Working as a police officer in Mexico

Mexico, Colima, Manzanillo Port.

The sky was clear, the sunset glowed over the ocean surface, and the fishing boats roared, emanating a sense of laziness unlike any other.

Standing on the shoreline, feet in the sand, walking a dog, feeling the refreshing breeze from the North Pacific—it was undoubtedly a tourist paradise.

Mexico truly was beautiful, with low prices and warm people, perfect for backpackers seeking adventure, with over a hundred beaches that rival the attractions of Thailand or Fiji, right?

The main issue was safety couldn't be guaranteed.

Local drug traffickers wouldn't bother you if you didn't provoke them, but gangs, with their fondness for kidnapping, extortion, and even organ trafficking, were the real danger.

You could find all kinds of evil on this land.

So you understand why Victor was great, right? He was redefining order!

Hum~

A ship's horn startled the seagulls into flight as a massive cargo ship entered the port of Manzanillo.

The workers preparing to unload the cargo heard the honking of cars and turned their heads to see a convoy of about fifteen cars swagger into the port, accompanied by four or five trucks.

As the vehicles came to a stop, armed men in green military uniforms jumped out, weapons in hand, but they... didn't look like government forces.

Seeing something was amiss, the workers quickly halted and fled.

In Mexico, survival hinged on a strong sixth sense and sharp eyes.

The security guards at the port clearly saw the side of the vehicles marked: "Sinaloa (North American Drug Syndicate)."

Dammit!

Guzman's men!

Hiding in their booth, they didn't dare come out, and sure enough, they saw Guzman exit a Mercedes. He wore a grey suit, and by his side was Arturo, the eldest of the four brothers from the Beltrán-Leyva Cartel.

His gaze was sinister, his face sour, as if he could understand the feelings of the bereaved families... Hahaha!

He couldn't help but laugh; Victor had killed both of his brothers.

His psyche was twisted and abnormal.

His eyes suddenly turned, spotting someone peeking out from the booth, looking their way. Arturo took a rifle from one of the armed men and walked towards the booth, stood a few meters away, and opened fire!

Pop pop pop!

Blood splattered onto the glass.

An AK47 contained 30 rounds, and the booth was shot to pieces. The guards inside didn't even have time to scream before their bodies fell out.

Guzman watched the scene with cold eyes.

He thought Arturo was a bit "uncontrollable" with severe psychological issues. He had once introduced a female psychiatrist to him, and Arturo took her to the top floor, raped her, and then pushed her off!

Wasn't it just the death of two brothers?

In Sinaloa State, even if my老娘 died, I wouldn't act like this!!!

His psychological endurance was too weak.

Guzman felt he lacked reason.

But today was not the time for a lesson; he was at the port for something important.

Pablo had promised to sponsor the first delivery of 25 Mi-8 helicopters and 25 BMP-1 infantry fighting vehicles, as well as 10 T-55 tanks!

"Start unloading!" he told one of his lackeys, who ran off shouting, "The boss says to start unloading! Hurry it up!"

The cargo ship's hold opened, and the tanks were driven out.

Importing such items through customs, wasn't that simple?

In Colombia, they were labelled as local products. Who dares to inspect Pablo's cargo? The customs officials had only two choices: to accept willingly or be coerced, and in Colima, Mexico, the territory traditionally belonged to Sinaloa.

Everything was well arranged.

"Mr. Guzman, the first batch includes 7 T55 tanks, 7 Mi-8 helicopters, and 12 BMP-1 infantry fighting vehicles, plus 3,600 AK-74u rifles, 3 million rounds of ammunition, 200 RPGs along with 2,000 rocket-propelled grenades, and 1600 SSh-68 helmets. You can check," the delivery "courier" Ochoa handed the inventory list to Guzman.

Shorty paused mid-breath, even with his worldliness, he was shocked by the bold move.

Pablo, you're my father!

You're really TMD generous.

Although pleasantly surprised on the inside, he had to remain composed on the outside, his brow furrowed, "Where are the rest of the weapons and personnel?"

"They'll arrive by next week at the latest. Rest assured, Mr. Guzman, Mr. Pablo is very efficient."

"Victor has put us under a lot of pressure, and the Americans are going to support him. This is bad news for us. I need to counterattack Sonora State before they can react. Once taken, he can only be trapped to death in Baja California," Guzman talked at length.

Ochoa raised an eyebrow, "What do you need?"

Straightforward and cutting to the chase.

All that talk, was just about wanting more men and money.

"Planes! I need planes!" Guzman waved his hand, "Not helicopters, but fighter jets, capable of attacking Victor's forces from the air."

Wow, your demands are… really TMD high.

Ochoa was flabbergasted by the request.

Even Pablo's forces weren't that well-equipped...n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

"I will convey this to Mr. Pablo, but personally, I think you need time. General Uvico Castañeda from Guatemala is our partner, seeking support for a coup. With our help, it's definite he'll succeed, and soon we'll establish a real hub in Guatemala to transfer weapons and ammunition from South to North America.

Planes could also fly from there to provide you with air support," Ochoa stated matter-of-factly, completely disregarding the Mexican Government.

Nonsense...

You have no planes, no defense system; if someone wants to come and go as they please, are you even able to stop them?

Do you know how much the 17 branches of the North American Drug Syndicate are worth combined?

Over 300 billion US dollars!

Just the Medellin Cartel alone can make over ten billion US dollars in profit a year, and that's a conservative estimate.

Victor's intelligence agency even says their worth exceeds 600 billion US dollars!

Those who deal in the grey market all have TMD's liquid capital. They are the cash kings of the Latin American region. The United States might investigate legal sources, but the Russian Bear right now isn't necessarily doing so.

You give money, you can buy anything!

One thing Ochoa didn't mention is that boss Pablo was discussing a big deal with them.

"Buying NBC!"

Don't think that's TMD exaggerating. When the Russian Bear died, do you know how much they lost?

About 250 warheads!

After the millennium, when Big Bear himself checked, he said 10 were missing. But where are they? Where's the merchandise? TMD who's the buyer?

No one knows, but obviously, the global landscape has become much more "civilized," everyone has become much more polite when speaking.

As Pablo's confidant, Ochoa was the only one who knew about the plan, but he couldn't reveal it; negotiations were still ongoing.

They were asking "300 million US dollars" for each warhead.

Pablo agreed without a second thought; now the main issue was how to get them out.

And how to keep the Americans from finding out.

If they knew, really, the aircraft carriers over the Persian Gulf would turn around immediately. Even if the world was awash with rumors, they would definitely destroy Colombia.

Just wipe you off the map!

They absolutely won't allow another "big guy with a knife" to appear next door.

Ochoa looked at Guzman's furrowed brow and knew he was anxious. He offered a solution, "Mr. Pablo will do everything he can to help the Syndicate members; rest assured. But if you think you're short on weapons, I can actually recommend an arms dealer to you, a Soviet. He's got quite a reputation."

"As long as you pay, he can deliver to anywhere in the world."

Guzman looked at him. "Got a phone number?"

"Of course, I think I have his business card." Ochoa took a card out of his wallet and passed it over. Shorty took it and saw that it just had a name on it.

"Victor Bout!"

"As long as you have the money, he can get you anything. He's got connections over there, but Mr. Pablo doesn't like him much; his prices are higher, but the merchandise is solid, absolutely genuine. You can still smell the scent of Siberian potatoes on the gun barrels."

"Thank you!" Guzman said his thanks.

Ochoa shrugged, "Our interests are aligned, kill Victor, and open up the doors to the United States!"

"We will!"

"Guzman, the cargo is unloaded!" Arturo approached, glancing at Ochoa and said in a muffled voice.

"Then I should be going, too; I'll leave once the fuel is topped up."

"Don't you want to rest for a bit? Let me host you," Guzman suggested.

Ochoa waved his hand, "Next time, when there's a chance."

He was busy now, being the Secretary-General of the North American Drug Syndicate was an important job, responsible for coordination everywhere.

"Then, have a safe trip." Guzman shook his hand and got into the car.

Arturo was about to sit at the front when he was called back, "Come in, sit with me, I have something to discuss with you."

He hesitated, but still nodded and sat down beside him.

"Guzman..."

"Why don't you even want to call me 'cousin' anymore?"

"Are you blaming me for Alfredo's death?"

Arturo was silent. He used to call him cousin, or boss. He was indeed harboring a grudge over the death of a blood brother.

Guzman looked at him and sighed deeply, "My heart also aches. Do you think I can easily bear the death of my cousins? My son died too, Arturo. Victor chopped him into pieces and stuffed them into a freezer. But sons, I can have many of, brothers, only a few. We grew up together, our bond is deep, but I can't stop moving."

"My brothers are watching me; our enemies are laughing at us. The only thing I can do is to quietly press on the wound and then, someday, kill Victor, to appease their souls."

"What we need to do now is to unite, you also don't want the empire we brothers built together to be destroyed by that country cop, right?"

Guzman laid his hand on Arturo's shoulder, his eyes filled with tears, "Trust me, I will chop off Victor's dog head, kick it like a ball in front of the whole world."

"Can you trust your cousin?"

Arturo saw that look in his eyes, pleading, pitiful, and his heart sank. He nodded, "Cousin."

Guzman hugged him tightly, patting his back and crying out, "Cousin!"

The driver watching from the rearview mirror caught a glimpse of the scene.

The boss narrowed his eyes, cold and reptilian, showing no hint of suffering.

Suddenly, Guzman turned his head sharply.

Looking at the driver through the rearview mirror, the latter felt a chill run down his spine, hastily and frantically shifting his gaze away. His hands, unsure whether to hold the steering wheel or put them down, were sweating profusely on his back.

A powerful figure!

How could he possibly cry?

Cousin?

Son?

Ha... Experience more on empire

Is any of that more important than his own drug empire?!

…