Working as a police officer in Mexico

"Sniper!!"

A member of Los Zetas of Asian descent shouted.

These were clearly some of the old veterans Guzman had recruited from within Vietnam.

Their tactical movements were smooth, a graceful roll that led them to slide down the backside of the hill, gasping for air as they clutched their weapons.

If it had been a sturdy European or American, that very move might have given themselves a concussion.

Simon Haye lay prone, utterly calm.

Outwait him?

He had once outlasted an eagle.

Meanwhile, the two women were frantically splashing in the water, attempting to wade directly across, but the waist-deep water panicked them, and with an unsteady step, one of them fell in.

Their screams of terror filled the air as they instinctively clung to each other, floundering in the water.

"Help! Help! We're from the United Nations... glub-glub~"

Simon Haye didn't even blink.

What a joke.

What if he popped his head out and got shot?

Women would only slow him down.

Soldiers first and foremost had to ensure their own safety on the battlefield; a sniper would never let the outside world disrupt his mental state.

Slowly...

Finally, someone couldn't bear it any longer.

A head cautiously poked out at last.

To the "White Reaper," the only significant difference between your head and a glass bottle was...

...how beautiful you looked when you burst.

The Vietnamese saw their comrade's corpse, chattered noisily in panic, glanced at each other in fear, dropped the body, and took off running.

"Hey, Simon," the spotter returned with a squad, his expression tense, "What happened? You didn't kill the one who surrendered, did you?"

"No, there were pursuers just now."

"And the women?"

Simon Haye pointed, "They went downstream."

The observer was taken aback, and looking through binoculars, indeed saw two heads bobbing in the middle of the river.

"They were shouting something about the United Nations... I didn't hear clearly."

His comrade turned to him, shocked for a second, then urgently shouted, "The United Nations? Hurry! Go pull them back in." He called to the officers behind him.

A group of them rushed down immediately.

Fleet-footed, they caught up in no time, with three or four officers charging ahead to pull the women out of the water.

The women, having swallowed a lot of water, coughed violently for a bit; after spitting out a few mouthfuls, they finally recovered.

"Who are you?"

"We are... employees of the United Nations Narcotic Drugs Abuse Control Fund, this... this is my work ID."

One woman produced her ID, clutching the officer's hand firmly, and suddenly burst into tears, "Dead, they're all dead, everyone's gone."

…

This news spread quickly to Tijuana.

Miss Krista Schroeder, in high heels, hurriedly made her way to Victor's office, but still knocked before entering after receiving a response.

Victor was practicing calligraphy; he didn't look up at the sound of footsteps, "Wait until I finish."

He dipped the brush for the final stroke, completing it with flourish.

"With Zhou Gong offering comforts, all hearts turn to him!"

Victor was quite pleased with himself.

"How is it, Krista?"

"Very nice, sir. I'm sorry to interrupt your refinement, but there's an urgent matter that needs your attention," responded Krista Schroeder, her expression grave, "Our ground forces rescued two women being chased by drug traffickers outside the city of San Blas. According to them, they're affiliated with the United Nations Narcotic Drugs Abuse Control Fund, and just two kilometers from the standoff point, we found the attacked convoy."

"Here are the photos." She took several pictures out of the file and passed them over.

Victor squinted, seeing several sedans marked with UN, riddled with bullets, and in another photo, seven or eight men were lying dead, bodies lined up in a row.

"According to the survivors, they intended to promote drug control work at a local school. There were 6 United Nations staff members in total, the rest were local bodyguards and guides."

"Wait a minute. Going to Sinaloa State to promote drug control?" Victor asked wide-eyed.

"Yes."

"Alright, I admire their courage. Please, continue."

Does the United Nations have a death wishlist?

Why treat their employees so atrociously?

The Mexican drug traffickers, ignorant brutes that they are.

UN, they might not think of the United Nations but mistake it as graffiti of armed individuals.

Never mind claiming you're just a regular worker; even if you were the Secretary-General, being that audacious would mean death.

Didn't Hamasheld die in an "accident"?

Krista Schroeder said, "But this doesn't match the number of bodies, meaning at least three people are still alive, currently missing."

"Could this potentially fall on us?"

"Yes, sir."

Victor nodded, his hands clasped as he silently contemplated what he could gain from this.

Of course, he was on the side of justice, but justice laced with some US dollars would certainly be best.

As the chief secretary, Miss Krista Schroeder certainly knew what he was thinking, "It is said that the United Nations Narcotic Drugs Office, the Secretariat of the International Narcotics Control Board, and the United Nations Narcotic Drugs Abuse Control Fund are going to merge."

Victor's buried memories suddenly leaped to the surface.

Right!

The United Nations Drug Control Agency!

"I think that Mexico needs to join in and provide a legal and effective force guarantee to our colleagues around the world who are working on drug enforcement," Victor was instantly invigorated.

You see, the United Nations Drug Control Agency is an independent unit that reports directly to the Secretary-General; it can conduct "drug enforcement operations" in any country and region around the world.

If you don't cooperate, then I'll go and tattle.

Though Mexico couldn't obtain the position of Head of the Drug Control Agency, a deputy director or at least a senior assistant should definitely be appointed under Victor,

"Where are they? At the military hospital ahead."

"Bring them to Tijuana Hospital, have the best doctors consult, I want to visit them at the hospital myself."

"Also, bring my reporter Mr. along."

Victor was planning on making a show of it!

No, this is called a consolation visit.

Since it happened on my Mexican territory, Victor, I naturally have to take charge. As a local official, I'm taking responsibility for this incident.

Who dares to cause trouble on my turf?

It's simply disrespectful to me, Victor.

...

Meanwhile, Casare, along with three employees of the Joint Operations Command and three bodyguards, were walking out of the Detroit Airport.

They were on official business, of course flying commercial; what, were they supposed to take a private jet?

Still, Victor was generous; they flew first class for the business trip.

"Isn't anyone here to pick us up?" Casare tiptoed and looked around, but didn't see anyone holding a sign, so he asked his colleagues nearby.

"They didn't say."

"F***, Americans are so impolite!" Casare grumbled, not daring to speak too loudly for fear of getting beaten up.

He checked his watch; the only option was to head to the hotel on their own.

The group had just stepped out of the airport terminal when they heard a thunderous roar; they saw a group of African Americans on vintage motorcycles chasing a white car?

They were hooting like gorillas, swinging their steel pipes hard against the car, shattering glass everywhere, the people inside screaming in terror.

"Detroit Gang, Chaos 13th Street," a colleague from the Joint Operations Command standing nearby said.

Casare glanced at him, "You know about them?"

"Born after the 1967 black riots, they're the biggest African American criminal gang. See their ears? Every new gang member must cut off their own left earlobe, symbolizing that they can never leave the gang," his colleague was explaining when he was interrupted.

"If you encounter these people on the street, keep your distance." It was then that an elderly white man with graying hair stepped forward, sighed, and interjected.

"They are Detroit's cancer."

He shook his head and walked away, still muttering to himself.

"They say 7 out of 10 murders in Detroit are their doing," the colleague looked at the back of the old man, paused, "They have a cooperative relationship with the Sinaloa Group, and they're also the biggest drug distributors in Michigan State."

Casare swallowed hard, his cheek twitching.

This was like stepping into enemy territory.

"Don't they have any rivals?"

"Local whites."

Before his colleague could finish speaking, a loud crash was heard. They quickly turned to look and saw a Humvee plowing through the motorcycles, crushing one African American under it and dragging him along the ground into a bloody mess.

Several whites got out of the car, pulled out guns, and started firing!

The African Americans were completely stunned!

No mercy at all.

The sudden gunfire frightened the surrounding tourists into ducking down, and some even screamed and ran back into the airport.

"Quick! Let's go!" Casare and his companions hailed two taxis and jumped in, "To the Hilton Hotel!"

"You guys are tourists, right? Don't be nervous; this kind of thing happens every day," said the driver, who had buckteeth and laughed on seeing Casare and the others pile into his car. "As long as you don't get involved, you'll be fine."

"Every day? Where are the local police?"

"The police don't have firepower like an MP5," the driver said with a laugh, looking at them through the rearview mirror, making himself at home, "Where are you guys from?"

"Mexico."

At that, the driver perked up with interest, "I heard that Victor in Mexico is very ferocious. Very formidable. Have you ever seen him? Is he as bad as they say?"

Casare and his colleagues looked at each other, shaking their heads, "No, he's very busy, you know about him?"

"Of course! But I think even if he's as tough as they say, he's probably not as bad as the Detroit Gang. Those are just stories," the driver said casually.

"He might even have to beg for mercy when he meets the Detroit Gang."

Casare patted his colleague, who was about to object, and smiled like a Maitreya Buddha, "You're right."

Seeing Casare agree with him, the driver was delighted, continuously sharing what he had seen and heard, mostly negative gossip about Victor.

About how he wanted seven women in one night.

How he wanted to eat "people"...

And so on, just rumors!

Listening to this, Casare was clenching his fists.

After they were dropped off at the hotel and watched the taxi leave, his expression sagged.

"It seems that of all the gangs in Detroit, the least polite is the one we're just about to teach a lesson to. Let's start with them."

"I really want to see who's tougher, the Detroit Gang or the Mexican Warlords."

...