

Jose Herrera Duarte was stopped outside.

No matter how much he pleaded, the gatekeeper officer just wouldn't let him in.

This angered him a bit, but considering his status, he kept quiet.

Casare came out and glanced at them, "Who here is the highest-ranking officer?"

This first question stunned them, and they looked at each other, wondering who it was going to be.

"I am Jose Herrera Duarte, the Judicial Police Commander of Lower California."

"I'm the head of the inspection department..."

"I..."

Four people stepped forward, and Casare nodded, "You come in with me. The rest of you, please wait in the room next door."

The words instantly caused an uproar.

"No, we all came together. Why only see them? Why?"

"Exactly, we want to see Mr. Victor too."

Casare looked at them coldly, motioned with his finger, and the officer behind him immediately shouldered his weapon, and everyone shut their mouths as if on cue.

"What's your status, talk to the police dog at the gate if you have something to say; it'll report back! Keep messing around, and we'll execute all of you!" Casare pointed to a Neapolitan Mastiff not far away.

That was another "favor" Mr. Victor had asked for.

Really just a trade.

Dogs don't count as part of the workforce.

But they're not much use in modern warfare; Victor exchanged for a dozen or so to catch ordinary criminals on Guadalupe Island, and they were not bad at maintaining public order. Now, he brought them out to show some presence.

Of course, it would be even better if dogs could decide the fate of drug traffickers!

Jose Herrera Dutt took a deep breath, feeling a slight heaviness in his heart. He had planned to use his connections in the capital, Mexicali, to put a little "pressure" on Victor, but now he was left with only a few people, and it was uncertain if they could even argue against the other party.

He exchanged glances with several other department heads, then followed behind Casare. The drug trafficker hanging from the flagpole screamed miserably, and someone who recognized him even shouted out, "Dutt! Save me, save me!"

Casare stopped walking and turned to look at him. "Do you know him, sir?"

Dutt hurriedly shook his head. "No, I don't."

"It's better that way. Mr. Victor detests evil and can't tolerate a speck of dirt."

The group entered the office.

Victor gave them a casual glance and sighed. "Take him out and shoot him."

????

Everyone was completely bewildered.

But the police officers outside responded quickly, dragging them out directly!

"No! You can't do this, Victor, I am the Judicial Police Commander, I am the Commissioner, I'm the one in charge. This is wanton killing of the innocent!" Dutt yelled, his face twisted with rage.

You're going to execute me without even letting me speak?

"I won't accept this!"

Victor waved his hand dismissively. "Use a shotgun!"

He didn't want to waste his breath on these people.

Just now, at a glance, he saw that all of them were reformed drug traffickers. Dutt was even worse, directly involving himself in the murder of two mayoral candidates and also participating in human trafficking.

This was not mere smuggling; it was selling people!

The United Nations published a report in 2020 stating that there were still about 50 million slaves worldwide, meaning these people were bought to serve either as tools for venting or as low-level laborers.

They deserved to die!

In Uncle Victor's eyes, there was no room for crime!

The others were no good either, involved in smuggling drugs and providing protection for drug traffickers.

"CNMD! Victor, you're damned, you're not going to die well!" Dutt's mouth was foul.

"Give him three shots!" Victor's voice floated out effortlessly.

Several people were dragged to the courtyard below and tied to the steps of the flagpole where the drug trafficker was hanging.

Dutt kept cursing, "I'm the Judicial Police Commander, I am the Judicial Police Commander!"

An EDM officer, holding a Winchester Defender 1300 shotgun, stuck it in his mouth and decisively pulled the trigger.

Bang!

Gone... meaning his head was gone.

Blood splattered on the others beside him.

"Ahhh!!!" Even the grown men screamed.

The EDM officer wiped the blood off his face, shot two more rounds into the chest of Dutt's corpse; Director Victor said to give him three shots, and definitely not four.

However, using a shotgun for the Mozambique Drill... that's a first, I've heard.

"I was wrong, I was wrong, have mercy on me."

The remaining two had the shotgun barrels pressed against their chests, and the triggers were pulled.

Their hearts were blown to bits.

The execution was completely painless.

These people were drug traffickers!

Just wearing police uniforms.

Victor would not allow anyone to tarnish this profession.

The drug traffickers above had literally been scared pissless.

The urine streamed down noisily.

This is what drugs do.

Casare glanced at the small house nearby and sure enough, saw the people who had followed Dutt in, all looking on with horrified faces.

He sprinted upstairs and reported the situation to Victor, "Boss, should we kill them all?"

"Kill them? Who will do the work? Will you do it?"

Victor looked at him. "Let's not be too violent, why don't you learn from me how to cultivate yourself?"

Casare: ????

You're one to talk about cultivating your nature.

"First lock them up, we'll interrogate them properly later. Anyone who cooperated with the drug traffickers should be executed."

In Victor's eyes,

his world was black and white; color?

That's just bullshit in excess, deserving of Victor's treatment.

Drug traffickers are black and deserve death!

Mercy?

Out of the question!

Mr. Victor is the embodiment of justice walking among men!

He stood up and walked to the window, gazing disdainfully at the drug traffickers hanging from the flagpole. "Can't even control their own piss—aren't they beyond saving?"

Casare immediately understood.

"Then let's give the people a wake-up call before the televised speech; drag these few out and shoot them."

"Let everyone see what happens to drug traffickers."

"Boss, what gun should we use?"

Casare had noticed that Victor chose a different caliber each day to execute the drug traffickers based on his mood.

"What methods do drug traffickers usually use?"

"Beheadings, dismemberment, burning..." Casare rattled off more than a dozen cruel methods in one go.

Victor gestured for him to stop.

"So, we will..."

"Use an RPG!"

...