Working as a police officer in Mexico

Late at night.

The calls of birds and the roars of unnamed animals were chilling.

A sentry post about 3 kilometers from Mexicali.

There were six soldiers on guard here, but they didn't belong to any unit under Victor's command, they were Government Forces sent by the Mexican Government, the same squad whose boss had been beheaded in the "massage parlor."

They hadn't been disbanded but were instead assigned to keep watch over the area.

As they were hiding inside, drinking.

"Hey, do you think the cop from Guadalupe Island is an idiot? Drug prohibition? Is it that easy to ban drugs? Even if he killed so many drug traffickers, I admit he's tough, but can he kill off the 7 million drug traffickers in Mexico?"

"Would he dare?!"

A soldier who had drunk too much clearly looked flushed and inebriated, "After today, I'm joining my cousin tomorrow. He's in Juarez, living the good life, which is far better than being a grunt here."

"Shut up!" the lieutenant frowned, "You're drunk."

"Am I wrong? Prohibition! Without drug money, what do we eat, how do we support our families, with just the 300 pesos monthly salary? How much more do you, a lieutenant, make than us?"

Before the soldier could finish, his comrade covered his mouth, "Stop talking, don't spout nonsense, lieutenant, he's like this when he's drunk."

The lieutenant's expression became grim, but suddenly his ears twitched, and he grabbed his weapon and dashed out, not forgetting to shout, "Someone's coming!"

The other soldiers hurriedly took up their weapons, as for the drunk one...

He lay on the ground like a lump of mud, still breathing through his nostrils.

Just as the lieutenant and his men ran out, they saw a black off-road vehicle approaching. He ordered someone to turn on the spotlight and shouted loudly in Spanish, "Stop! Or we'll shoot!"

The off-road vehicle stopped 20 meters away, and the driver got down from the driver's seat, hands raised, holding a bag, "Don't shoot."

He slowly moved to within a dozen meters and threw the bag directly over.

It landed right in front of the lieutenant and the others.

Out fell US dollars.

"Here's 100,000 US dollars, we're just borrowing the road."

This was a drug trafficker!

Who else would bribe a checkpoint with money late at night?

Other than a criminal?

The soldier's eyes lit up next to him, his breathing became rapid, and he looked at the lieutenant, who took a deep breath, "Get out of the car for a check!"

The driver's face darkened, and he looked back at the off-road vehicle.

In the vehicle was also a big shot.

Zambada's brother, nicknamed "Sinaloa Wildcat," Ismail Zambada Wicks, was quite ferocious on the battlefield, leading the charge against the first line of defense, but he also died quickly.

His brother was directly blown apart by an anti-aircraft machine gun!

"Sinaloa Wildcat" became like a wild boar, running wild, lucky for his quick escape, that's how he saved his own life.

"200,000 US dollars!" the driver said loudly.

"Get out of the car!" the lieutenant yelled.

The several soldiers looked at each other and then swallowed hard, at the same time, they moved to pin the lieutenant to the ground, vigorously pressing down on his head.

"Platoon leader, why are you standing in the way of our fortune!"

"Platoon leader, you're the one who has to die now!"

The soldiers shouted loudly, then one of them took out a bayonet and viciously pierced the lieutenant's neck, the blade sticking into the ground.

The lieutenant's eyes bulged, he struggled desperately, but his strength gradually waned, his body jerked, and then he was dead.

The soldiers rushed to pick up the US dollars on the ground, looked at the money in their hands, and looked up at the driver, "Where's the rest of the money?"

The driver sighed with relief, indeed, Mexico was still the same Mexico, with only a few people like those at the Guadalupe Island Police Station.

Most people still loved money!

The driver went back to the vehicle to get the money and threw it to them, the soldiers then opened the barrier and watched the off-road vehicle disappear into the darkness.

"The lieutenant is dead, what do we do now?" one of the soldiers said.

The others looked at each other.

"Let's go join the drug traffickers! We're fighting for someone anyway, right? With this money, we can live it up for a while," someone suggested.

This plan immediately got everyone's approval, and after dividing up the money, they ran off.

On the desolate outpost, the solitary body of a junior officer lay, his eyes wide open, staring into the distance towards the direction of Mexicali.

The liquor in the outpost was also purchased by him.

At the edge of the sky, darkness was gradually fading away, but... Darkness had also swallowed a great deal of splendor, with some falling before the sun rose the next day.

When the soldier who came to relieve the shift saw this scene, the body had already been cleaned by scavenging dogs, and he hurriedly reported the incident up the chain of command.

When Victor received the news, he was also shocked.

"Are you saying that the fallen junior officer was from the Grosteta family?"

Casare nodded gravely.

In Baja California, that surname represented 'heroes'; they were a famously heroic police family, battling drug traffickers ever since drug traffickers emerged in Mexico over a hundred years ago.

In total, 17 had fallen.

"In 1985, when Camarena fell there were actually two other Mexican Police officers with him, one of whom was Pietra Grosteta. He had 71 knife wounds on his body at that time, and it's estimated that seven shots of adrenaline were administered. And this junior officer was his only adult child."

Casare's voice was somber, "Back then, he was a university student who later joined the anti-drug unit in Baja California."

"There's only the youngest brother and sister left in their family now, but they're not of age yet, and life is rather difficult. It's said they still live in the slum and neither has had the chance to go to school."

Victor took a deep breath, feeling a tightness in his chest, "Fucking Mexico!"

How could the heroes of this country come to such a pass, is it a tragedy or a matter of regret?

Where's the compensation?

What about the post-incident care?

All of it, damn garbage!

Suppressing his inner roar, Victor took a deep drag of his cigarette, "Take someone with you and bring them over. At the most luxurious place in Mexicali, I want to host those heroes and the families of the fallen heroes."

"Make sure the still-breathing officials in Mexicali all come over."

"If they don't come."

Victor squinted his eyes, "Then we'll crush them with armored vehicles!"

...

Milia Mires Grosteta struggled to carry a wooden bucket, within it lay her brother's tattered clothes.

She was only 9 years old, but she knew all too well her brother's hardships. Ever since their father died and their mother passed away due to illness, her brother had taken care of their upbringing.

She had to do whatever she could, within her power.

Her small body held the large basin beside the river, looking utterly desolate.

Smack~

A stone hit the water not far from her, startling Milia as she cried out, with laughter and teasing coming from nearby.

Milia turned her head to see several hooligans standing there, pointing and jeering at her, appearing to be around 18 or 19 years old.

"Hey! Where's your soldier brother? Did he die today?" a young man with dyed yellow hair shouted.

Milia kept her head down, silent. They often bullied her. Supposedly, their parents were drug traffickers, but not in Mexicali, rather, up north.

"He isn't dead? Tell your brother not to go out, or else many out there will want to kill him. Do you know how many people died yesterday?" someone cursed, "He's bound to be killed sooner or later!"

Milia remained silent, accustomed to enduring the torment.

But this only made the thugs more insolent. One of the 18-year-old youths rushed up and kicked over Milia's basin, scattering her brother's clothes into the river. As she frantically reached out to retrieve them, she slipped and fell into the water.

Instantly, all the river water rushed into her mouth as she flailed her arms, frantically screaming for help.

The young men on the shore laughed loudly, even throwing stones.

"Typical!"

"The offspring of drug traffickers can only be scum!" a voice laden with long-suppressed rage rang from behind them.

"Rookie" Carlos, his eyes red and bandaged, glared at the few thugs in front of him, then pulled out a gun and aimed it at them.

"Even if justice is sacrificed, it shall not yield to darkness that hangs in the sky!"

He fired the gun, pop, pop, pop!!

If God had forgotten Mexico.

Then Victor's soldiers would carry out justice!

...