"Victor Carlos Vieri!!!"
Within a luxurious manor in Victoria City, the capital of Tamaulipas, a low, rage-filled curse could be heard.
The short and stocky Juan Garcia Abrego, with a dark expression on his face, shook faintly from a scar on his face left from a shootout.
The man who had once turned Gulf Group from a smuggling ring into a transnational drug trafficking organization hadn’t been this angry for a long ti.
It wasn’t Claudia Abrego’s death that pained him—she was just a cousin; if she was dead, she was dead. What pained him was the batch of goods that were ant for San Francisco. The local sales network had already started to distribute, junkies had been lined up, and the CIA had been taken care of.
The goods hadn’t even been loaded onto the vehicle yet.
They were worth 100 million US dollars.
Although it wouldn’t cripple him, this loss was enough to cause him heartache.
Revenge was necessary!
If every cop was as insolent as Victor, wouldn’t he have to worry about the safety of his shipnts in the future?
Back in 1988, during the joint US-xico drug eradication efforts, Abrego had a shipnt from the Port of Guadalajara bound for Seattle in the United States that was ssed up by two minor policen, resulting in a loss of two tons of goods, and he had to compensate a good deal of money in the US as well.
A week later, those two policen and 17 mbers of their families were found stuffed into a trash bin.
One can only imagine to what extent the bodies had to be manipulated to fit all 17 into one bin?
The incident left the xican Governnt extrely embarrassed, but what could they do?
Even the news dia didn’t dare to report it.
The goods could be forsaken, but face absolutely could not be lost.
"Cough cough cough... Garcia, don’t let anger cloud your judgnt," a hunched figure entered in a wheelchair, pushed by soone. Abrego quickly stood up, signaling dical personnel to let go, and personally pushed the wheelchair, bowing his head, "Uncle, why are you here?"
This was his real uncle, Juan Nepomuceno, also the founder of the Gulf Group, who had secured a "Protection Umbrella" by sparing no expense, and from ti to ti, made charitable donations, ensuring he never spent a day in jail in his life.
This boss, who had fought his way through the Prohibition era in the United States, possessed unique personal charm and life experience, and he had grood his own nephew, Abrego, who led Gulf Group to beco a comprehensive drug trafficking organization.
In Abrego’s eyes, Juan Nepomuceno was the only person he respected.
"The disinfectant in the hospital slls too strong. I don’t like it. If I have to die, I’d rather die at ho," Nepomuceno said with a smile, then coughed violently as he ran out of breath.
Abrego hurriedly patted his back.
"Garcia, I’ve spent my whole life learning to be careful. Won and children can afford to be careless, but n cannot," said Nepomuceno.
"Take a deep breath before doing anything. Anger will only make you blind to your surroundings."
Abrego nodded, about to share the incident with his uncle, but Nepomuceno waved his hand, "I’m old, you don’t need to tell . You decide for yourself."
"The only thing I have to do is wait for death," Nepomuceno said with self-mocking laughter, patted his nephew’s hand, then signaled the caregivers to push him to rest.
Watching his uncle’s retreating figure, Abrego’s eyes held an unwavering determination.
"Uncle, the Gulf Cartel will never sink!"
He took a deep breath and called over his confidant to announce a 5 million US dollar bounty for Victor’s head.
Let those "rcenaries" who recognized money but not people probe the waters first.
Money, the drug trafficking group had plenty!
...
At this ti, Victor was leading his n in an inspection of Guadalupe Island.
He planned to build an airport!
"Boss, does this middle-of-nowhere place really need an airport? Taking a ferry gets us to the other side," Casare trailed behind Victor, panting and propping himself on his knees, glancing at the middle-aged man walking ahead of them.
That was the designer the boss had invited.
It was actually a professional that Victor had exchanged for. Such specialized work had to be left to experts. Those like them, involved in "violent" dealings, didn’t even have the education that this person had in leg hair.
What did they know about design?
Shooting, on the other hand, they knew a bit about.
When customizing a character, because he didn’t know what skills a designer would need, he directly chose the "Paris National School of Advanced Techniques and Design" excellent student template, which included over a dozen professional skills and qualities.
That had cost him nearly 200,000 points!
And he still had to pay a monthly salary.
But at least it was more reliable than those found outside; they could even be tasked with building bunkers on the island eventually.
"You need to lose so weight. You’ve been eating too well lately; your belly is almost drooping to the ground," Victor said, looking back at him with a smile.
Casare smirked and patted his belly, "It’s because Guadalupe Island has been so peaceful under your rule, boss. I can even go out for takeout at night now, of course I gained weight. It’s ’safety fat’."
"Why don’t you call it ’Victor fat’!"
Who says Latin Aricans are forthright?
This one’s also got a smooth talker.
Victor was very happy when he heard it.
"Casare, you need to broaden your horizons. We’ve only eliminated the drug traffickers on Guadalupe Island, but what about xico? The entire Latin Arica? Even many countries around the world still live amidst drug cris. We should treat them all equally; we need weapons that can physically eliminate them from a distance..."
Casare was stunned.
What, boss, are you serious?
That charitable?
In the future, go beat the Vatican and make the Pope believe in you.
"Boss, they’re just drug traffickers, not warlords. Do we really need airplanes? I think increasing the number of guns would be better. Besides, it’s not our place to handle drug enforcent in other countries, right?"
Victor smiled mysteriously, knowing sothing others didn’t.
The U.N.’s International Narcotics Control Board, or what the public referred to later as the "Drug Enforcent Departnt," was set to be established on December 12, 1990. Such an agency would surely need so "military support," wouldn’t it?
Otherwise, on what basis would they eradicate drugs?
Once Victor’s position was high enough, he would have the authority to represent xico in joining it.
Global drug eradication is everyone’s responsibility!
Uncle Victor absolves himself of none!
"When dealing with savages, we have to be as ruthless as the savages, Casare. Do you know the two kinds of people most willing to accept change in this world?"
The other party shook his head.
"The wealthy and criminals."
"If you tell them that longevity genes are found in feces, the latter would rack their brains to kidnap dical talents to extract substances they don’t even recognize from the feces and then sell them to the wealthy who wish to live longer."
"You know, to make money, criminals will do just about anything. There might even be a plane laden with drugs taking off from xico and scattering them across the world. If we had planes, we could blow them out of the sky!"
"Didn’t Best say that Juarez also ford a team of assassins? It might not be long before all the xican Drug Cartels will have to modernize their military force. Perhaps... they might even have fighter jets!"
Casare listened to such a "bold" assumption with his mouth half open.
He was aware that drug traffickers had so jet planes, which are used for crop dusting in Latin Arica.
But actually, Casare was still "short-sighted".
Given the current changes in the situation, it might not take half a year for the xican Drug Cartels to gradually transform into "warlord-like" organizations.
Drug eradication work will beco more and more difficult.
This gloomy topic even made Casare feel "tired". Yawning, he asked, "Boss, if it’s so difficult, why do we still have to do it?"
"There must always be soone to hold up a torch in the dark, to tell everyone that there is a path ahead, and that we should move on, so that when we die, our gravestones can bear the words: ’He tried to change the world and never gave up.’"
Victor looked at him, "And moreover... I’m a cop!"
Sparks from fireworks fell from the sky, Casare lifted his head, and suddenly he thought of the ti at school when he took an oath to the flag.
Back then…
He was young, he was honest, and he was full of hope for the future.
Latterly…
He was scared, he was cowardly, and he prayed the drug traffickers would just leave him alone.
But now, when Victor appeared, it felt like a seed in his heart eagerly sprouting.
How much did he wish to be a good cop?
"But boss, we only have a little over 200 people," Casare muttered.
"More people will join us!"
"Let’s start with Guadalupe Island. I plan to open a civilian police academy on the island, recruiting students aged 14 to 19, then replenishing our police force with fresh blood. I’ll choose a location right by the beach where there is an empty factory left by a drug trafficker. You go to the TV station and put out a notice, let all the islanders know."
People at that age, if you instill in them a sense of national duty, they will beco xico’s new generation.
Victor had no plans to change the country in a few years’ ti.
Killing is easy, just a fraction of a second with a bullet, but building a country requires a generation or even two.
"I will serve as the principal, you will be the vice-principal, and Kennedy will be the school’s military training officer. At least they must beco proficient in NATO-standard weapons and tactics when they graduate."
Looking at Victor, who was talking with great enthusiasm.
Casare didn’t know what to say.
Boss, are you training "Police Auxiliary Staff" or "xican Soldiers" here?
But if it really develops as the boss envisioned.
Invading xico...
No, it should be, "Vuestro emperador ha vuelto. (Your Emperor has returned)."
...
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