Working as a police officer in Mexico

"Let me go! Let me go! I can give you a lot of money, whatever you want I can give you,"

Carlos, sitting on the ground, waved his hands and yelled loudly.

Harris looked down at him from above and suddenly got very angry, grabbing Carlos's clothes.

"We never wanted money. What we want is to eradicate drug traffickers. Do you remember what happened in the GAFE Special Forces back in 1987?"

Carlos looked at him.

Harris stared at him intently, and seeing the bewildered look on the other's face, he burned with rage, "You had my commander transport drugs to the US-Mexico border for you. We refused, so what did you do to us?"

"You sold out all of our families' information to the drug traffickers, my wife, my children, my parents, and even my brothers were all killed by them!"

"You betrayed us! When you were colluding with the drug traffickers, did you ever think about sparing us?"

Harris shoved him aside, his voice chilling, "A traitor should be eliminated!!"

The two officers behind approached and yanked a plastic bag tightly over his neck, then pulled hard, while Carlos still tried to struggle.

His hand was pierced through by a dagger in an instant!

The protection umbrella for drug traffickers!

Should be treated this way.

Bullets are the most polite form of execution.

Carlos's struggles gradually weakened until, finally, his body went limp and he fell to the ground.

"Boss, troops are coming!" an anxious voice sounded through the communication device from the sentries outside.

Harris took one last deep look at Carlos on the ground, drew his gun, and fired three more shots at the corpse, two in the head, "Retreat!"

The rain grew heavier, pounding the ground with a "thud, thud, thud," disturbingly unsettling.

About ten minutes after they ran, Valdis arrived in a hurry with the intelligence agency's operation department, having just received the message.

Seeing the bodies scattered all around, his legs went weak.

"Quick! Find Mr. Carlos!" Valdis's voice cracked, his complexion draining of color.

The agents he brought started searching frantically.

"Boss! Boss! Over here."

Valdis jumped up and rushed over toward the shouting agent, seeing someone crouched over a body on the ground.

"It's Mr. Carlos."

Valdis, seeing Carlos with a plastic bag over his head, burst into howls, "Hurry, get him to the hospital!"

On June 14, 1990, at 3 am!

Mexico City suddenly went into full martial law.

And half an hour later, a message quickly spread throughout Mexico via the media.

Carlos Salinas!

Deceased!

The news swept across the nation instantly, and many people held meetings overnight, some without even getting a wink of sleep. As for why the TV said he was not dead, who cared?

It was all damned unimportant; the man was dead.

"Hurry, hurry! Go to San Luis Potosi to get Cuauhtémoc to take control!"

...

Cuauhtémoc was woken up in the motel, yawning, when he heard from his secretary that Carlos was dead, he almost dislocated his jaw.

"What did you say? Carlos is dead?"

The secretary's face was flushed with excitement, "Yes! He's dead."

"How did he die?" Cuauhtémoc frowned.

"Our insider at the Official Residence said that last night, a group of unidentified armed men stormed in and... killed him."

That was way too... nonsensical, right?

The competence of the Presidential Guard's protection seemed too subpar.

But on second thought, if drug traffickers could place a few men in the Guard Corps, it made sense that their combat strength was so poor they got taken out easily.

Unidentified armed men?

Drug traffickers?

Victor?

Victor!

Cuauhtémoc's instincts told him that it was definitely Victor. Just as he was about to pick up the phone to inquire, the noise outside became very loud.

"What's going on?"

"Sir, there are many people downstairs," the doorman called out.

Cuauhtémoc opened the window and saw that, unexpectedly, hundreds of people were standing densely packed, and more and more were drawing closer, carrying banners in their hands.

It was too dark to see clearly.

But their voices were cheering, very chaotic, yet slowly becoming very united, "Mr. Cuauhtémoc, please go to Mexico City!"

"Mr. Cuauhtémoc, please go to Mexico City!"

...

It was as if someone was stirring them up from below.

Yet, so many people shouting his name excited Cuauhtémoc, stirring passionate emotions inside him.

"Sir, you have a call from Jonathan Aragon," his secretary handed over the phone, whispering softly.

Cuauhtémoc picked up the phone and, before he could speak, heard Jonathan on the other end start the conversation, "Congratulations, buddy!"

"It seems God did not stand on Carlos's side."

"You've taken down what belongs to you in Mexico!"

Cuauhtémoc arched an eyebrow, "Thank you, but this is not just my Mexico, it belongs to all the people, and with Mr. Carlos's death, the successor isn't me. We have to respect the constitution and let the elections speak."

Jonathan Aragon fell silent for a while, then seconds later, smiled and played along, "Absolutely, Mexico belongs to all Mexicans, and we respect the constitution."

"I and some friends of mine would like to meet with you."

"They would be happy to offer you any assistance necessary."

The "friends" Cuauhtémoc knew Jonathan was referring to were, of course, representatives of certain syndicates or some foreign groups. Although Cuauhtémoc despised these people, he was even clearer on the fact that Mexico now could not do without them.

They didn't care who became president, as long as their interests were guaranteed. If he did not keep up with the times, then the fruits of victory would be snatched away by someone else.

Sometimes, compromise is also an art.

"It would be my honor. After I arrive in Mexico City, we should meet."

Jonathan Aragon breathed a sigh of relief, it was fine as long as Cuauhtémoc cooperated, and his tone relaxed considerably, "Then I wish you in advance a warm welcome at the National Palace of Mexico!"

Once the call ended, the previously surging enthusiasm in Cuauhtémoc's heart suddenly waned.

"A new struggle begins!"

...

Sinaloa Culiacan!

Inside Guzman's mansion.

Aguilar from Juarez, Abrego from the Gulf Group, the three bosses quietly sat, chain-smoking cigarettes.

"Where is the Michoacán Family?" Aguilar asked, lifting his head.

"They're currently at war with a new power called Jalisco New Generation, they couldn't spare the time to attend this meeting." Guzman said indifferently, his gaze shifting towards Abrego, "I've heard their leader is called El Mencho!"

Abrego's face darkened. Although "Shorty" had not said anything insulting, his dignity felt provoked, "I will personally take care of this traitor!"

Guzman glanced at him, "How much longer do you think we can afford internal conflict?"

"? What do you mean?"

"Carlos is dead, and if there are no surprises, Cuauhtémoc will be next in line, and he will show zero tolerance towards the drug trade, which could pose a huge challenge to our business."

"If he gives more support to Victor, our living space will be increasingly squeezed. By then, it won't just be money we haven't made—our lives will also be at risk!"

"Mexico can't live without drugs," the spokesperson for the Gulf Group said with a heavy voice.

"But this is a challenge, isn't it? Baja California... it's gone!"

Upon hearing this, Aguilar and Abrego fell silent on the spot.

"What do you suggest?"

"If we can't beat them, let's surrender," Guzman suggested.

"??? Are you joking!" Abrego stood up suddenly, his temper slightly flaring, "Surrender? It's not in my vocabulary!"

"You could add it to your dictionary."

Guzman looked at him, "Calm down and let me finish."

Abrego glanced at Aguilar, "Do you guys from Juarez want to surrender?"

"Let him finish, go on."

Aguilar, having formerly held the position of Commander of the Security Department, leaned back calmly in his chair and said.

"Our surrender comes with conditions: allow us to sell drugs, and let us keep our own armies. However, we can take profits from it to the National Treasury to improve people's lives, and we can maintain local order, assuring them that there will be no armed conflicts."

"Moreover, we'll abide by local city hall arrangements."

"Just like Pablo did."

When Colombia's Pablo Escobar surrendered, he did so with conditions: no meddling with his business, staying in a prison he built, and no hindrance to his freedom.

The Colombian Government, wanting to keep him in check, fully agreed to it.

Just switching places to remain a big shot, right?

"Will Cuauhtémoc and Victor agree to it?" Abrego expressed doubt, especially about the latter, who had been hounding them relentlessly.

Driving them to their wit's ends.

"We can offer a price the government cannot refuse; Victor? He's just a director!"

"A simple director with some weapons and some troops!"

"Once we surrender, we can also use the government's name to recruit armed personnel. If Victor takes action against us then, that will amount to civil war!"

"He will become the target of everyone's condemnation!"

It must be said that Guzman was one of the few drug cartel leaders with a brain. Anyone who opposed him ended up destroyed, caught by his cunning strategies.

If he couldn't win in the open, he'd think of underhanded tactics.

"Many higher-ups in Mexico have never truly considered a drug ban—they might just... want us to be quieter, to not disturb them. As long as we learn to keep our mouths shut first, they will learn to compromise!"

Aguilar and Abrego looked at each other.

The dog-headed military advisor speaks wisely!

"I will arrange for someone to contact those with influence first."

"Who?"

"For instance: the tycoons of Mexico!"

...