Unlike Gus's drug organization, which was built on money and corporate management, the Salamanca family's system could be summed up in one simple word:
Blood.
As in blood ties.
Throughout the Salamanca family, from top to bottom—excluding the hired gunmen on the outside—almost everyone from the mules hauling product to the neighborhood heads in charge of sales to the accountant controlling the family's finances all carried the same last name: Salamanca.
This family‑workshop style of management had its pros and cons. On the plus side, it made betrayal inside the clan very rare. On the other hand, hiring purely on blood ties came with a massive downside.
You simply could not put the most capable person in the most critical job.
Jose Salamanca was a perfect example. Just a few years earlier, he had been a grade‑school teacher in Mexico. But because of his bloodline, he caught the eye of a distant uncle.
Without any real training, he was dropped straight into the role of financial controller for a major drug family. At first he might have tiptoed around, doing every task given to him with anxious diligence.
But as time went on, sharing blood with the boss made him lose sight of his real position. He grew bolder and bolder, putting his own interests above those of the organization.
Jose was one such case, and the man on the phone with him—Tuku—was another.
The difference was that Jose still had some brains, while Tuku was just a raving lunatic.
Smash!
In some warehouse office, a tattoo‑covered hand hurled a phone across the room, shattering it against the wall.
Behind the desk sat a short, thickset bald man with a face full of fat and hard lines. This was the Tuku Jose had mentioned—the Salamanca family's number three.
"I knew that bastard Jose was gonna screw something up sooner or later. 'Inside tip,' he said. 'Three to one odds, guaranteed profit,' he said. F*ck! He's gonna get me killed!"
Just thinking about the lines Jose had used to con him made the flesh on Tuku's furious face tremble.
Because of Jose's "inside tip," he had pushed back the audit a full week just to clean up on this fight.
Now the bout was delayed indefinitely and there was no money to plug the hole on the books. If his uncle ever found out he and Jose had hidden this from him…
Remembering how that uncle dealt with family members who crossed him sent a shiver straight through Tuku.
He yanked open a drawer and pulled out a palm‑sized bag, dumping a few clear crystals onto the desk. Then he grabbed the pistol at his elbow and crushed the crystals into powder with the butt.
After that, he lowered his head.
Snnnfff—
"Too, too, too… too damn good!" Tuku slurred, then burst out laughing.
High and manic, he jumped to his feet and started firing into the ceiling, emptying more than ten rounds and sending the sound echoing through the building. The gunfire brought the lookouts outside running.
They rushed in with guns in hand, only to find their boss in full‑blown frenzy. They traded glances and showed the same "seen this a hundred times" expression.
Clearly, this was not Tuku's first meltdown.
"You…" Tuku, his magazine empty, swung the gun around to point at them. "You, you… you, and you—grab every piece we've got and go find that cop from the papers today. The one named Rorschach Butcher. I want that bastard dead!"
Just as Jose had said—even if he was going to be punished by his uncle, he was taking the cop who had ruined his plans down to hell first.
The gunmen he pointed to hesitated for a moment, then one of the bolder ones ventured, "Boss, you want it done public, or…"
"Did you have brain surgery and get your ass installed in your skull?"
Even high as a kite, Tuku still had enough sense to tear into them. "This is Chicago, not Tijuana. You don't whack a cop in the open, you dumb f*cks!"
"Got it, got it!"
The gunmen exchanged a look, nodded, and started checking the pistols at their waists.
Tuku, wired out of his mind, slumped back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling as if the whole killing‑a‑cop thing barely registered.
For these dealers from Mexico, killing cops was nothing new—especially when the target was a patrol officer with no serious backing.
Of course, agencies like the DEA, who never let a grudge go, they still tried to steer clear of.
————————
On the South Side streets, unit 7‑C‑15 cruised its usual patrol route.
Inside, though, things were awkward between Rorschach and Ginny—especially Ginny, whose face was not just embarrassed but visibly angry.
She kept shooting him dirty looks from the corner of her eye.
"I apologize to your father and to you, OK?"
Unable to stand her glare any longer, Rorschach raised his hands in surrender. "I really didn't know that was your dad. And honestly, he wasn't blameless either. I was already pissed off, and he opens with 'who the fck are you,' so yeah, I answered with 'I'm the guy fcking your wife…'"
"Shut up!" Ginny snapped, glaring at him.
"Right, sorry." Rorschach gave an awkward laugh, then ventured, "Maybe you could explain it to your dad?"
Ginny rolled her eyes. "Explain what? That my partner is hot‑headed, foul‑mouthed, and totally unprofessional—but also a responsible, stand‑up cop?"
"Wow. That's actually a pretty flattering review."
Rorschach put on an exaggeratedly surprised face, but when he saw she still looked upset, he coughed twice and let it drop.
If he was being honest, he was not especially worried.
Ginny's dad might be high up in CTU, but it was not like he had ever planned on working there anyway. Offend him, and so be it.
Worst case, if they ever met in person, he could just keep his distance.
Fortunately, work picked up again before long, and they both had more pressing things to focus on than awkward silence.
As a Chicago patrol cop, Rorschach's daily duties did not include rescuing cats from trees, finding kids' lost bikes, giving directions to tourists, or writing tickets for lead‑foot soccer moms.
This was the South Side of Chicago, not Long Island or Manhattan. Those cushy TV‑cop chores were things he had only ever seen on screen.
Crack!
A bullet ripped past Ginny's scalp. A few more inches and it would have punched straight through her skull.
A big hand slammed her down hard. Ginny gasped for breath, mouth hanging open.
In front of her was a small convenience store. The shooter was a masked robber at the counter inside.
She had not expected him to actually fire—and to fire straight at her head.
Just as she was about to return fire, a string of gunshots erupted at her side.
Every one of Rorschach's rounds slammed into the robber. He emptied his magazine in seconds.
"What the hell were you doing?!"
Without so much as a glance at the body on the floor, Rorschach hauled Ginny up by the collar and fixed her with a hard stare. "Did you warn him first?"
"I—I did," Ginny stammered, shame rising as she realized she must have made a mistake somewhere. She nodded, self‑reproachful.
"Then if you warned him and he still pointed a gun at you, why didn't you shoot?!" Rorschach roared in her ear. "Do you have any idea that if I hadn't been here just now, the one lying on the floor would be you?"
Ginny bit her lip. After a moment's hesitation, she whispered the reason. "The manual says we can't shoot until after two or three verbal warnings if the suspect still won't drop the gun…"
"To hell with the manual."
Rorschach cut her off, jabbing her in the forehead with a finger. "You know what lesson six is for being a good cop? Forget everything you learned at the academy and in your textbooks."
Ginny said nothing. Her eyes settled on the corpse riddled with holes, blood spreading across the tile. After a long, silent moment, she nodded.
There was confusion in her gaze, like she was struggling to process everything she had just seen.
Rorschach watched her and sighed inwardly.
In Hollywood terms, this was the difference between academy‑trained and battle‑tested.
He had gone to war first, then the academy.
Out there, there was no such thing as "multiple verbal warnings." There was only the split‑second difference between life and death.
He picked up the radio and called for the unit that handled scenes like this. Once the paperwork and cleanup were underway, he took Ginny and got back to work.
They spent the whole afternoon bouncing from one call to the next, dealing with multiple incidents involving guns or drugs on the street.
With each run, Ginny's face grew more and more grave, as if something heavy was slowly piling up inside her.
By the time they got back to the car, her mood was clearly off.
Her eyes were unfocused, caught somewhere between shock at the violence and death—and a deep, gnawing doubt about the career she had chosen.
Seeing the rookie like this, Rorschach did not lay into her with his usual sharp tongue.
He lit a cigarette, drew deep, and spoke in an unusually gentle tone. "Ginny, from the day you put on that badge, there's one thing you've gotta understand."
"Outside the squad car and inside the squad car are two completely different worlds."
"You can hold yourself to higher standards—higher ethics, higher ideals. But you can't ever assume the people outside the car are operating on the same level."
"You're a good girl, but good girls do not make good cops in Chicago."
"After your shift, go home, take a hot shower, turn on the TV. Eat your favorite vanilla ice cream and watch whatever sappy romance show you like. But when you put the uniform back on tomorrow, I expect to see a harder version of you."
For a moment after he finished, the car was quiet.
Ginny sat with her head down, clearly mulling over his words.
After a while, she suddenly turned and stared at him, an odd look on her face. "You know I like vanilla ice cream. And you know I watch soap operas?"
A flicker of embarrassment crossed Rorschach's face. "Uh… well…"
"Oh, right. I seem to recall someone saying we were just coworkers. That partners weren't allowed to talk about their personal lives in the squad car."
Ginny's lips curled into a small, smug smile as she tilted her head at him. "Sounds to me like we're friends now."
"…."
Rorschach had nothing to say to that.
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