Casare burped as he walked out of Victor's office, holding a cardboard box, heading toward the emergency team on the fourth floor.
Brothers who've been in prison know that if you're not honest inside, you'll get "hanging punishment," but if prisoners in Mexico aren't honest, they'll riot.
So they organized many young, strong guards into an emergency team to suppress sudden dangers.
About 170 people, executing different plans according to different alarms, with varying numbers for each plan.
"Good day, sir!" A guard with Policía Tercero (Police Corporal) insignia was carrying a washbasin out of a room. Seeing Casare, he quickly stood at attention and saluted.
Boss Casare's status was different now.
"Is Harrison here? Go call him."
This person was close to him, also one of the six who helped kill Dragan.
The guard responded and ran to the captain's office in slippers. Soon, a physically fit police sergeant ran out following him.
Seeing the other's nervous appearance, Casare patted his shoulder, "Everyone assemble, distribute money!"
Harrison glanced at the box on the ground. The green pesos inside made him swallow involuntarily. He pulled out a whistle from his pocket and blew it.
Messy footsteps suddenly rang out, then emergency team members in short sleeves ran out one by one, whispering in confusion.
"Colleagues, commissioned by Inspector Victor, I'm here to distribute money."
Casare's first sentence instantly ignited the whole scene.
"Really distributing money!"
"Inspector Victor is serious? I thought it was a joke!"
"Distributing money today?"
This was the desired effect.
If you don't distribute money, people will think you're "painting" pie in the sky.
Just like every year the government says they'll improve police welfare, but... even after police ministers get arrested, it's not implemented.
People above can't bear to look down.
Mexican police were also patient. They didn't learn from Americans to march and demonstrate for their welfare, but they were equally irritable. Seeing little money earned, they directly became drug dealers.
Moral bottom lines were quite flexible.
Casare saw at least half the emergency team members had tattoos. Don't ask why police forces had no political review - did Mexico need that?
If you took a gun and randomly swept, maybe you'd kill innocents, but definitely hit drug dealers.
"Line up to get money. Anyone who doesn't follow orders loses this month's extra subsidy," Casare shouted. "By the way, this is called subsidies, overtime pay!"
Hearing his words, guards quickly lined up. Harrison brought out a table and placed it in the corridor. Casare personally distributed to everyone.
Team members who got money all "sincerely" saluted him, definitely not because of the money.
After over 40 minutes distributing to everyone, Casare casually threw the box aside, looking at the excited guards in front of him, feeling bitter.
Really, Mexican police were simply "model workers."
"Later bring people to the second block. Everyone wear hoods. Inspector Victor is searching the second block for contraband tonight!"
Harrison also got money. Being captain, he got an extra 600 pesos. Could staff compare with directors?
As long as they had money in hand, even if you asked them to take weapons and fight drug lords, they'd be willing.
Money was more valuable in poorer places.
"Yes!"
Harrison stood straight and responded loudly.
...
High-powered spotlights above the block illuminated the yard exceptionally bright.
Victor wore a black raincoat, a baton under his arm, but a pistol at his waist. Behind him stood Casare and other officers.
Before him stood 170 masked emergency team members holding weapons.
"Search for all kinds of contraband in the blocks, including cigarettes, magazines, guns and ammunition. When encountering resistance, I allow you to kill them. Do you understand!"
"Sí, Señor! (Yes, sir!)"
170 people stood at attention responding.
See, giving money added morale buffs.
"Action." Victor gave the order. The 170 people were divided into dozens of groups rushing toward the cells.
"Boss, we're also confiscating cigarettes?" Casare asked quietly.
"From now on, to smoke, either behave well or buy from us. Those brought in privately are all smuggled. Do you understand?"
"Selling one cigarette for $1 isn't expensive, right?"
Never mind, many in the second block were gang and drug trafficking group leaders anyway. They had money. If not, have people outside send money in.
Could I say your money was "smuggled"?
Even if someone disliked him (Webster) and reported to Alejandro, now they were partners.
If no money...
I'll tell you, in prison, you won't have a good time either!
Casare glanced at Best. Their eyes met, both seeing three words: "black-hearted."
One cigarette for $1...
Excluding the women's section, just male prisoners needed at least 10,000 cigarettes daily.
Another considerable income.
But Victor had thought it through - continue raising guards' income. When they earned more money, the cost for outside drug dealers to bribe them would increase, and he'd be safer.
After the emergency team acted, Victor's group came to Cell #1.
They heard shouting.
"Damn! Dog police! We're going to sleep, you know? What are you doing here? Get out!"
A thin but vicious-looking man with MS-13 tattoos, followed by other prisoners also making noise.
One cell housed about 20 people, looking very crowded.
They didn't have the single apartment suites of third block bosses.
Tap tap tap~
Boots made sounds on the ground, drawing the attention of those in the cell. Victor stood at the door, scanned once, slowly walking over. These footsteps seemed to bounce on hearts, making people depressed.
"You're dissatisfied?" Victor looked down at him condescendingly, gaze stopping at his arm, "MS-13? American gang? Heh!"
Just as this "heh" finished, the rubber baton in his hand smashed directly down on the other's head. This was solid inside.
If anyone thought it didn't hurt, they could buy one and try themselves.
One blow and the other was lying on the ground covering his head, blood showing through finger gaps, looking miserable.
Seeing the cell boss beaten, prisoners behind simultaneously stood up "indignantly."
"Emergency team, prepare to fire!" Casare shouted behind.
This group of guards released safeties, aiming at prisoners.
One even held a Winchester Defender 1300 shotgun!
The emergency team's weapons weren't bad.
Just few in quantity.
But there were always hotheads, maybe used to being arrogant.
"I don't believe you dare shoot. Kill me and I'll have people kill your whole families!" A big man looking like "Kratos" cursed and rushed out.
Bang!
Do you know what close-range shotgun shooting looks like?
Not flying away like in movies - too exaggerated.
But definitely "didn't die well." From chest to stomach was bloody mess, didn't even cry out.
The shooting guard's hands were trembling.
This was excitement!
In prison, they were always shorter when seeing prisoners. This time they finally felt proud.
And wearing hoods, who knew it was them?
This shot greatly deterred prisoners. They looked at each other, all hoping someone else would go out, but if police really shot, that was different.
"From now on, in prison, my rules are the rules. If I say 1+1 equals 3, it must equal 3. Even if Einstein came, he'd have to say it's 3!"
Victor looked at the prisoners before him, eyes glowing.
Because...
That guard shooting and killing just now gave him 6,000 points!
Really wanted... to clear out the second prison.
But this thought just flashed and died. If everyone died, he really couldn't live tomorrow.
However, with power now, could he take some old immortals from the third prison and kill them?
Still needed to climb higher.
Really wanted to kill all drug dealers in the country!
"Drag this guy to the yard and hang him up. If he's not dead tomorrow, send him to the clinic."
Victor glanced at the prisoner lying on the ground, stepped on his wrist, making him scream in pain.
"MS-13?"
"I must remind you, in Altiplano Prison, God should believe in me!"
(End of Chapter)
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