Working as a police officer in Mexico

April 11, 1990.

Drizzle.

A fitting day to seek death.

Three kilometers from Hero Square in the southern part of Mexicali, the Counter-Terrorism Mobile Unit (EDTV) had occupied the supermarket since yesterday.

This building was the tallest nearby, standing at over fifty meters.

From the top, 16 PK machine guns were positioned, aiming down as if to shoot dogs; breaking through such a field of fire would be possible only if one blew up the entire building.

In terms of heavy weapons, they were also equipped with rocket launchers, surface-to-air missiles, and more than 200 personnel.

Besides this location, all surrounding floors and major buildings were also occupied by the Counter-Terrorism Mobile Unit (EDTV).

They were responsible for a "chain-link" defense within five kilometers of the execution site, their role akin to the United States' Beret Caps clearing the way for the SEALs.

Meanwhile, EDM and other officers from Guadalupe Island would be in charge of security inside.

If Victor was to be sniped from five kilometers away, it would just mean his fate was sealed.

Keep in mind that sniper records beyond two kilometers are things of post-Millennium battlefields. If drug traffickers had such skills, would they still be miserably oppressed by Victor here?

At the center of Hero Square.

A pole of three meters was erected; Zambada was tied up to it like a dead dog, the once active drug lord of several decades looking utterly pathetic.

Before him stood a 120mm M1981 self-propelled howitzer!

When it's said 120mm, it is 120mm; Victor wasn't one to skimp.

Around, a dozen cameras were aimed at him.

Broadcasting his likeness on television, along with loudspeakers proclaiming his "achievements."

Early in the morning, there were already many people glued to their TVs.

They watched intently, wanting to see how Zambada differed from the average person.

But they were disappointed.

Perhaps the biggest difference was that the man seemed to live a comfortable life usually.

Alexandr Konstantinovich got up early, eyes bloodshot as he stared at the man on the TV.

He would not forget!

That man had led a charge into his home, shot his father dead, and standing on his father's head, arrogantly declared, "To refuse Sinaloa's kindness is to welcome death!"

He didn't know why the man didn't shoot him too.

Maybe... out of disdain?

Would you care about the hatred from a crawling insect?

But that drug trafficker, who had once dominated Mexico, now looked more dejected than anyone.

Meanwhile, in a box on the side of the square.

Mexico's Cardinal was continually urging Victor to give up the death penalty, claiming it was a disrespect for life.

The reason Mexico and many other countries lacked the death penalty was their belief that everyone, even criminals, had the right to live. If a judge sentenced someone to death, the judge would also be committing a crime; such was their ideology.

It was sheer nonsense.

"God's purpose is to love everyone, and all can be forgiven." The Cardinal, quite aged, spoke as if reciting from a book.

Victor felt sleepy just listening, "Then why did you burn those you thought possessed by Satan during the Middle Ages?"

At that, the old man's face turned green, "That was God's will!"

"God's will is for you to make money off Indulgences? Or for you to commit evil under the guise of faith? Don't think I don't know what you do in private, Mr. Bishop!" Victor squinted his eyes, his gaze very unpleasant.

A mere glance was enough to describe the Bishop: holier-than-thou!

No wonder when the big names of "Liberation Theology" rose to power and apologized for many scandals within the church, they faced so many accusations. It turned out this bunch had been dirty all along.

Victor leaned forward, his stare oppressive with a mocking smile. He reached out and patted the man's wrinkled face, which even trembled under his touch, "Don't make me angry, or I won't show respect for my elders."

The Cardinal's mouth twisted in anger, his face flushed. In Mexico City, countless people would flatter him, and even the Pope had personally visited Mexico City to show respect for Mexico.

But in front of this small-time cop, he faced repeated insults. Was this not an affront to God?

"Victor! You're walking the path of Satan!" These words were heavy, tantamount to ostracizing him in the "Western mythology"-driven mainstream society of Europe and America.

Casare nervously wrung his hands on the side.

Idiot!

Why aren't you running? What are you still doing here?

Do you really think your skull can withstand a caliber of 120mm?

The reason why the Cardinal stepped forward was that the Sinaloa Drug Cartel was one of the church's donors, helping the church in Mexico build 11 churches nationwide.

This thing...

He's giving money!

This is their benefactor. If he dies, what will they eat and drink?

"Satan?"

Victor suddenly stood up, startling the bishop who involuntarily shuddered.

"Heaven belongs to God, Earth to me!"

"I judge drug traffickers, if I say they're guilty, they're guilty. You want me to release him? No problem, just be careful not to commit crimes in your next life!"

"You can ask the Vatican how many divisions they can send!"

"As long as the caliber is big, I'll believe in God."

Victor gestured, and several police officers rushed in at the door and dragged him and his two followers away. He wasn't crazed enough to finish off his opponent right then and there.

At the very least, he would need a force of nearly ten thousand men under him.

He knew that his opponent had committed many crimes—smuggling, drug trafficking, coercing women, and even human trafficking, but...there was no choice, sometimes status and position also determined the timing of your death.

"It won't be long, the day of reckoning won't be too far off!"

Casare breathed a sigh of relief, thankfully... the old man thankfully hadn't died.

"Boss, it's time!" he said quietly, glancing at his watch.

Victor nodded, "Execute!"

Casare picked up the walkie-talkie, ready to issue the command, when suddenly gunfire and the sound of explosions erupted all around.

There were also deafening cries: "Kill Victor! Kill the tyrant!"

"Kill the cops!"

"Kill Victor!"

Casare looked at his boss nervously, but Victor calmly took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, "Kill them all!"

...

"Kill them all!"

The supermarket standing on the essential route to Hero Square became the target of the assault, and the Counter-Terrorism Mobile Unit (EDTV) manned the PK machine guns and started firing.

If one looked from the sky at that moment, one could see countless drug traffickers pouring out from the alleys around, looking nothing more than cannon fodder!

The weapons in their hands were even old relics from World War II.

The 8 PK machine guns in front spat out bullets.

The unprotected drug traffickers were mowed down like rice, falling dead instantly.

One of the fastest running drug traffickers, armed with a MAS Mle 1936, a relic frequently seen in the drug war—despite their age, the bullets in their barrels could still kill.

He hadn't run two steps when the high-speed burst fire: 658 rounds/min from the PK machine gun bullets pierced through his eyes, and after running two more steps by inertia, he fell heavily to the ground.

The officer held down the cover of the machine gun with his left hand; the thing was a bit jumpy, the recoil quite high, his whole body shook with it, nearly losing control!

The old Russian goods, though rough in appearance, but their power, was simply undeniable!

Whether in the scorching Middle Eastern desert, the thin air of highland plateaus, the humid Subtropical jungle, or the conflict-ridden African continent, it never failed.

Directly showing you what's called the art of tough guys!

In just 5 minutes, it spewed over 2000 rounds...

...causing the drug traffickers to scatter, clutching their heads.

...