Working as a police officer in Mexico

July 26, 1990, around two in the afternoon.

Right on schedule.

Because the gold-framed clock in the Sonora State Governor's office had just chimed.

The phone on the desk rang.

Victor, who had been standing by the window, twitched at the sound; the hand holding his cigarette shook briefly, and he watched as Casare dashed over at a speed that belied his weight, picked up the phone and answered the call.

"Boss, it's Mr. Jonathan Pannier."

Victor finished his last drag—couldn't waste it—and flicked the cigarette butt into the ashtray. Really, one must never litter.

He walked over, took the phone, "Buddy, what did your leadership say?"

Government agencies are always so complicated, still having to report to the leadership.

It's not like him—private enterprise, first-generation entrepreneur—the direction of the company entirely up to him. Want to disband the company? Just give Nuevo Laredo a fire cleansing tomorrow morning.

The company would be dissolved by the afternoon.

Efficiency is their main selling point.

"The DEA is willing to fully cooperate with the Mexican Drug Enforcement Agency. We will dispatch a 30-man High-Value Target Arrest Team (HEAT) to participate in the operation. The Pentagon will provide us with a C-130, and the U.S. military base in Panama will send 2 F-15's to escort us to the outskirts of Colombia's capital, Santa Fe de Bogota, to strike the new courthouse!"

"That's a bold approach!" Victor said with a furrowed brow.

He thought of the famous "Operation Entebbe," but they went to a Ugandan airport, a place far inferior to Colombia in both military capabilities and political environment.

So, you parachute from a C-130... and then let loose from above like scattering blossom?

Damn, anti-aircraft guns will shoot you down on the spot.

"This plan was designed by the DEA's overseas operations department, and it's the final version."

Victor furrowed his brow, damn it!

Did these idiots really think special operations were guaranteed to succeed?

His face darkened, but his "good" professionalism held him back from throwing the phone.

"When is it happening?"

"The C-130 will be at Amozoc Airport tonight, taking off at 2 a.m. tomorrow. According to intelligence, those drug traffickers will arrive at the courthouse at 9 a.m., with the assault planned for 9:30!"

"The fight to be resolved within 30 minutes, followed by a ground evacuation!"

"Have you got it all arranged?" Victor asked. Weren't the DEA's Colombia division all dead?

Who's in charge then?

Jonathan Pannier's tone was complicated, "The Pentagon has ordered the CIA to cooperate with us."

The air suddenly felt quiet.

He almost spat out a mouthful of old bile.

Buddy, do you not know your relationship with the CIA?

If you're a dog, they're the dog-hunting team.

If you're a prostitute, they're not even planning to pay you.

Cooperate?

They'll sell you out tomorrow.

With this approach, you might as well fly two planes yourself and commit suicide.

Working with the CIA is no different than committing suicide.

Actually, the DEA felt helpless too. They said they had two combat teams, the High-Value Target Arrest Team (HEAT) and the precursor to FAST, the Snow Cap Action Team (OST).

But...

The numbers are extremely low, and sometimes they have to rotate overseas. The mere thought of DEA squads on overseas duty makes one's scalp tingle.

Being able to deploy 30 people this time was really "generous". Usually, their law enforcement is done in conjunction with local police.

Hadn't the Mexican police sold them out many times already?

Victor couldn't help but snicker, "Do you believe them or do you believe I'm God? Have you forgotten what happened to Camarena? The CIA sold him out! If you insist on going through with this operation, it should be renamed 'Mission: Death'. If that's the case, the Mexican Drug Enforcement Agency will cancel the operation."

"The Pentagon has already warned the CIA," Jonathan Pannier quickly said as he heard the other side get agitated.

"I won't gamble my officers' lives on the CIA's conscience!"

Listening to the somewhat harsh breathing on the other end, Victor knew it wasn't easy for him either. The DEA—a grandchild without doting grandparents, a latchkey orphan—is far less privileged than the CIA.

His tone softened slightly, "We'll arrange the combat operation, you don't have to tell your leaders about this, Jonathan. We have to be responsible for our warriors!"

"Our diligence is the best protection for them."

The Yanks always coordinate multiple departments for operations—coordinate my ass, it's a miracle if things don't go wrong.

Look at "Operation Red Wings" later on: complex organization, uncoordinated command, and then 19 men gone.

"If you insist on carrying out such an unreasonable operation, the Mexican Drug Enforcement Agency will act on its own..."

Before he could finish, Jonathan Pannier interrupted, "DEA will only be responsible for cooperation."

Isn't it normal for the client to overturn the contractor's plan?

"Good! I'll see you at Amozoc Airport tonight!"

Victor hung up the phone decisively, checked the time, and gave his orders without hesitation, "From now on, Amozoc Airport is to be locked down and designated a military control area, clearance given for the American C-130 to land."

"Kennedy..."

The person straightened up, standing at attention.

"Tonight, you're leading the team!"

"Yes, Director!" Kennedy saluted.

"Select 70 of the best EDM members. It's our Anti-Drug Force's first overseas operation—make it count."

The man nodded solemnly and went out to make arrangements.

"Get me the map of Santa Fe de Bogota, the Capital of Colombia!"

"Gather all intelligence for the Mexican Special Operations Joint Command; have them come up with a plan!"

Casare quickly acknowledged and scurried away to get busy.

Victor had long wanted to establish a department similar to the "United States Joint Forces Command," with police dispatches to be managed by professionals.

Including combat staff, tactical command, intelligence gathering, and so on.

Many departments would eventually fall under his jurisdiction.

More convenient and faster.

As territorial expansions occurred, departments would become more cumbersome. It would be best to dismantle anything unnecessary while his power was firmly rooted.

Right after planning the special decapitation of the drug traffickers, he had established this department overnight, modeled after the U.S. military.

A one-to-one high-fidelity copy.

Professional matters should be left to professionals.

After Casare and the others left, a report marked: "MDIN—URGENT!!" was brought into Victor's office by Jason Bourne, who looked very serious.

Victor also frowned.

"Seventeen drug traffickers and warlord organizations?"

"They're planning an attack in Tijuana?"

Is it really necessary to go to such lengths?

I'm not the damn Russian Bear or Uncle Sam!

They'd be howling even if they were just facing 17 of them alone, the only person who ever accomplished that feat is laying low now.

"Get the message to Mr. Alejandro, search the entire city!"

This kind of shit-stirring tactic is becoming more and more like what a terrorist organization would do, these damn drug traffickers... total scumbags!

That bastard Pablo liked to pull this kind of crap, like the November 27th, 1989 incident where Colombian Airlines Flight AV203 was blown up by drug traffickers near Soacha, killing all 110 passengers on board.

He's the one who did it.

And he used the same type of bomb favored by the notorious Spanish "ETA" organization, known for their bombings. Do they want to make a big splash in Tijuana next?

Then throw some sort of celebration for their so-called association's founding?

Trying to climb over me to the top?

Victor was unhappy, I haven't even started playing dirty, and you've already resorted to that?

Alejandro, who was in charge of Tijuana, was also shocked when he got the message and quickly contacted James Ryan from the National Guard!

He ordered a large-scale investigation throughout Tijuana!

"Start with the ones with criminal records and the newly-arrived strangers, I don't want both of us to end up assigned to the newly established prison administration department."

Victor built 17 prisons in Baja California.

Well...

In his words, it was to allow drug traffickers to turn over a new leaf.

But as everyone knows, it's actually where he kills drug traffickers en masse, no heads left, of course they're 'changing faces'.

Alejandro certainly didn't want to go back to being a jail guard.

James Ryan: "Yes! Sir, mission will be accomplished!"

All 6,500 members of the National Guard stationed in Tijuana were deployed, knocking on doors one district and one household at a time.

In a poor neighborhood on Tuna Street in District 13.

The residents were having their meal when there was a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" The man asked warily.

"We're here to check the water meter, it's broken."

The man glanced at his wife and children, walked over to the door with some suspicion, and as soon as he opened it, he saw three police officers standing in front of him, accompanied by a worker from the street office.

That's right...

In Tijuana, Victor had prioritized setting up "Street Offices" with government workers for every street, not affiliated with Mexico's public servants but employed by the state of Baja California.

Spread across more than 30 districts and around 200 streets, these offices had over 1,000 workers in total.

"Pol... police officer!" The man trembled a bit upon seeing the police, his legs turning to jelly.

Previously, during the crackdown on gangs, most gangsters were thrown into prison and given a "package" deal ranging from 7 to 25 days, with one activity per day: beatings!

Five lashes per person, and after the beating, they had to copy the Tijuana Administrative Law, promising to end all involvement with organized crime or face more beatings.

Afterward, they would sell fruit.

Being a gang leader is not easy.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

"Officer, Sava has truly reformed. He sells sweet fruit and is very diligent," the street office worker chimed in.

The Sergeant took a look at him, then peered inside at the child and wife, "Have you noticed anything strange recently?"

"What do you mean... strange?"

"Something like someone who's reclusive, doesn't leave the house during the day, or someone who acts sneaky."

The man furrowed his brow and thought for a moment.

"What about that young couple upstairs?" His wife suddenly spoke up.

"Go on."

"A week ago, a couple moved in upstairs, but they never go out during the day, only at night, and they always order food from the restaurant downstairs. Every night they go out, they bring back a bunch of things covered in black packaging. I don't know what it is, and they're always dismissive when I greet them."

The Sergeant immediately became alert, his eyebrows twitching, "Which floor?"

"Top floor, far left!"

"Let's go! Take a look upstairs." He and his men hurried up the stairs, knocking on a wooden door on the third floor.

There was no response inside.

"Knock on the door."

"Is anybody there? We're here to fix the water meter!"

He called out twice, but no one answered.

The Senior Police Sergeant frowned, gestured to an officer to get ready to "unlock" the door, but as he got close to it -

Suddenly, there was a loud bang!

The wooden door was blasted open with a large hole, and the nearby officer was injured and fell to the ground.

"Shotgun!!"

"Open fire!"

The Senior Police Sergeant pulled the street office worker aside, and he, shell-shocked, ran downstairs as the former dragged the fallen officer to a corner.

"First Battalion, First Company, 007 calling for backup!"

"First Battalion, First Company, 007 calling for backup!"

He pressed hard on the radio attached to his shoulder.

Suddenly, his pupils shrank as he saw a hand grenade thrown out from the shattered hole in the door and roll twice on the floor.

It was an M39 standard small egg-shaped hand grenade!

"Hand grenade!"

Boom!

There was no escape; the only option was to lie flat and protect the vital parts.

Downstairs, upon hearing the commotion, Sava quickly shut his door.

"Hide!" He arranged for his wife to take cover, then ran into the room and dug out a French MAB PA-15 pistol from under the floor. Tijuana required their surrender, but... who actually would?

This was Mexico, after all; without a gun, you feel completely insecure.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to help out!" Sava said, his eyes darting, yet with determination, "If I help the police catch the criminals, Tijuana's new rule allows children of those who performed major meritorious deeds to attend key schools!"

Sava took a deep breath.

"I want to start living properly, Sara. I don't want our child to be pointed at and told his father once made mistakes."

"If he's choosing to live, then I'm going to give him a hand!"

It was a gamble!

Win, and you're a hero; die, and you're still a hero.