His cousin had done something big.
The major shooting case in Tepito district had been classified as a "terrorist attack" by police, with a 200,000 peso bounty.
Those people all wore hoods - you couldn't tell anything from surveillance. But Casare knew - Mexico used American goods, and only Dragan's group used AK-47s.
If they caught them...
Even splitting the credit, if not promoted to superintendent, he could at least make inspector.
This rank definitely wasn't enough to be chief of a major city police department, but the three places he'd selected were poor, chaotic, and remote - just right for getting started.
Honestly, Victor was very tempted.
After all, it wasn't his cousin.
Since Casare was willing to provide, he naturally welcomed it. But he still politely advised, adding, "Are you sure your mother won't blame you?"
As long as you could get past your family, feel free to sell out cousins!
One reason Guzmán fell out with the Beltrán Leyva brothers was that Mexican military police caught the fourth brother Alfredo, who handled money laundering, in Culiacán. Rumors said Guzmán betrayed him.
Eldest brother Arturo was furious and planned to confront his cousin. But just then, one of Guzmán's sons won an appeal and was released. Arturo believed Guzmán had traded his fourth brother for his son's freedom.
From then on, cousins who had been close for decades broke apart.
Hearing Victor's words, Casare looked very conflicted, his features almost wrinkled together.
"Relax, we're not at that step yet. What we need now is to accumulate capital. Otherwise, without money or connections, being sent out would be a dead end. You have to eat one bite at a time, be down-to-earth as a person."
Down-to-earth?
Then he'd fucking go work a regular job.
It was because he didn't want to follow rules that he took this crooked path. Casare had already tasted the sweetness, but hearing Victor's words, he still hesitated before nodding.
"Alright, rest well. You've worked hard lately." Victor got up and threw his cigarette butt into the greenery by the door, opened the door and left for his own dormitory across the way.
Casare sat on his bed and poured himself a glass of red wine. He'd recently received his salary - $5,000 in dividends, equivalent to three years of his previous wages.
What would you choose when you got a windfall?
Revenge spending?
He'd bought the suit he'd always wanted, new clothes for his siblings, a new sewing machine for his mother, and most importantly, that day he'd found two Colombian women...
This gave him almost worshipful "faith" in Victor.
Weren't his troubles his own troubles too?
Cousin?
Have his aunt give birth to another one.
Casare drained his wine glass in one gulp, as if making some determination.
...
The next day.
Webster had been in a good mood coming to work, but arriving at his office, he saw on his desk: "Notice of Lifting Victor Carlos Vieri's Suspension Investigation."
He immediately felt something was wrong. Calling Ardama over, he held the document and asked, "What's this about? When was it delivered?"
"It was delivered early this morning. Prison Management Bureau people dropped it off and left. Even if I tried to stop them, it was useless." Ardama said with difficulty.
Webster made a phone call with a dark face, his expression visibly darkening. After hanging up, "Damn!"
Knock knock knock~
There was knocking, and Victor appeared at the door, smiling, "Sir, who made you angry so early in the morning?"
Webster looked at him. The latter met his gaze without hesitation.
Like in a wolf pack when a stronger, more robust challenger enters.
"You're very good, Victor. I thought you were going to be punished."
"Are you disappointed, sir?" Victor walked to the desk and unceremoniously picked up cigarettes from it, holding them under his nose, "Treasurer, British goods. You smoke well."
He directly started smoking in the office.
Ardama felt the atmosphere was wrong. She could see this Victor had deep backing to stop his suspension. When gods fight, would staying here make her easily suffer?
Bang!
Webster couldn't swallow this breath and heavily slapped the desk, pointing at him, "Victor, who let you smoke here?"
The two had already completely fallen out during the last exercise incident.
Victor looked at Webster, then looked down at his cigarette. This Treasurer worth $2 per stick - he threw it on the ground after two puffs, stepped on it hard with his shoe, then smiled and pulled out another cigarette, tilted his head, and calmly lit it again.
He blew smoke directly in Webster's face.
"You're going too far. Can't you distinguish between superior and subordinate?!!"
"Too far? Sir, say that fucking again?" Victor grabbed Webster's tie and pulled him over, glaring at him, holding his cigarette with his right hand and pointing at him, "I give you face calling you sir. Don't think you're something special."
He leaned close to the other's ear and said sinisterly, "You don't think I don't know you're with the Gulf Cartel, do you?"
Webster's eyes immediately widened.
Sitting in their position, even those who knew his identity were few. After all, he was used as a chess piece - couldn't be widely publicized. The Mexican government needed face too.
"You know how many people in prison want to kill you? If I shout in the blocks, believe it or not, next exercise time it'll be your life that's lost?"
As a drug trafficking group that once fought against the Guadalajara Group, both sides had blood feuds, often fighting over territory. The three major groups - Tijuana, Juárez, and Sinaloa - had no good feelings toward Gulf people.
But these three groups' people made up at least one-third of the second block's population.
If news spread that the warden was with Gulf, do you think Altiplano prison would riot?
It's not like there hadn't been riots before.
Mexican drug dealers were inherently restless.
Webster understood the stakes. This statement caught him, and he didn't even know how to refute it.
Colluding with drug dealers was naturally no problem - who didn't collude? Look at Mexico's defense ministers over recent decades - which one retired peacefully?
Either fled to America to be caught, or tried domestically.
Webster feared exactly as Victor said - being killed.
Heated drug dealers would even dare kill red-robed cardinals.
"Don't cause trouble in the future. Let's stay peaceful with each other. Otherwise, we'll fight to mutual destruction!" Victor pushed him hard. Webster fell back into his chair, face ashen.
Killing him would certainly be simple, but then they'd definitely parachute in a new warden, not knowing what kind of person would come. Better to keep Webster for now while he raised his rank during this time - preferably mixing in as deputy warden.
Then when Webster died, he'd naturally take over.
Deputies were usually backup plans.
Just like after Kennedy died, his deputy Lyndon Baines Johnson was sworn in on the airplane.
Victor wasn't stupid - he wouldn't be anyone's gunman.
Violence was just a means for making money and advancement.
Official career was different from business. In business you could at worst earn less, but in politics, one wrong step meant wrong steps everywhere.
This industry killed without blood.
Ardama watched him walk away, then turned to see the warden looking conflicted and frowning heavily, appearing troubled.
What had they just said?
She was curious about this, but quickly shook her head, dismissing the curiosity.
People shouldn't be too curious - easy to die early.
"Ardama."
"I'm here." She quickly answered.
Webster frowned, wanting to say something, but finally waved his hand, "You go out."
His tone carried indescribable fatigue.
He'd underestimated Victor. If he'd known, he should have listened to Hagis and found someone to kill him directly.
Find someone?
This method flashed through his mind, then he hesitated again.
If he didn't kill him, would it implicate himself?
Webster, who had sat in the warden position too long, eating delicacies daily, living in mansions, holding mistresses, had long forgotten his fierceness.
If it were his younger self.
He'd have grabbed a gun and done it himself.
Can only say, sitting in a position too long, you forget your original background.
(End of Chapter)
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