Victor had moral OCD.
If people who offended him didn't die "cleanly," he'd feel very uncomfortable.
But no matter how nervous he was inside, he appeared calm and collected. Being a boss meant looking like a boss. However, being able to get bombs into the prison showed great determination to kill him.
Warden Webster also came, with Cona Velasquez beside him, frowning at the smoking building as they talked.
"What do you think they're saying?"
Casare glanced over, "Maybe thinking how to embezzle money from the repair costs."
"I guess they're thinking why they didn't blow up this bastard me."
Casare was stunned, then heard Victor continue, "Here they come."
The former looked toward the two superiors and saw them rushing over urgently. When Cona Velasquez saw Victor, his face looked constipated.
Webster's eyes seemed to flicker, then showed great concern, "Victor, how are you? Are you injured?"
"No, just badly shaken." Victor forced a smile, pointing at the destroyed office, "If I hadn't suddenly had something to do, I'd be meeting my father now."
Webster's eyelid twitched, "Don't worry, I'll definitely investigate this matter thoroughly and give you an explanation. Do you want to rest for a few days? I'll give you two days off."
Time off?
You really want me dead!
Victor acted very resistant, "Sir, I still have work, and I can still work. I can't hide because of fear. This is retaliation against me, and I will never surrender. God is protecting me and protecting Mexico!"
His voice grew louder until almost everyone could hear, "Mexican police will not be intimidated by fear! Justice will prevail!"
Casare beside him could almost dig out a portrait with his toes.
Saying this publicly in Mexico - what's the difference from publicly defecating?
But Victor was worthy of being a "Hollywood"-level extra. His expression was grave, as if he were truly a martyr going to execution.
Beautiful words - it would be a real shame if he didn't run for office.
Webster narrowed his eyes, also angry inside. He finally understood that this seemingly honest Victor wasn't good goods either.
Hagis's death was already full of suspicious points.
But this bastard who should have died long ago was like weeds growing more vigorously. How could Webster feel comfortable?
However, having spent considerable time in the political cesspool, his ability to speak human words to humans and ghost words to ghosts was already perfected. He patted Victor's shoulder, praised him a few words, and publicly stated he would provide follow-up results on this matter.
Casare watching from the side felt his scalp itch.
He couldn't learn these blatant lies.
As the saying goes, second-rate actors perform on stage, first-rate actors are in politics. Especially in places like Mexico, you simply couldn't tell which politicians had been bought by drug lords because their TV performances were all identical.
They looked righteous on the surface but were actually hypocrites.
But there was no choice - if you wanted to live longer, you had to learn to lie.
Webster left, but was obviously very unhappy.
"Check who else is in his family." Victor said to Casare, watching his superior's retreating figure.
"What are you planning?"
"Are you crazy? That's a government official."
"Seeing him so pitiful, I should console his family."
Console?
Casare always felt like he wanted to kill his whole family.
"Don't worry, I haven't gone crazy enough to lose my reason." Victor extended his hand, indicating for him to help him up, "I just suddenly really want to see what his despair feels like."
Casare tensed up all over.
Damn, I knew it - there are no normal people in Mexico!
...
Rumble!
Lightning flashed across Mexico City's sky.
Heavy rain instantly poured down, and pedestrians on the roadside fled like running wild dogs.
Magdalena Mixuca district.
At the entrance of Ramón López Velarde University.
A gray Toyota was parked by the roadside. The windshield wipers were getting old, making creaking sounds, and the glass was somewhat greasy.
Inside sat two chain smokers, smoking one after another, filling the entire car with smoke.
Best was flipping through Playboy, which had circulated from America - hard currency, with many unidentifiable white spots on it, obviously having weathered many storms.
This was hard currency.
The favorite of Mexico's bottom-tier gang members, and one reason they yearned for America.
Reportedly, women there had very large breasts.
Like cows.
When the class bell rang, Best, who had been lying in the driver's seat, threw down the magazine, checked his watch, held a cigarette in his mouth, straightened his seat, and stared outside with wide eyes, though the glass was somewhat blurry.
"Damn, finally class is over. Do students have such high pressure in class now? Studying is exhausting - better to come out and join gangs."
"Studying has a future," said the person beside him.
"Being honest people like us? Even after coming out, it's still working."
Best's academic performance had always been poor. He even somewhat resented studying - a typical uselessness theorist. Too lazy to argue with him.
"Is that him? Duke." Suddenly he spotted a figure that looked similar, pointing at a student over 5'7" tall with red and green dyed hair. He pulled out a photo for comparison.
Best was experienced. After receiving Casare's call, he had prepared by bribing a school teacher with 100 pesos for a photo - otherwise, how would he recognize the target?
"Looks like him. I'll drive up and call out."
Best smoothly released the handbrake and slowly moved over, preparing to approach, but the target was alert. He turned his head, felt something was wrong, and ran like hell.
"Duke, chase him!"
How could a person run faster than a car? One press of the gas pedal and they were beside him. Duke stretched his body out the window, grabbed the other's collar, and yanked him over forcefully.
Covering the other's mouth, he pulled hard into the car. His behavior was extremely rough, the other resisted fiercely, even reaching for the steering wheel.
This angered Best, who backhanded a punch, directly knocking the other unconscious.
"Duke, hold him down!" He waved his hand in dissatisfaction, "Call Casare, tell him the target is caught."
Duke pulled out a Motorola DynaTAC 8000X from the back seat - the brick phone their fathers' generation used - dialed the number. After two rings, someone answered, "Hello!"
"It's done."
"Good, bring him to the abandoned warehouse ten kilometers northwest of the prison. Best knows the place." The other end hung up after speaking.
Duke turned to look at Best. The phone's soundproofing wasn't very good, and the latter had heard everything clearly.
"Why pick that place?"
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Over forty Asians who wanted to smuggle into America died there before. Buddha bless!"
Mexicans were also superstitious.
"Don't you believe in God anymore?"
"My God has already been killed by drug dealers. Death's faith can only be abandoned. Maybe before long, I'll be a devout Muslim."
"But now what I believe in most is still money. When I have money, I'll build a temple in the Vatican."