Working as a police officer in Mexico

July 27, 1990.

02:27 AM.

Victor stood in front of the door of an Airbus A300, patting the shoulders of each officer as they boarded and straightening out the creases on their uniforms.

When it came to Kennedy's turn, he gave him a hug.

"I'll be waiting in Tijuana for the news of your triumphant return," he said.

"Loyal!"

Kennedy saluted and boarded the plane. The pilot in charge was the Air Police officer Victor had previously exchanged, who signaled the crew with his headset to close the door.

Then...

They began to taxi!

Meanwhile, not far away, inside the cockpit of a C-130, two pilots dispatched by the U.S. Military were enjoying instant noodles with added sausage sticks—a midnight snack.

They were enjoying their meal.

Just when...

They saw those special operatives actually boarding a passenger plane, soaring straight up, and piercing the night sky.

"Hey~ What's going on here? What about us?" the two pilots asked each other, a bit confused. This wasn't going according to plan. Had they boarded the wrong plane?

While the two were still perplexed,

Zolf Sherman arrived with a dozen officers, all very polite—really, even smiling.

"Gentlemen, perhaps I should accompany you on this flight," he said.

Victor stood at the airport watching the C-130 also surge into the sky, then turned his head, "Let's go, back home!"

"Boss, where to?" Casare quickly asked.

"Back to sleep!"

Casare was baffled; his boss didn't seem worried at all.

...

Santa Fe de Bogota, Colombia.

Around three or four in the morning.

Residents in the main city district were awakened by the roaring of cars and motorcycles. When they got up in the morning, ready to go downstairs for work, they found the main streets had all been blocked off!

Those people used pickup trucks...

Equipped with machine guns. Drug traffickers sat laughing and smoking with companions in the back, but they ignored cyclists.

But if you were driving a car,

Just one word: "Scram!"

Drug traffickers could at any time impose... military control? Drug control?

Seven police cars sped to the scene.

A police inspector got out of the car, upright and proper looking full of integrity. He walked over, "Falcao, what are you doing? Is Medellin trying to rebel?"

One of the traffickers in the back, with a rooster crest haircut and covered in messy tattoos, flicked his cigarette and looked over at him, then spit out a mouthful of saliva.

"We're in charge here now!"

"Today, Medellin Cartel is allowing you off work," said the drug trafficker.

The inspector's face turned green with anger, "Move it! Open the road!"

Falcao narrowed his eyes, stood up abruptly, and pulled the machine gun on top of the pickup, "Do you want bullets, or should I tell you to scram again?"

"Today the bosses are meeting. Once they're done, Santa Fe de Bogota will naturally be yours again."

Seeing him pull the bolt,

The accompanying officers instantly tensed up, their feet already poised to run toward the back at any sign of trouble.

But actually, although corruption exists among Colombia's military and police, compared to Mexico, they also have many upholders of justice.

Especially after Pablo blatantly challenged the dignity of the nation, even going so far as to bomb airplanes without any bottom line, he had to be captured to save the nation's face.

But the issue is, even though the idea is good, they weren't able to defeat him!

The Colombian military and police were being pummeled by Medellin's armed forces on the ground, especially as they had good relations with several anti-government armed groups. They didn't just talk about it in one place—if anyone dared to touch Pablo,

Then let "April 19" happen again!

It's just too weak.

In the Latin American world, it still has to be us, the Three Musketeers of North America!

If this were in Mexico today,

You block the road?

Fine!

Victor would just bomb you, then press your ashes under the road, so you could block the way for the rest of your life.

The rooster-crest-haired trafficker took out a bundle of cash tied with a string from the back of the truck!

It was really bundled, as if destined to bind crabs, and he threw it down in front of the inspector with an impatient gesture, "Can you scram now? Do I need to escort you home as well?"

"Officer!"

Brazen and overbearing.

Being a bandit to such an extent, he had lived a worthy life.

As the inspector looked at the money on the ground, he clenched his fist.

"Sir, shall we withdraw?" a deputy suddenly spoke up, and the inspector turned to look at him fiercely.

The deputy's eyes flickered.

"Brothers, it's time to get rich."

The inspector was shocked as he looked at the other officers, who were already putting their guns back into their holsters, and a few troublemakers were looking on unfavorably.

His shirt was soaked through in an instant.

NMD!

"Retreat!"

In the end, all he could do was to grudgingly order a retreat. His face dark with anger, he got into the car, as the deputy picked up the money and nodded with a smile to the rooster-crest-haired trafficker, Falcao.

Watching them flee in disarray, the drug traffickers laughed without restraint, continuing to sit together, talking about women, and the upcoming big meeting.

"Boss, what meeting are the big shots actually holding?" asked one.

"Yeah, boss, tell us," urged another.

Falcao boasted, "Alright, alright, you'll know soon enough. You know about the Mexican drug traffickers, right? Juarez, Gulf Group, Sinaloa."

The underlings nodded vigorously.

"Over there, there's a cop who's said to be very fierce, beating the Mexican drug traffickers so badly that they can only run to Colombia for help. Our boss is a kind-hearted guy, so of course he's willing to help. He's even proposed setting up an association to bring together 17 drug trafficking groups and warlords."

"Wow, 17!"

Falcao nodded at his brothers' stunned faces, "Mexicans are really pathetic. Isn't it just a small cop? I've seen him on the news too; the firepower is just so-so, not as strong as us. I think, in the end, we'll have to make a move and take out that Victor."

"Yes! Kill the cops! Hahaha," a bunch of underlings shouted, raising their hands.

Big brother...

News is the most deceiving of all.

Your boss didn't tell you how tough Victor is to take down!

This is just a reflection of the streets.

Even more audacious was blocking the cars right at the local police station's doorstep, just like that.

One urgent phone call after another went straight up the chain.

To prevent the conflict from escalating, the military police began to take to the streets to face off against the drug traffickers, and the smell of gunpowder permeated the air.

But no one dared fire the first shot.

The Colombian Security Minister, Carlos Yeras Restrepo, dialed Pablo's private phone number directly.

He was fuming, ready to confront the other side.

But...

They just hung up on him!

"Keep dialing!"

Finally, after three or four attempts, someone on the other side picked up, and Mr. Carlos Yeras Restrepo was just about to speak.

But he heard the person on the other side say,

"Sorry, Mr. Pablo is busy at the moment, please try calling back later."

And then...

They hung up again.

beep beep beep...

"CNMD! Pablo!" Even Restrepo, known for his gentlemanly demeanor, couldn't hold it in anymore and cursed out loud, furiously smashing his cell phone to the ground.

The secretary outside, hearing the commotion, hastily shrunk back, not daring to enter.

After he had calmed down, Restrepo, as the head of security, could only sit helplessly in his chair.

He...

Truly didn't have the guts to issue the order to attack.

In fact, looking back at the love-hate relationship between Pablo and the Colombian government, it was clear that at every attempt to eradicate the other side, there was always the support of a "godfather" from the United States.

Colombia wouldn't act rashly.

Once they act...

They will cry.

...

At 8:20 a.m.

Dozens of luxury cars formed a convoy as they rolled into the new justice building; dozens of bodyguards descended from the vehicles, all opening the car doors in unison.

Pablo, Guzman, Abrego, along with other representatives from both countries and many delegates, got out of their cars.

The journalists who had been waiting rushed over immediately.

"Mr. Pablo! Rumor has it there's some explosive news today, what is it?"

"Mr. Pablo, what do you think about the Colombian government's announcement that it will sign an extradition treaty with the United States?"

With his bushy mane of hair and wearing a white suit with a flower in his lapel, the rosy-cheeked Pablo, looking very pleased with himself, gestured with his hand for them to quiet down.

Once everyone had shut their mouths, he finally spoke with a smile,

"I'll answer your questions one by one in a moment, but first let me say something."

"I'm very pleased to announce to you all here today!"n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

"The North American Drug Syndicate, co-led by Mexico's Sinaloa, Juarez, Gulf Group, and Colombia's Medellin and Cali Cartel, has officially been established!"

The journalists below were taken aback.

But then they promptly began snapping pictures non-stop.

Their faces also showed excitement, of course for the news spectacle.

They had a premonition when they came that a big drug trafficker holding a press conference would definitely make a major announcement, especially since they were called by the most controversial Pablo.

North American Drug Syndicate!

Mexico + Colombia?

They seem to be planning to dominate Latin America.

"I have never seen such an audacious person in all my life," a young journalist, obviously an inexperienced one, couldn't help but blurt out. It was like an exclamation.

But Pablo, with his sharp hearing, caught it instantly and pointed at him, "Hey! Today you have!"

"This isn't arrogance, this is strength, our association's goal is to control the market, control the prices, and control illegal sales!"

"From now on, any sale without our permission is illegal!"

Pablo pointed at the new journalist, "Remember what I've said. In 1991, that is next year, the North American Drug Syndicate will supply 15,000 tons of drugs to the United States; American drug users are in for a treat!"

15,000 tons!

Americans would have to open all seven orifices to inhale just to use it all up.

Smoke a little bit more, my dear drug addicts.

"Within five years, the North American Drug Syndicate will provide more than 100,000 tons of drugs to the world; within ten years, our profits will surpass the total of the Fortune 500 companies!"

"Gentlemen, you are going to witness history."

Applause!

The entire hall was filled with applause.

"You should have been the one up there," Abrego from the Gulf Group said to Guzman next to him, while looking up at the triumphant Pablo.

"Let him hog the spotlight, we just need to focus on making money,"

He didn't want to become the sacrificial lamb.

Being too high-profile often leads to a sudden fall.

It's the low profile one who accomplishes great things!

Abrego hummed a few notes, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but looking at Pablo's demeanor, there was a hint of jealousy in his eyes.

This is definitely going to make the newspapers!

Beyond Colombia, the entire Latin America, and even the whole world will be shocked by this news!

On the makeshift stage, an intruder holding drugs appeared.

He said to everyone, "Gentlemen! Please indulge in drugs!"

The name Pablo...

Is destined to go down in history; future discussions of the world's drug-trading history can't leave him out.

Abrego, too, wanted to stand up there!!

...