Anyone who understood Mexican history couldn't possibly not know Joaquín Guzmán Loera.
Born in 1957 in Sinaloa state, Mexico's drug lord cradle, this was a major agricultural province, but affected by free economy and cheap American agricultural products, traditional crops weren't profitable, so many farmers started growing drugs or opium poppies.
Guzmán's father was a farmer, fond of both alcohol and women - perhaps DNA inheritance, which led to him formally marrying 4 times later with countless mistresses.
Guzmán dropped out in 3rd grade, often beaten by his father. As they say, poor children shoulder responsibilities early. At 15, he pooled money with several cousins to contract plantation business, taking on family support responsibilities. These cousins later turned against him and split from the Sinaloa Group to form the Beltrán Leyva Group's four brothers. They did plantation work for a while.
They discovered all the money was being made by middlemen.
His first entrepreneurial venture ended in failure.
He then joined under Pedro, the first-generation Sinaloa drug lord, following one of his leaders, Palma, responsible for transporting goods to the US-Mexico border and handing them to cross-border smugglers. Because he was only about 1.6 meters tall, people called him "Shorty."
But don't call him that to his face, or he'll make you understand what living hell means.
Cold-hearted, ruthless, plus business-minded, he quickly stood out and became Palma's capable assistant. In the late 70s when boss Pedro was killed, Gallardo rose to power and became the leader.
Guzmán even served as Godfather Gallardo's driver.
Everyone knows being a big boss's driver has great money prospects. Soon his talents were discovered. Gallardo put him in charge of logistics, often running between Colombia and Honduras, expanding many connections.
Later when the Guadalajara Group collapsed, Gallardo's leaders met to divide territories. The Sinaloa Group regained independence. By then, the now-independent Shorty began his reputation as a "tunnel digger" maniac.
Building tunnels at the border, transporting goods to America 24 hours a day.
Colombian goods, passing through his hands, reached designated US warehouses within a week. This international logistics made some courier companies ashamed.
Of course, currently speaking, Guzmán was quietly making big money, not so famous yet. Mainly he kept a low profile and hadn't made America's wanted list yet.
Ten in the morning.
Victor and Casare came to the agreed district, clearly feeling there were many unfamiliar faces on the street.
In the district coffee shop, Victor met this legendary figure.
He instinctively blinked.
"6,750,000!"
Current Guzmán was still number two, so his points didn't exceed imagination, but Victor discovered something remarkable in his recent key activities.
Kill Palma!
Victor looked at him deeply. Ambitious indeed - how could a real man remain subordinate for long?
"Welcome, Mr. Guzmán."
The other was unsmiling, sitting upright in his chair. Seeing the extended hand as if he didn't see it - he was a very proud person, you could clearly feel it.
"I came here wanting a batch of goods."
Seeing him so disrespectful, Best and others clearly darkened, stepping forward. Victor blocked them with his hand, palm clenched, smiling, "I know, you want guns. Yes! $1,300 each, bullets $1 for 5 rounds, RPG $3,000 each, shells $600 per round."
"But recent international situations aren't good, the Middle East is very chaotic. I don't have much in hand. I can give you 30 guns maximum, 100,000 rounds, and 2 RPGs. The rest needs delivery within a month."
After sweeping a gang, he'd made a windfall.
Directly gained over 6,000 points, total points reaching 9,781.
From this you could see that whatever beheading gang, though sounding fierce, were actually just lowlife bastards who couldn't make it to the big stage.
But 100 AKs alone would cost 15,000 points.
Where to find unlucky guys for him to shoot?
Guzmán had a bad temper. Hearing this, he frowned, "Are you joking with me? $1,300? I can buy an M4 on the American black market!"
"American prostitutes and Soviet prostitutes taste different, Mr. Guzmán. Shooting is like you having sex - you've been pulling her trigger for so long, your finger should find other targets. AK-47s have many customers, the whole world needs her comfort. Export goods always cost more."
"$1,300 is just tip money you pay American FBI. Of course, if you really think the price is expensive, I can recommend other goods, but you'd need to wait a long time. You know the whole world is at war."
Guzmán felt the initiative was all in the other's hands, making him very uncomfortable. He didn't like this feeling, but Sinaloa had really suffered heavy losses in recent battles with Tijuana and urgently needed weapons to stabilize territory.
If their home got robbed, everyone would die.
Of course he didn't come specifically to find them. Business worth hundreds of thousands wouldn't he be more comfortable digging tunnels at the border?
Guzmán was called by boss Palma to meet their protection umbrella, hoping someone could mediate.
Hearing someone was selling arms here, he came by the way.
He didn't like this bastard Victor in front of him. He didn't know why, but felt very annoyed at first sight. Maybe... the other was taller than him?
Guzmán nodded to a subordinate beside him, who placed a box on the table. Opening it revealed cocaine, packages stacked together.
"Here are 60 packages total, trade for your weapons."
"Very sorry, we accept US dollars, pounds, Mexican pesos, French francs, but just don't accept drugs. Could I deposit them in a bank? What kind of joke is this? We're a legitimate company."
Victor waved his hand smiling, but this gesture irritated Guzmán. He drew his gun and aimed at the former's head, "In Mexico, no one can refuse Sinaloa!"
Seeing him draw his gun, Best and Duke all raised their weapons, confronting the opposing drug dealers.
Victor still crossed his legs, looked up at him, pointing at his own head, "Shoot here, don't shoot my chest. I just changed my suit."
"But Guzmán, if I lie here today, you'll be buried with me. Let's see if your little broken gun has more bullets or my submachine gun has fiercer firepower."
"Acting like a boss on my turf? Didn't your mother teach you!"
Victor forcefully kicked the table, full of imposing manner.
He didn't say he was police - for drug dealers, this identity would make them feel more excited.
Guzmán squinted, his subordinates all looking at their boss. They didn't want to die here. The other was right - that submachine gun burst would leave them all lying here.
Bean-sized sweat seeped from Best's and Casare's temples, their gun-holding hands somewhat nervous.
Guzmán was indeed called the last smooth old-school drug lord.
If it were post-millennium "Z3" Kazcano, they might be going hard now.
That guy founded Los Zetas.
Guzmán suddenly loosened his grip, put the gun on the table, squeezed out a smile, "You're excellent, Victor. I appreciate people like you. You're right, drugs can't be deposited in banks. Then cash it is."
This guy directly played weak when the situation looked bad, but Victor knew this guy must be grinding his teeth with hatred inside.
Mexican drug lords were used to solving problems with violence. When encountering difficulties, one word: "charge." Very few like him could actively play weak.
No wonder Americans later put a $15 million bounty on him.
The subsequent transaction was straightforward. The other directly gave cash, took the goods, loaded them in cars and left.
This was Victor's and Guzmán's first meeting - very unfriendly.
Casare said with lingering fear, "Victor, they're Sinaloa, they're very brutal. You doing this..."
"The most brutal violent institution in this world is always national government, but aren't we still offending them for money? The constitution is their money-making tool, while the military is their violent means to maintain power and wealth, just like America."
"Are you afraid of their weapons? Or their power?"
Even Mexico's smallest drug trafficking groups wouldn't yield just because you were tough. At worst, fight it out. If you don't kill me, I'll join your enemies and fight you again.
Pablo even funded anti-government forces when the Colombian government troubled him.
"What I've never feared is death, but having my interests violated. Missing out on earning a single penny is as painful as killing me!"