Working as a police officer in Mexico

New York, Eighth District.

In a luxurious mansion.

Dressed in overalls, Mike Corleone inserted the flowers into a vase, indulged in their fragrance with a gentle sniff, turned on the slightly retro phonograph, and as the soothing music played, poured himself another glass of red wine.

Sitting in a recliner, he enjoyed a rare moment of leisure.

He was a man from the Mexico News Division, and he had been ordered to bring his people to New York, not for tourism but to teach these unruly "New Yorkers" a lesson!

CNMD.

"Who else could it be, getting on Mr. Victor's bad side, sigh," he exhaled softly.

To him, whatever the hell Aryan Brotherhood or Blood Oath were, 13th Street? If these two hundred men weren't enough, then he would just call for reinforcements.

After Victor cracked down on drug traffickers, he hadn't blown up all the "Underground Passages." It would have been a pity to collapse those that Guzman and other "Rustic Scholars" had worked so hard to dig out.

You have to make use of waste.

Everyone's tongue knew that in Baja California and Sonora State, there was a "project" named "American Dream," where locals helped people from other countries smuggle in through there.

This was indeed an industry.

And each head didn't need much, just 2000 US Dollars!

Helping the local residents escape poverty and become rich.

The locals were not allowed to arbitrarily lower prices; otherwise, they would be dealt with.

You, as a refugee, have already lost so much money, can't you spare these 2000 US Dollars?

Furthermore, to ensure a better reputation for the "American Dream" project, locals were not allowed to mess around, such as hiking prices mid-way, indulging in puff pastries, special services, etc., or they would lose their status as "Runren."

Victor had directly legalized and regulated this industry; at least, it didn't need so many people to be expended on the road.

Let them all go "build" America.

After all the dregs of the world have entered, it will gradually affect the normal functioning of society.

This is like the slow work of a nail cutter chopping through flesh.

Ten years, twenty years, thirty years, fifty years...

One day it will collapse.

The people under Mike Corleone had come through "tunnels."

Weapons and ammunition too had been transported this way.

Otherwise, how would they have come? Airdropped overhead by the United States?

"Dong dong dong~"

There came a knock at the door, and Mike Corleone called out lazily, "Come in."

He saw a lackey push the door open, "Boss, the other four Mafia families have issued a hit order!"

Mike Corleone twisted his neck, sneered, and said, "Just a worthless piece of paper, the old man still thinks it's his era."

"The Godfather of the Gambino family, Vincent Mangano, has offered a 5 million US Dollar bounty."

"Turns out knocking off the Lucchese family is worth so much," Mike Corleone's eyes glinted.

"Then let New York continue to be chaotic; I dislike the air of these old farts. It's a young man's world now. Can you chop off this Godfather of the Gambino family's head and toss it in New York's Times Square? Tell me, how would they refer to us then?"

"Savages? Or Robinson? Or maybe thugs? Or perhaps terrorists?" Mike Corleone's demeanor seemed off.

How sane could anyone be who came from the so-called "psychiatric asylum" of the Anti-Drug Force — the Mexico News Division?

They're either quacks, paranoid or sufferers of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

"After the Lucchese family incident, they will probably strengthen their defenses," the lackey said hesitantly.

"Then we wait!" Mike Corleone squinted, "Our chance will come."

"What we have plenty of is time!"

"There must be a time they'll let their guard down."

"If not, we'll start by killing his entire family."

Mike Corleone said with a laugh, "Mr. Victor said that's called a 'soft underbelly'!"

…
Discover stories with empire

In Sinaloa State, Capital, Culiacán.

The sky was murky.

The air seemed permeated with a sense of anxiety.

No one knew why?

The residents always felt something was off in the atmosphere.

Sometimes while walking on the street, if something irked them, they would take it out on the trash cans lining the sidewalk with kicks and punches.

8 a.m.

The streets had quite a few people busy getting to work.

Suddenly, the alarm sirens blared abruptly.

"Air raid alarm! Take cover!" shouted someone on the side of the street, clutching their child as they ducked behind the nearby "Anti-impact Wall," crouching and holding their head.

The streets were in chaos.

Crying, screaming, and the clamor of frantic footsteps.

In the sky, ten P-51 fighter planes pierced the clouds, advancing in two groups into the heart of the city.

The Yanks keep their promises pretty well, at least the final payment was made very quickly, just two days after the first shipment.

And today, the squadron's mission wasn't to carry out an airstrike, but to drop a series of leaflets in mid-air before returning.

The drug traffickers' anti-air camp could only fire a couple of blanks into the sky.

Civilians lying in bunkers and hiding indoors looked up as the plane flew away, then glanced at each other with a hint of bewilderment.

They weren't bombed?

It was somewhat unaccustomed.

"What is this?" A civilian picked up one of the leaflets from the ground.

"The head of the Sinaloa Drug Cartel, Guzman, has been killed. Everyone lay down your weapons and surrender! Governor Victor pardons anyone! But if you're stubborn, there's only death ahead!"

"Guzman is dead?" Someone said in disbelief.

"What! How is that possible?"

"It says 'killed' here? Why didn't we know?"

Some didn't believe it, but others hesitated and furrowed their brows, "It does seem like it has been a long time since we've heard any news of Mr. Guzman."

With that said, many civilians looked at each other, and upon further thought, it was indeed the case.

Guzman used to keep a low profile, but after getting "Angel's Circle" investments from Colombia, he understood the importance of publicity and often appeared on TV, greeting the people of his controlled territories.

The last time he appeared was a week ago when he invited local 18-year-olds to join his forces to overthrow Victor's rule and lead everyone to prosperity together.

His absence was a little unsettling.

This sense of confusion started to spread among the crowd.

At that moment, Arturo's face was ashen, tremblingly holding a leaflet in his hand.

"Bang!"

He slammed it forcefully onto the table.

"Boss, should we have someone confiscate all these?" his right-hand man asked.

"How many in Culiacán? Tens of thousands. Can you collect them all? And do you know whose hands they're in? Damn it, that bastard Victor, how did he know something happened to Guzman? We have a traitor among us!"

Arturo, sweating profusely, was completely thrown off by Victor's move, caught off guard.

"You can't go in there..." Just then, a loud commotion arose from the hallway outside, followed by the office door being busted open, with his own bodyguards pushed in ahead.

A dozen people strode in, each broad-shouldered and menacing.

"Arturo, where's Boss Guzman?" the leader, a hefty man, bellowed.

The commander of God's Division 1st Regiment stationed in Culiacán—Luis Adolfo Loera!

By the surname, one could tell he was Guzman's cousin.

And Arturo was a second cousin.

Following behind him were the commanders of God's Division 2nd Regiment, 10th Regiment, and 9th Regiment, who together had control over more than ten thousand "regular drug traffickers."

Arturo squinted his eyes, "Luis, what do you want to do?"

"What do I want to do?" the short, stout man sneered, pulling out a gun and shooting three times at one of Arturo's men on the floor, then pointing the gun at Arturo, "Where's the boss?"

"I'll count to three. If you don't talk, I'll kill you first, then your brother."

Luis breathed heavily, "One!"

"Two!"

Arturo was sweating bullets. He wanted to fight back, but the hostile look in the other man's eyes told him that if he dared to pull his gun, he'd be shot dead on the spot.

"Three!"

"Guz... The boss had a stroke out of anger because of Victor, he's comatose now," Arturo caved as the other man spoke up, recognizing the smart move.

The barrel of the gun was too dark.

"Where is he?"

"My brother took him south to Guerrero State, to Acapulco," Arturo gave up the information quickly, then shifted the conversation, "Boss Guzman's condition is severe; we can all manage Sinaloa together, Luis."

Bang, bang, bang!

Luis Adolfo Loera emptied the magazine's bullets into Arturo.

The man slumped back into his chair, eyes wide open with a hint of disbelief.

"I'm sorry, but I prefer to be the boss myself." What's the point of sharing power with others?

Another one of Arturo's cronies inside the office, seeing the boss killed, was terrified, drew his gun to preemptively strike, but was cut down by someone wielding a submachine gun.

"Let's go! We have to rescue Guzman, I am the rightful leader of the Loera Family, I will temporarily command Sinaloa!"

This fatso was also ruthless.

"Summon all the regimental commanders for a meeting in Culiacán, in the name of Guzman!"

"What if they don't come?" someone behind him asked.

"Then they're rebels!"

"I'll crush the rebellion with armed force!"

Power struggles and internal strife had begun.

Guzman?

That's the former boss!

...