Mexicali Prison.
Leanna L.S. Ro-Cartes, in handcuffs, was held up by two officers.
"I'm a reporter. Where are you taking me? This is a personal vendetta!"
She started to panic. This wasn't how the script usually went. No matter which anti-drug mayor or governor it was, as long as she spoke from the angle of "humanity" and "dignity," she was unstoppable.
Those people could only be left speechless by her questions.
So why wasn't it working on Victor this time?
Damn it!
Let me out!
The officer on her left looked at her and sneered. "Aren't you the one who sympathizes with traffickers? I'll take you to meet them, so you can deprogram them."
You offended Chief Victor and still think you're walking out?
We'll send you straight to hell!
Leanna L.S. Ro-Cartes froze. I was just talking—are you serious?
"No! No!"
She struggled with all her might.
But adults have to pay the price for their actions.
The officers dragged her to the innermost cells.
Traffickers were locked up on both sides. Hearing the commotion, they all stood, gripping the bars and shaking them hard. Especially when they saw a woman, they howled.
"Quiet! CNMD! Make another sound and I'll smash your mouths!" the lead officer barked.
The traffickers went quiet instantly.
These weren't Victor's arrests. They'd been locked up earlier. Lucky them—if they'd been outside now, they'd likely already be fertilizer.
But to keep them from making trouble, the first thing Victor did after gaining a foothold in Mexicali was to have 30 trafficker bosses dragged out and executed right in front of them!
"If you want to die, make a scene!"
"Officer, what's with the woman?" one trafficker asked, trying his luck with a grin.
"They want her to preach to you—get you to believe in Jesus," the officer joked. "Whose cell is empty?"
"Put her in here. I love listening to the Lord. Come on in!"
"Beat it, beat it. My parents are believers and so am I. Sister, where are your stockings?"
"Over here. I've got the Virgin Mary tattooed on my back. Come show me. And my bed's nice and wide."
The traffickers got excited, reaching hands out to grab her. The female reporter burst into tears in terror, her legs shaking as she dropped to her knees—she even wet herself.
A pack of traffickers, bodies covered in all kinds of tattoos, yanking at you—who wouldn't be scared?
"Don't—don't leave me in here."
She clutched the leg of the nearby officer, sobbing uncontrollably.
That pathetic sight…
You want "dignity" for traffickers; traffickers want to kill you.
"I know where Quintero is! I know where he's hiding!" Leanna L.S. Ro-Cartes shouted. "I can tell Victor. Don't throw me in prison."
The cellblock went silent. The noisy traffickers instantly shut their mouths, glancing at each other.
"Bitch! Shut your mouth or I'll kill you!" a furious voice suddenly roared. A very tall trafficker, a bit over 1.9 meters, glared at her. "Say one more word and I'll slaughter your whole family!"
"Shut up!" The officer's smile vanished. He pointed at the trafficker.
"I'll remember you. I'll remember you, you stinking whore!" the man kept shouting, eyes locked on the reporter.
The officer's anger flared. He released Leanna L.S. Ro-Cartes's arm, racked his submachine gun, and raked the big man's cell!
Rat-a-tat…
He cut down over a dozen traffickers inside.
"When I tell you to shut up, you think I'm farting around? You want to eat lead?" The officer's gaze swept the other cells. They instantly turned as docile as puppies, pulling their hands back.
Damn…
Victor's men were volatile.
They were EDM. The chief already said: traffickers, kill on sight.
Letting them live a day was Mr. Victor's greatest mercy.
Who says you can't kill them when they're in prison?
Leanna L.S. Ro-Cartes stared blankly. The blood seeping from the bodies mixed with her urine.
The officer frowned, stepped up, slapped her twice, then pinched her chin. "You know where Quintero is?"
This was the top fugitive currently under U.S. bounty.
On April 4, 1985, a month after Camarena was tortured to death, Quintero was arrested in Costa Rica and extradited back to Mexico, imprisoned in Jalisco.
But four years later, in 1988, he escaped!
It was discovered that prison guards, courts, and even the Mexican government played various roles in the escape.
This enraged the Americans, who put up a $20 million reward.
DEA hated him to the bone!
They almost came to blows with the CIA over him.
If they could catch him, the Guadalupe Island Police would earn serious credit with the DEA—gaining real influence there.
But the guy was cunning. The Mexican government hadn't been able to catch him.
No one even knew where he went.
Rumors said he might already be dead.
"You'd better not be lying to us!" The officer pointed at her. "Or we'll show you what filing a false report gets you!"
The two of them dragged the reporter out. Her legs were weak. The unidentified liquid—her urine mixed with blood from the cell—stank.
See? The best cure for saintly hypocrites is sending them to preach in prison.
In this place, if you want them to believe in God and repent, the best method is to kill them—then let them mind themselves in the next life.
Cambra Valley.
Victor hung up on Best and couldn't help laughing. He said again, "Truly interesting."
Casare, curious, leaned in. "Boss, what is it?"
"Best says Raúl Salinas tried to buy him off to get my criminal record—and handed him a blank check to fill out."
"That bastard's spouting nonsense. Boss, what criminal behavior? It's an insult—pure slander." Casare put on righteous indignation.
Victor narrowed his eyes. "Threatening and intimidating government personnel—what does he think he is? Grab him and bring him to Guadalupe Island. I want to judge his crimes!"
Casare nodded. "Scum like that should be cleaned out. Otherwise Mexico's environment and reputation will be ruined by such people."
"Have it done cleanly."
"No problem."
"Chief, could you come over for photos?" A reporter ran up, nervous.
Victor gave a kindly smile. "Of course."
He stood with a group of reporters in front of the drugs and weapons. With the click of a shutter, this photo was destined for the history books.
As the reporters left, Casare personally handed each a red envelope, pricing them based on their companies.
The cheapest was $200.
No worries—there was money!
Reporters who took the cash knew the drill—they'd write favorably.
"Huh? Where's the Mexican Press Group?" Casare still held the last fat envelope. No one came to claim it. He paused, grabbed a reporter, and asked.
The other gave him a strange look, then said, "That female reporter just now was from the Mexican Press Group."
Casare raised a brow and tucked the envelope back into his pocket.
Nice—saved $3,000.
As for whether the Mexican Press Group would retaliate?
Heh heh heh…
Better make sure the trash can at your door doesn't explode!
And of course, when it does, that'll be on the traffickers.
(End of Chapter)
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