"Bang!"
Guzmán slammed the car door hard, his expression very ugly.
"Find out everything about this bastard for me. Even how many lovers his mother has, I want to know!"
He rolled down the window and said to his trusted subordinate.
"Boss, should we find someone to kill him directly?" his trusted henchman asked.
"No rush, find out his connections first."
Guzmán was petty - those who offended him never had good outcomes. At 12, when he contracted plantations, there was a thug who liked bullying them, always wanting to extract something from him.
So he and his cousins invaded the other's house one night, personally killed this guy, and silenced his mother and children.
This incident was written in the joint memoir of the four Beltrán Leyva brothers, where they called this cousin: bastard!
He showed extraordinary fierceness, cruelty, and viciousness from childhood.
After growing older, his personality restrained slightly. He knew to investigate opponents' backgrounds first - not because he couldn't afford to offend them, but to have enough preparation time when facing retaliation.
Victor didn't feel the least bit anxious about offending a "major drug lord."
Even if the Pope came to buy arms, he'd have to pay, otherwise have his head shaved and sent to India to become a monk.
He didn't mind the smell on the dollars at all, counting them one by one. You had to admit, though he had no love for Americans, Franklin's little bastard face was quite "handsome."
A total of $67,000.
Money was such a thing - even if shit was printed on it, you'd think it was "art." If a human head had a third eye tattooed on it, you'd say it was weird.
Victor counted out 10 bills and handed them to Best, "Thanks to you two. Have fun, drinks are on me tonight."
$1,000!
Really fucking generous.
Could rent out all the brothels in this district.
Victor was generous like that. People needed to learn to share. He'd need them to risk their lives for him later, so he had to give them some sweetness.
"By the way, it's month-end the day after tomorrow. I'll have Casare calculate the accounts and give you your dividend on the 1st." Victor called out to Best.
Hearing there was money coming, Best's face showed some smile.
"No need for detailed accounts, same whether I look or not."
Victor waved his hand. The cigarette was a bit strong, making his eyes water. "We're doing business here - one thing is one thing. What I promise you must be delivered."
Now with low monthly sales it was fine, but try earning millions or even tens of millions a month and see if they wouldn't grumble inside.
Never test human nature with money - you'll discover human nature is "worthless."
...
"Victor, I think you should find some bodyguards."
Casare looked at his boss through the rearview mirror and suggested, "As our business develops better and better, we'll have more and more enemies."
His meaning was obvious.
Boss, be careful about getting killed. We all depend on you to get rich now.
Victor thought this made sense. Mexico was full of killers, and with his temper that couldn't stand any grievance, today he could carry RPGs to bomb others, tomorrow they could use the same methods against him.
Victor nodded in agreement.
Many respectable people had bodyguards. Even a small police station captain, as long as he had money, would find bodyguards, because Mexico was truly dangerous.
"Have Best handle this. As a middleman, he definitely knows suitable people."
The reason Los Zetas could later run rampant was because most of them were special forces veterans. Leader Lazcano even went to Guatemala's special forces to poach people.
They suddenly became a bizarre paramilitary organization.
Although many military enthusiasts didn't recognize Guatemalan special forces, compared to ordinary drug trafficking group gunmen, they were like royal flush beating a pile of threes - extremely strong combat power, forcing other drug trafficking groups to also recruit professional mercenaries.
This also showed from the side that Los Zetas raised the brutality of Mexico's drug war to unprecedented levels.
However, Gulf Group leader Cárdenas was also an idiot then. Just giving them kidnapping and killing rights would have been fine, but also giving them smuggling opportunities - oops, once they figured things out they went solo.
"Any other good ideas? You can speak up."
"I need to apply for some money. I want to treat second block people to a meal."
This was about building good relationships with colleagues for easier operations?
Victor had no reason to refuse, but his thinking was bigger, "I think we should expand the scope and invite all block guards to party together."
"That would cost a lot of money." Casare said in shock.
Altiplano Prison had over 700 guards. Even without sea cucumber and shark fin, it would cost quite a bit.
"We should let colleagues see we have money. Buddy, no one wants to deal with poor people. If you're rich enough, even the US President can be your friend."
He desperately needed points. Many old guys in the third block had been locked up so long that outside news media were too lazy to report on them. Such people should be taken out for humanitarian destruction!
I am incompatible with evil.
Society was like this - no money, no friends. With money, plenty of people would fawn over you. So when you have money, don't hide it.
Money wasn't stinky.
Even if it stank, people would want it.
"What reason then? The warden might not approve."
"If he doesn't approve, we won't do it? Find any reason - say your grandmother is turning 100."
Casare said with difficulty, "But my grandmother is already dead."
"She can still be alive."
Casare's face immediately went blank. But since the boss said so, he could only accept it. Though this reason was bullshit, it wasn't as good as saying his grandfather was remarrying.
...
What Mexicans both loved and feared most was nighttime.
After working hard all day, finally at night you could have a drink, maybe even find a woman to talk with. But the fear was of gang conflicts causing unnecessary casualties.
But men - unless dead, they were all lustful.
You could see elderly men on the roadside asking prostitutes about prices. Once they agreed on terms, they'd walk into alleys.
Madero Walking Street.
Mexico City's prosperous commercial district, only seven kilometers long, housing over 20 KTVs and 30 bars. Simply heaven on earth.
Songwu was dead drunk, staggering out with several subordinates and a dozen girls, hands dishonestly groping everywhere.
He had mixed-race features, darker skin, not tall but stocky. A subordinate drove to the KTV entrance. Songwu was about to get in the car with a woman when he felt a bright light beam, making his eyes go straight.
"Damn..."
Songwu had just started cursing when he heard screaming nearby, then felt violent impact. Though a car blocked him, he still flew several meters.
He felt pain all over, but his first thought was to kill this driving bastard!
It was a white van. The doors opened and four men with submachine guns and masks jumped out. Amidst others' screams, they swept the car interior.
The driving subordinate went straight to heaven.
Songwu immediately sobered up - someone wanted to kill him. He got up to run. One of the four gunmen saw his figure and fired a burst at Songwu's feet. Hit by bullets, he fell.
These people coordinated well. Seeing him fall, two came up and put a hood over Songwu while the other two stood on the wrecked car roof, firing at subordinates hiding nearby.
"Retreat!"
Two men dragged Songwu into the van while one in the passenger seat shouted.
The rooftop gunmen, before leaving, pulled out a grenade from their pocket and threw it into the car. With a "boom," the van drove away.
The violent explosion caused flames to burn the car body. Surrounding people who couldn't escape in time finally got up from the ground, looking around bewildered and terrified. Some cried while searching for friends.
Mexican game rules: Kill the target, and you can't kill me anymore.
So when encountering gunfights, run if you can. If you can't run, lie on the ground. Generally they won't deliberately kill roadside bystanders - that would waste bullets.
They were criminals, not antisocial psychopaths.
When local gangs put out the fire, the car body was completely bare, burned clean. Songwu's subordinates finally ran out, called for their boss a few times, got no response, and immediately panicked.
Local gang leaders hearing this news couldn't help but raise their eyebrows.
The Juárez small leader nicknamed "Vietnamese Tiger" Songwu was kidnapped in broad daylight?
There would be quite a show to watch.
(End of Chapter)
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