Working as a police officer in Mexico

"The Air Force lost one P-51 fighter aircraft, three sustained fuselage damage, and we had one casualty."

"In total, we killed or wounded approximately 2,171 enemies, and took 1,210 prisoners!"

Casare was also excited, "A great victory! This must be the greatest achievement of the Mexican Regular Army since it was defeated by the United States over a hundred years ago."

The statement was made without a hint of embarrassment.

Victor's face also broke into a smile, "Good job, send the prisoners to the concentration camp to build roads, and send this battle report to the Americans, then remind them about their support for us."

Daddy, seeing how capable I am, won't you invest a bit more?

Look, I'm more capable than any of your sons.

"Make arrangements to retrieve the body of Jogos who fell in battle." Victor received the news last night that a P—51 had been blown apart by a SAM.

Honestly...

Although it was somewhat surprising, it was acceptable.

There's no such thing as an absolute top-notch weapon. Every weapon has its counter, doesn't an M1A2 main battle tank worth over 8 million US Dollars have to flee when faced with a few thousand-dollar RPG?

The Soviet Union was so powerful that its steel flood terrified Europe, but in Afghanistan, when you encounter armed personnel emerging from the jungle, you still have to kneel down and cry out.

War, this thing, there are no certainties.

Who can claim they'll live from start to finish?

In war, those who don't die, if not all, at least owe 80 percent to luck.

It can only be said that Jogos was unlucky, got shot down.

Casare nodded, "We've already contacted them, but... the drug traffickers are very resistant."

"Then let's trade with Guzman's mother's corpse. When the time comes, shred her with the P—51, sew her up, and give her back to them."

Casare let out an awkward laugh, "Boss, about what you said concerning dismembering Guzman's mother with the P-51, the joint operations command evaluated it and concluded that it's not advisable."

"Technically, it's quite difficult."

Mainly because the woman is already in her seventies, your tinkering might just speed up her death, which would be doing the other side a favor.

Hearing the professionals say so, Victor had to let go of the idea, clicking his tongue in disappointment and placing his wine glass on the table.

"Then let's make do with a Hummer, to spare her."

"What if Guzman demands a living person..."

"Tell him to go to hell. If he doesn't want it, tell him we'll throw his mother's corpse into a cesspool and have people defecate on it every day."

Casare's mind suddenly conjured up that image, causing him to shudder.

Going to poop in the middle of the night, with an old lady buried beneath your toilet; such a thought was absolutely thrilling.

"He's a filial son; if he doesn't agree, let's blast him with loudspeakers. I want to see if he's shameless."

"Next proposal."

Victor squinted his eyes and said, to deal with drug traffickers you have to be more shameless than they are; forget about any moral bottom line.

Is there any law that says you have to be moral?

Put aside personal qualities; enjoy an immoral life...

Er... for Victor, the bottom line is the law.

"We've already liaised with the American Veterans Center, and they said there's a veterans' job fair in early August, and they'd like us to send someone over," Casare said, flipping through his notebook.

"Then you should go, just send a few people from the operations department to assist."

"Regarding the benefits..."

"For service members with less than six years of service in general roles, do not recruit. Special Forces and specialized roles can be slightly flexible with service lengths, and handle the specific compensation yourself. Don't recruit too many; we're just testing the waters this time."

We have to give the Americans some face, don't we?

A business trip to the United States?

Casare felt a bit nervous at the thought.

This was his "first time."

He could also take the opportunity to see his brothers and sisters; last time, he rushed off without the chance.

Now, he can have a proper visit.

It's been over a year since he last saw them.

How are those little rascals doing nowadays, and how is old Mom?

"Alright."

Casare made a note in his notebook, furrowed his brows, and looked at the next agenda item.

He ran his finger along the notebook, paused, and said, "Already 17 countries have listed Mexico as a red zone, and the United Nations plans to propose at the conference in November that Mexico be classified as a hotspot area. Mexico City hopes we can send someone to Vienna, Austria."

!!!

This means that other countries also feel the firefight between Victor and the traffickers has moved beyond the structure of police vs. criminal.

Damn it!

What police force uses Katyushas?

Your drug traffickers number tens of thousands of people?

And they even have their own anti-aircraft weapons and armored vehicles; isn't this essentially an army?

This is a conflict between the Government Forces and the Rebels!

They must warn their citizens to avoid going there as much as possible; what if they die?

But if the United Nations turned it into a hot spot area, it would definitely be a major blow to Tijuana's economy, whose pillar industry is tourism.

When Victor heard this news, his face darkened.

"At the very least we need to show that we have the ability to protect tourists and suppress drug traffickers, to give the United Nations hope," Casare muttered.

That meant he had to perform even better before November.

Victor furrowed his brows, carefully pondering, "There are three months left, no rush. Is there another issue?"

"The next issue..."

Casare flipped through his notebook, "The educational institutions in Tijuana are proposing to include your name in the textbooks."

"Cough, isn't that a bit much?"

Victor was startled by the words, polite phrases already on his lips, but before Casare could speak, he added, "In the future, let's have a statue of me installed in every school."

"I want to be with the flowers of Mexico, watching them grow up strong."

Figures!

Still as shameless as ever.

Eventually, it would be just like Niyazov in Turkmenistan.

That guy had erected 14,000 statues of himself all over the country.

"For the funding part, let those who run the casinos pay for it. Just tell them, 'The time has come to make a sacrifice for me,'" Victor said, thinking while holding a cigarette.

Casare looked at him, his expression troubled, "This... they've already come to us several times, crying poor and saying our tax rates are too high."

Big boss, you're really stingy!

You don't want to spend a single penny.
Experience new tales on empire

The casino bosses would "of course" "agree"; swearing allegiance at gunpoint, they're definitely Victor's.

Victor glanced at Casare and let out a sneer, "Businessmen won't do anything without profit. If you tell them that this piece of shit is worth 100 US dollars, they would come up with a slogan for the piece of shit: A turd of stinky dog poo, a fragrance that lasts forever."

"Think about it, isn't that so?"

Casare thought it over and, indeed, it was true.

"I don't know what the wealthy class is like in other countries, but here, you're just pigs to me. Whenever I need money, I'll just take one or two of you to the slaughterhouse. And if they dare to emigrate..."

"Then freeze all their assets. No businessman's ass is clean. As long as you have a gun in your hand, they're your granary."

That makes so much sense.

The dictatorial style is intensifying.

Casare's hand itches, he really wants to raise it.

Mexico belongs to you, and to me, but overall, it's Victor's!

...

Culiacán!

The city center was a mess.

The P-51 bombing squadron's dropped bombs had destroyed many of the Sinaloa Drug Cartel's buildings, and Ernst Udet specifically targeted the "hub" buildings, including Guzman's office and others.

He came out from the bunker, and upon seeing this scene, his body shook with anger.

"Boss, we brought down an airplane, but the pilot committed suicide," said his cousin Arturo, standing on the rubble with a serious voice.

"Where's the body?" Guzman asked, taking a deep breath.

The other pointed to the distance.

They saw the body of the pilot, Migos Jose Antonio, was... nailed to a cross.

His eyes had been gouged out.

Even half of his face had been smashed.

"The brothers were angry, so they treated him slightly, and people from Tijuana have already contacted us, hoping to retrieve the body," Arturo reported.

"He, Victor can dream!" Guzman said directly.

"Let him trade my mother for it!"

Arturo sighed lightly, it was over, the aunt was as good as dead.

Victor would turn your mom into cured meat!

"Damn it! We want bombers too!" Guzman looked at the ruins all around, his teeth clenched; he was lucky, having hidden in the bunker, otherwise, he would definitely have been history.

But what about bunker busters?

Will he be this lucky next time?

"Call that Soviet, ask if he has bombers, oh, and ask if he has the latest anti-air missiles," Guzman commanded.

"Damn it, I won't accept this!"

Spend the money!

"Have the Aryan Brotherhood pay up some of the drug money! Damn it, why take drugs if you don't have money? Might as well believe in Jesus."

He wanted to compete with Victor in military might.

You have it, I want it too, it's just a bomber, right?

I'll call my "Doraemon" right now.

Victor Bout, the organization needs you!

...