"Victor Carlos Vieri!!!"
In a luxurious estate in Victoria City, capital of Tamaulipas, a suppressed, rage-filled curse could be heard.
The short, fat, stocky Juan García Abrego had a dark expression, scars left from gunfights faintly trembling on his face.
This leader who'd single-handedly transformed the Gulf Group from a smuggling gang into an international drug trafficking organization hadn't been this angry in a long time.
He wasn't heartbroken over Claudia Abrego's death - just a cousin, dead was dead. What pained him was that shipment, bound for San Francisco with local distribution networks already stocking up, addicts contacted, CIA paid off.
The goods hadn't even been loaded yet.
That was worth $100 million.
Though it wouldn't be devastating, the loss was enough to make him ache.
He had to retaliate!
If every police officer was as uncooperative as Victor, wouldn't he have to worry about transportation security in the future?
In 1988, during US-Mexico joint anti-drug operations, Abrego had a shipment from Guadalajara port bound for Seattle disrupted by two small-time cops, losing 2 tons of goods and paying considerable compensation on the American side.
A week later, those two cops and their relatives - 17 people total - were found stuffed in a garbage bin.
You can imagine what degree of processing was needed to fit 17 people into one garbage bin.
This incident made the Mexican government lose face completely, but what could be done?
Even news media didn't dare report it.
Goods could be abandoned, but face absolutely couldn't be lost.
"Cough, cough, cough... García, don't let anger cloud your judgment."
A hunched old man in a wheelchair was pushed in. Seeing him, Abrego quickly stood up, signaling medical staff to let go, personally pushing the wheelchair with lowered head, "Uncle, why did you come?"
This was his real uncle, Juan Nepomuceno, also Gulf Group's founder. Because he was willing to invest heavily in protection and occasionally donated to charity, he'd never spent more than a day in jail in his lifetime.
This boss who'd fought his way up from American Prohibition era had unique personal charisma and life experience. He'd cultivated his nephew Abrego, who transformed Gulf Group into a comprehensive drug trafficking organization.
In Abrego's mind, Juan Nepomuceno was the only person he respected.
"The hospital's disinfectant smell is too strong. I don't like it. If I'm going to die, I'd rather die at home." Nepomuceno smiled, then couldn't catch his breath and coughed violently.
Abrego quickly rubbed his back.
"García, I spent my whole life learning just one thing - caution. Women and children can be careless, but men cannot."
"Take a deep breath before doing anything. Anger only blinds you to your surroundings."
Abrego nodded. Just as he was about to tell his uncle about the situation, Nepomuceno waved his hand, "I'm old. You don't need to tell me. Decide for yourself."
"All I need to do is wait for death." Nepomuceno smiled self-deprecatingly, patted his nephew's hand, then signaled the caregiver to take him to rest.
Watching his uncle's retreating figure, Abrego's eyes were especially determined.
"Uncle, Gulf Cartel will never sink!"
He took a deep breath, called his trusted aide, and had him put out a $5 million bounty on Victor's head.
First let those "mercenaries" who recognized money over people test the waters.
Money - drug trafficking groups had plenty!
...
At this time, Victor was leading people on an inspection of Guadalupe Island.
He planned to build an airport!
"Boss, do we really need to build an airport in this godforsaken place? Can't we just take a ferry to the other shore?" Casare followed behind Victor, panting and supporting his knees, glancing at a middle-aged man walking ahead.
That was a designer the boss had hired.
Actually, it was a professional talent Victor had exchanged. Such specialized work had to be left to specialists. Those in their "violent" line of work, their combined education might not equal the length of someone's leg hair.
What did they know about design?
They knew a bit about shooting though.
When customizing the character, not knowing what skills designers needed, he directly chose the "Paris National Higher School of Crafts and Design" excellent student template, with over ten professional skills and qualities.
It cost nearly 200,000 points!
And he still had to pay monthly salaries.
But it was at least more reliable than finding someone outside, and they could design bunkers on the island later too.
"You need to lose weight. You've been eating too well lately - your belly's almost dragging on the ground." Victor looked back at him with a smile.
Casare grinned sheepishly, patting his stomach, "Boss, it's because you've governed Guadalupe Island so peacefully that I dare go out for late-night snacks. Of course I got fat. This is called 'security fat.'"
Why not call it "Victor fat!"
Who said Latin Americans were straightforward?
Here was someone with "smooth talking" skills too.
But Victor was very pleased hearing this.
"Casare, you need to broaden your vision. We've only eliminated Guadalupe Island's drug dealers, but what about Mexico? All of Latin America? Even many countries globally still live under drug crime. We should treat them equally. We need weapons capable of physically eliminating them from long distances..."
Casare was stunned listening.
Wait, boss, are you serious?
That charitable?
Might as well conquer the Vatican and make the Pope believe in you.
"Boss, they're just drug dealers, not warlords. Is aircraft really necessary? I think increasing artillery numbers would be better. And other countries shouldn't need us to fight drugs, right?"
Victor smiled mysteriously. There were things he knew.
The U.N.'s International Narcotics Control Board, later commonly called the "Drug Control Agency," would be established on December 12, 1990. Such organizations always needed certain "military support," right?
Otherwise, how could they fight drugs?
Once Victor's position was high enough, he'd have authority to represent Mexico in joining.
Global drug fighting - everyone's responsibility!
Victor would spare no effort!
"When dealing with savages, we must be as crude as savages. Casare, do you know what two types of people in this world most easily accept change?"
The other shook his head.
"The wealthy and criminals."
"If you tell them feces contain longevity genes, the latter will rack their brains to kidnap medical talent to extract substances they don't even recognize from excrement, then sell them to wealthy people wanting longevity."
"You know, to make money, criminals will do anything. Perhaps in the clouds above us there's an aircraft full of drugs departing Mexico to spread worldwide. If we have planes, we can blow them up!"
"Didn't Best say Juárez also formed an assassin team? Maybe before long, all Mexican drug trafficking groups' military forces will need upgrades. Maybe... they'll even have fighter jets!"
Casare listened to such "bold" speculation with his mouth half open.
He knew drug dealers had some jet aircraft - those things were used for spraying pesticides in Latin America.
But actually, Casare's "vision was still small."
Given current situation changes, perhaps within six months, Mexican drug trafficking groups would gradually transform into "warlord-like" organizations.
Anti-drug work would become increasingly difficult.
This heavy topic made Casare feel "tired." He opened his mouth, "Boss, if it's so difficult, why do we still do it?"
"Someone must hold torches high in darkness, to tell everyone there's a road ahead that should be traveled, so that when they die, their tombstones can be carved with these words: He tried to change the world and never gave up."
Victor looked at him, "Moreover... I'm a police officer!"
Sky began drizzling. Casare looked up, suddenly remembering pledging to the flag at school.
Back then...
He was young, upright, full of hope for the future.
Later...
He was afraid, cowardly, praying drug dealers would spare him.
But now when Victor appeared, something in his heart sprouted like a seed pushing outward.
How could he not want to be a good cop?
"Boss, but we only have 200-some people." Casare murmured.
"More people will join us!"
"Starting from Guadalupe Island, I plan to establish a civilian police academy on the island, recruiting students aged 14-19, then supplementing our police force with fresh blood. The site will be by the beach - there's an empty factory left by drug dealers. Go to the TV station and announce this so all islanders know."
People this age, if you instilled them with patriotic feelings, they'd become Mexico's new generation.
Victor didn't plan to change this country in just a few years.
Killing was simple - bullets took fractions of seconds. But building a country required one or even two generations.
"I'll serve as principal, you'll be vice principal, Kennedy will be the school's military training instructor. When they graduate, they should at least be proficient with NATO standard weapons and tactics."
Watching Victor speak confidently.
Casare didn't know what to say.
Boss, are you training "police auxiliary personnel" or "Mexican soldiers"?
But if things really developed as the boss envisioned.
Attacking Mexi...
No, it should be "Vuestro emperador ha vuelto. (Your emperor has returned)."
(End of Chapter)
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