If it weren't for the cameras, Victor would have had that female reporter thrown out long ago.
No helping it—the cameras set the limits of Victor's patience.
He placed both hands on the table, smiling. "I'm pleased to inform everyone that the Baja Security Department has destroyed a cartel hideout, seizing a total of 15 tons of narcotics, over 900 firearms and rounds of ammunition, 13 improvised artillery pieces, and killing or wounding more than 1,200 traffickers…"
"Among them were 17 individuals wanted by the Mexican government. This is the largest drug seizure in the past decade."
Ten years ago, when the Guadalajara Cartel was at its peak, no one even dared conduct anti-drug operations.
He paused deliberately here, and the reporters below, quite tactful, applauded.
Victor smiled and nodded, about to continue, when that same female reporter—whom her colleague had just pulled down—suddenly stood up and shouted, "Chief Victor, what about prisoners? Where are the cartel prisoners?"
Damn it!
Are you here to pick a fight?
Victor's expression tightened slightly. "There were no prisoners. The traffickers never intended to surrender. This is what I want to say: in an age when drugs are rampant, traffickers not only possess large-caliber weapons but are increasingly militarized. This means our war on drugs will face an even sterner test."
"Is it that there were none, or that you killed them all?" the female reporter pressed, pulling a disc from her bag. "This contains proof of your use of white phosphorus and indiscriminate killing!"
"You're lying. They were trying to surrender, but you and your people killed them. Some of them were even civilians."
This caused a stir among the surrounding reporters and the public.
It's laughable—some reporters pick fights blindly. They won't question why traffickers manufacture drugs, but will stand on a moral high ground to grill law enforcement.
Perhaps because they know traffickers would truly kill them.
Government departments, on the other hand, would compromise!
It also makes for hype and headlines.
Even though a host in Sonora was killed recently and some quietly tried to pin it on Victor, you still can't stop people whose brains are clearly fried.
"My officers don't make such mistakes! If you think there's an issue with my enforcement, you can file a complaint with the police department about me."
Just don't call my cell.
"As for killing traffickers? That's absurd! I feel you're sympathizing with traffickers. Media like yours insult the sacrifices of anti-drug officers. I have reason to suspect you took cartel money, and that they asked you to stir emotions here and slander or even insult our officers!" Victor slapped the table. "I absolutely will not allow this!"
"I suspect you have under-the-table dealings with traffickers. Search her bag." Victor looked at Casare, who immediately understood and went over with two officers to grab her bag.
"What are you doing! That's my personal property!" the female reporter shouted, looking to her colleague, who quickly stood and edged away.
"Are you refusing to cooperate?" Casare asked.
"I'm a reporter. I have the right to question."
"We're police. I also have the right to suspect you!"
Casare had the officers pry her hands open, then yanked the bag away and rummaged through it. He pulled a photo from the lining, glanced at it, and his eyes lit up. "This looks like Quintero, number two of the Guadalajara Cartel."
"I recall the Americans have a bounty on him. Why do you have a photo with him?"
The reporter panicked. "I'm a journalist. I interview all kinds of people."
Casare shrugged and slipped the photo into his own pocket. "Sorry, ma'am, you'll have to come to the station and explain."
The officers cuffed her. She struggled. "This is persecution! Tyrannical persecution!"
Seeing she still didn't know her place, an officer slapped her hard across the face, then dragged her away by the hair. That clearly stunned her—her face swelled up at once.
"Apologies, everyone. Just a small incident. But I'll emphasize again: sympathizing with traffickers is disrespectful to anti-drug officers. We will reserve the right to pursue this."
"Thank you, all. Please move about on your own."
Victor's mood was ruined by that female reporter. He wasn't shooting blind—she did have something going on with Quintero. Back when he was still around, he gave her a lot of money.
Now she writes "soft promotional pieces" for the cartels.
"Put her in a cell with some traffickers. I want to see just how much she 'sympathizes' with them." Victor said coldly.
It's already generous I haven't settled with people like you. Jumping out at a time like this—you really think Victor is broad-minded?
He's the narrowest-minded there is!
Since you sympathize with traffickers, you can stay with them.
Casare nodded in acknowledgment.
"Chief, you have a call. Mr. Best." The secretary ran up and handed him the brick phone. Victor took it, smiling. "Hi, Best. Good morning."
Standing nearby, Casare watched the boss's expression slowly stiffen, then frown, then relax.
"Interesting!"
…
Mexico City.
Paseo de la Reforma, the 19th-century avenue that cuts across the city.
Lined with elegant fountains and historic bronze statues.
Birdsong and bees, too.
If not for violence and drugs, this country would be the most attractive in Latin America.
In a café wrapped in greenery, staff yawned lazily and joked with colleagues.
In the corner sat two men.
One was Raúl Salinas, and the other was Best, the Hope Group lieutenant under Victor.
Best had come to Mexico City to drum up business but was asked by Raúl Salinas to meet at this café. Given that his brother was the president, Best thought there was business to discuss. But after nearly forty minutes of chatter, Raúl hadn't gotten to the point.
Best stirred his coffee and checked his watch.
Across from him, Raúl understood at once. He smiled, pulled a check and pen from his pocket, and slid them across the table.
"What's this supposed to mean, sir?" Best was baffled.
"Write whatever you want. I know you work for Victor. Help me get his criminal record."
"??"
Best was stunned, then looked up at him and smiled. "Are you trying to buy me off?"
Raúl shrugged, leaned back, and smiled. "Victor's far too high-profile. I asked him for a favor and he wouldn't do it. Who does he think he is?"
"This world isn't solved by violence alone. The Salinas family has been in Mexico for over 150 years. Mexico is us, and we are Mexico!"
His words landed with a thud.
Other customers heard and looked up, then quickly averted their eyes. Remember one thing—don't be too curious in Mexico.
Mexico cures 'what-are-you-looking-at'—with three shots to your chest.
Best was no longer the little punk he used to be. With Victor's "power," he wasn't exactly financially free, but life had certainly improved. The Hope Group was still growing. One sentence, and I'm supposed to join you?
Who do you think you are?
On his first day in Mexico City, he'd heard the president's brother was a bit of an idiot, fond of leveraging his brother's name to rake in cash. Seeing him now—not just an idiot, but without any sense of proportion.
But Best was also smart. He knew you couldn't contradict men like this—embarrass them and they'd kill you in the street.
So he nodded along, even threw in a couple of complaints about Victor. Then he looked down at the check, picked up the pen, and wrote in $3 million—then pushed it back.
Raúl glanced at it and his heart skipped.
Damn!
You really dare to name a price.
Best had been watching his face. Seeing that reaction, he nearly laughed. You say you're broke—who are you kidding?
Raúl swallowed and signed beneath the amount. "You've made a very wise decision."
"Then could you hand me the check?" Best said directly.
Raúl's mouth opened. He wanted to say, "I'll give it to you after I get the 'evidence,'" but that didn't fit his persona. He nearly ground his teeth handing the check over.
As long as Victor's taken down, he could get $30 million from Guzmán for that 15 tons of product.
A good deal.
"When can you hand it to me?"
Best hesitated, frowning. "Three days? I need time to contact my people."
"No problem. Same place, three days from now," Raúl said, delighted, grabbing his bag and getting up. He suddenly asked, "You won't run off with my money, will you?"
Best blinked, then smiled. "Of course not. If I tricked you, I probably couldn't keep living in Mexico, could I?"
Raúl nodded at that. His brother was the president, after all!
Never underestimate an idiot!
This was the guy who once stormed into Congress and beat his brother's opponents, and when reporters exposed his cartel ties, personally chased someone with a gun.
It was a huge scandal at the time.
It's just that his brother's reputation carried him—otherwise that alone would have ended his career early.
Raúl wasn't totally stupid. After leaving the café, he had his bodyguard tail Best. "If he leaves Mexico City, call me."
Best finished the last of his coffee. He'd been poor before and couldn't afford such fancy stuff—seven bucks a cup!
He even licked the last bits from under the cup clean.
Everyone else in the café stared, stunned. That's… really low-class, isn't it?
Best set the cup down. To him, that was virtue.
Boss Victor often said, "Waste is shameful!"
He took his bag into the restroom, went to the last stall, locked it from inside, and called Victor.
He told him everything, exactly as it happened.
The boss on the other end laughed.
"Interesting!"
(End of Chapter)
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