Working as a police officer in Mexico

"On August 10, 1990, at 9:00 am, the Anti-Drug Force killed Gómez Loera, the leader of Sinaloa Drug Cartel's God's Battalion 17th Battalion..."

On TV.

A blonde female reporter with a generous chest was reading the script.

The female reporters at Tijuana Television Station are all very "biu te fo."

Next to the television hung a seven of hearts, with a photo showing the deadpan face of Gómez Loera, who looked like he wouldn't live long.

On that pattern, a big X was drawn!

"The External Publicity Department of the Anti-Drug Force announced that Gómez Loera will be removed from the new deck of cards, with specifics on his replacement to be provided within 24 hours."

"Additionally, the reward for all individuals in the Spades sequence has been raised by one million US Dollars, with Guzman, the Ace of Spades, reaching a staggering 45 million US Dollars!"

This news was broadcasted in loops in several cities in Sonora State and Baja California.

Quite a few of the public had seen it.

The news itself wasn't much.

But that 45 million US Dollars was deeply stimulating some people's nerves.

What could you do with that amount of money in 1990?

You could buy a mansion in the most prosperous area of New York, then hire a Filipino maid, a driver, a gardener, and solve 99% of life's problems. You would even be a VIP in many banks.

The upper echelons of New York society would welcome your addition.

All you had to do was kill Guzman.

Your life could achieve a leap in wealth and class.

It wasn't that nobody had tried.

But... those who tried are currently not in the service area.

They need only wait for the business hours of Heaven and Earth Bank to resume.

These news, you wouldn't be able to receive them on television channels in Chihuahua State and Sinaloa State.

This is how the people see it.

"The ground troops of wild tyrant Victor were crushed, with over 2000 people killed or injured, a battalion leader was killed, and Kennedy Heisenberg was severely injured!"

A single country, several channels—the sheer disrespect towards Emperor Vic!

However, the angriest right now must be Guzman.

Things in his office had been smashed again.

"Trash! Worthless trash!" he cursed loudly in his more than 100-square-meter flat, "Such a large battlefield, and the missile hit him directly—did he have GPS installed on his head or an antenna in his ass?"

The other cronies dared not utter a word, and only Arturo bent down to pick up an ashtray and place it on the table, "Boss, the 17th Battalion didn't suffer much, just rearrange someone to take Gómez Loera's place."

"Are there any more people in the Loera family?" Guzman asked with a furrowed brow.

His own cousins and such had either died or fled; what trash did he still have under him?

Could it be someone from Juarez or the Gulf Group?

Guzman might as well go direct the operations himself then.

"Let the American advisor take temporary control. Have the 17th Battalion fall back to Denshawi City in Sinaloa State to regroup. Pull up the 19th and the 3rd Battalion as well as the Heavy Artillery Battalion. We must take back this triangular area. If the goods stored in the warehouses can't go out, we'll have to take a detour."

The warehouses were NMD crammed full of goods.

Vic had directly blocked several transportation routes in the north; if Madella gets ahold of that triangular "hub," the drug hotspot Sinaloa will become even more difficult.

They could only go by sea or take a detour through the southern states.

The goods could still go out, but the cost had just increased, at least by twenty percent.

It's all about the money here.

Most importantly, without them, America's junkies couldn't survive, and Guzman was a good seller who considered his "customers."

He would absolutely not swap the inferior for the good, nor would he use alum and rock candy to pretend they were drugs—that was fraud.

In business, it's about empathy.

He understood the drug traffickers' demands.

It was said that many people had called the Sinaloa Drug Cartel, hoping they would ship out faster.

Arturo nodded, and as he was about to leave, he heard a knock on the door.

"Get lost! Get out!" Guzman roared towards the outside.

The voice outside paused, then a trembling voice said, "Sir, there is a thing... no, it's goods, not really..."

"Get in here."

Arturo went to open the door and saw a minion standing at the doorway, holding a box with an expression as if his father had died.

"What is it?" Guzman asked, frowning.

"A delivery from Tijuana Freight Company, it's marked for your signature." The minion put the box down tremblingly and bowed and scraped to the higher-ups, "Sir, I still have things to do, I'll get busy."

Guzman waved his hand, and the guy immediately ran off in a puff of smoke.

Arturo watched his retreating figure, his brow furrowed, then looked at the opened package on the ground with a repressed feeling given by his sixth sense.

"Open it and see."

A minion, quick on his feet, rushed up and upon opening it, they saw a big leg lying sideways with a bow tied around it and a greeting card that read: Guzman—your mother's leg!

The minion who opened the box was sweating profusely.

Damn!

He trembled, and beside him erupted the hysterical roar of the boss.

Guzman pushed him aside, kneeling on the ground, staring at the leg—right behind the ankle, he could see a black spot. It was his mother's leg. He cried out, "Mom! Mama!"

He wailed and beat his chest!

The minions stood by, swallowing hard as they watched their boss lose control, then glanced at Arturo, whose expression was serious too.

It's over.

Guzman was a mama's boy!

It was said that when his mother complained about an uncomfortable bed, he had a bed air-shipped from the United States that was reportedly identical to one in the White House, true filial piety.

And Arturo also knew that to get his mother back, Guzman was even ready to bow to the Mexican Government. Just return his mother, and he was willing to donate 100 million US Dollars to the government. Moreover, as long as the Sinaloa held territory would not see any attacks on government personnel within a year.

But before that could happen,

Tijuana sent a leg first.

Arturo had no idea how to comfort him.

Guzman, sobbing inconsolably, clutched the leg that was laid upon red paper, which also bore a message in Spanish: "Please do not cry, your mother still has one leg left."

"Victor!"

"Victor!!!!"

Guzman bellowed in rage.

The glasses in the spacious flat seemed as if they were about to shatter from his fury.

But what use was it to call out like this?

Victor's parents were both dead; he didn't have a single Achilles' heel.

It was over.

Mexico would know peace no more.

Arturo was a bit perplexed, wondering if Guzman really had a future if he couldn't even protect his own mother.

Of his four brothers, only two remained...

"Sigh~"

Unsure of where the road ahead lay, he couldn't help but let out a soft sigh.

Guzman, gritting his teeth, stood up with bloodshot eyes, forcing himself to calm down, "Cease fire on Madella."

He paused, his voice tinged with desolation, "Call Victor, I want to talk to him."

He still wasn't ruthless enough.

It's just a mother, isn't it?

If she dies, just find another one; let your father find someone new.

Not an ounce of decisiveness.

How could he ever compete with Victor?

Virginia, United States. Langley.

"Are you saying that Uday Hussein has been arrested in Mexico?" FBI Director Floyd I. Clarke asked his subordinate in astonishment.

Eager to clarify, he added, "Saddam's son?"

The loyal employee standing before him nodded, somewhat bemused, "According to what Victor's side says, Saddam wanted to ally with other countries against the United States, but he refused and just tied the man up, leaving the FBI to pick him up."

A look of indescribable disgust as if having swallowed something foul appeared on Floyd I. Clarke's face.

Was there ever such an absurd action?

Mexico should indeed be "counted" among the anti-American camp; surely they must harbor resentment for the 2 million square kilometers of land occupied by the United States.

But to personally go to Mexico to solicit alliances, isn't that too foolish?

Then again, when he thought about it...

What intelligence could be expected from a man who had his father's bodyguard killed?

The bodyguard Kamel (Kamel Hanna Jajjo) had saved Saddam's life three times, and even in the final moments, he was assigned to watch over his son in hopes that he wouldn't cause trouble; he was more a brother than a bodyguard.

Yet such a trusted man was killed by his own hand.

Floyd I. Clarke had a liking for Eastern history; he remembered a small story.

In the ancient East, there was a woman named Chestnut who had a son, Liu Rong, the crown prince, son of Emperor Han Jingdi, Liu Qi. One day, as the emperor lay dying, he confided in Chestnut.

Yet, for some reason, she called out "Old dog!"

The dying Emperor Han Jingdi was so incensed that he rose up, deposed his crown prince, and imprisoned Chestnut.

History and reality are not lacking in foolish and arrogantly self-important individuals.

While Idi Amin of Uganda was in power, he even wrote love letters to the Queen of England, demanding her underwear and even proposing she marry him, but stipulating it couldn't be in the United Kingdom because, according to African customs of male superiority, she would have to follow him back to Africa.

And moreover, she wouldn't even be his main wife, as there was an older wife above her.

What an utter pain in the rear end.

During World War II, the Italian army even surrendered en masse because they couldn't open their ammunition boxes.

The world is just a grand farce; it's not that you're so outstanding, but that your peers are such failures!

Things you think impossible have actually happened.

"Director, should we proceed?" the employee asked softly.

"Of course, why not? America is at war with Iraq, Uday will definitely be of great use."

"But such matters are usually handled by the CIA, I'm afraid..." Explore more stories with empire

Floyd I. Clarke glared, "Afraid of what? It's not FBI agents going to Mexico to apprehend people; this was done by the Mexican populace. Later, you'll send Victor a banner of honor and a little bonus."

"Victor's side wants purchasing rights in the American munitions factories..." the employee said with an awkward smile.

Floyd I. Clarke looked up at him, and the other blinked.

"He was very clear on the phone, hoping we could help him make contact."

"Purchasing rights for arms? Why doesn't he just negotiate directly with the arms dealers?" blurted out Floyd I. Clarke.

The employee gazed at him, "Mexico is too close."

Yes, too close...

Many things are inconvenient.

The Pentagon is unlikely to agree to it.

"If we nail the deal, he's willing to give us this number." The trusted employee gestured with his hand, implying half a million US dollars.

The two of them had worked together before.

While serving at the CIA's European office, they had not infrequently skimmed off funds; if he didn't take it, how could I? If I didn't take it, how would Commissioner Geng? If Geng didn't take it, how would you or I advance?

Do you think the position of Director was begged for?

Pacing his office with hands on hips, Floyd I. Clarke finally gritted his teeth and said, "Fine, I'll contact the White House right away."

"Director, you should also touch base with the Attorney General," the employee whispered. "He has a voice with the President. If you go directly, and the CIA starts to make a fuss, we might end up with no credit and be accused of interfering with overseas deployments."

"Let Victor take the blame."

Floyd I. Clarke showed an embarrassed expression, thought for a moment, then cursed in annoyance, "Damn the CIA!"

A bastard son is never as valuable as a legitimate one.

"I remember that the military has a weapons shipment to Mexico tomorrow, right? Join them, and have a confidential talk with Victor."

"Make sure my money is laundered clean."

That was the essential point.

...