Working as a police officer in Mexico

August 2, 1990!

The Middle Eastern strongman Saddam charged into Kuwait!

Intending to turn it into the 19th province.

The Persian Gulf was suddenly shrouded in the clouds of war, the bigwigs of Europe collectively went mad, and the Americans issued four severe warnings within three days!

Out of the world's 20 super-giant oil fields, 11 are in the Gulf region. Are you messing around without even asking us?

Kuwait is Iraq's creditor, having lent them a lot of money, probably over a hundred billion US dollars. Saddam looked and thought, whoops, it seems a bit hard to repay, so why not just make the creditor disappear!

Ratatat...

As for Victor, he was quite relaxed; during this time, he had been "remote commanding," using Golden Finger to pinch out a "Baja California Economic Think Tank," about 15 people, almost all of the national team level.

These were... professionals.

After direct research, they believed they could go all-in on oil futures!

According to them, "War will inevitably lead to the appreciation of oil. All we have to do is throw money into it, and then... just quietly wait for the U.S. troops to intervene."

Victor believed them, and gambled everything, including his nest egg and his coffin fund.

And another thing, within 36 hours after the "Statue of Liberty" toppled, that is, a day and a half after he himself held the press conference, the American side contacted him directly.

Hoping to get some sponsorship from him to fight against Pablo's terrorist organization!

That's right, they used the term terrorist organization, directly upgrading it from a drug trafficking group.

Victor didn't care what you called it; you could call it a bitch for all he cared, as long as you give me the sponsorship, whatever you say doesn't matter to him.

But when he heard that the CIA wanted to interface with him.

His expression suddenly became priceless.

Fuck!

He had encountered a ghost.

He had a few "motherf*ckers" he wanted to say, but wasn't sure if he should say them.

The two parties couldn't say that they were at loggerheads, but it was the kind of situation where they didn't see eye to eye, with the Mexican Drug Enforcement Agency labeled by the American justice department and inherently not getting along with the CIA.

Most importantly, the death of the former Director of the CIA, William Webster, was to some extent associated with Victor's people. If it hadn't been for those 31 bodies suspected to be FBI agents, would there have been a standoff?

It was all Victor's fault!

The CIA would probably trip him up on this, not necessarily sabotaging the talks, but definitely making him feel sick.

Should he tolerate it?

The afternoon of August 4th.

Tijuana City Hall.

Victor met with Rosie Delagon, the Deputy Director of the CIA who came to discuss sponsorship. From her name, he knew she was a woman, not pretty, and rather old, just over 40, with everything already sagging.

She had shoulder-length short hair that gave her a bit of a strong woman vibe.

The person accompanying her was Milovan Garner, the North American head of the DEA, of Algerian descent, who had actually met and cooperated with Victor before.

The "Goth Snake Operation" was actually propelled by him as well. After all, being responsible for North America meant that Jonathan Pannier was one of his people.

He was quite open and direct, making the cooperation fairly comfortable.

It was said he was up for promotion. Once Jonathan returned from Ecuador, he would take over his position, and Garner was set to take a role at headquarters.

Having a business relationship with Victor, the interaction was courteous, and the two men even embraced each other on meeting.

If there was a business relationship, then things were explainable.

Rosie Delagon, on the other hand, was serious all the time and looked rather stern.

As soon as they sat down, she took the initiative, "The CIA is willing to provide weaponry, equipment, and personnel support to the Mexican Drug Enforcement Agency, but we have the following demands."

Victor, legs crossed, nodded with a smile.

Next to him was a trash can; there was no ashtray. Casare had specifically asked for the ashtrays to be removed when setting up the venue.

This was part of Baja California's diplomatic etiquette.

If there were ashtrays here, it would practically max out the boss's rage BUFF.

"First, we want to send advisors to join your anti-drug force."

Victor nodded, "No problem."

"Second, any operation must be approved by the CIA."

Victor's eyebrows rose, and he began to narrow his eyes.

"Third, the CIA has the right to control anyone in the anti-drug force."

Milovan Garner, the North American head of the DEA sitting beside, even looked a bit uncomfortable with this condition.

Was this just looking for trouble?

Casare, sitting behind, felt his legs go weak. Sister, can't you not say it like that?

"Is there anything else?"

"Lastly, we need to place someone with equal authority to you within the anti-drug force."

The CIA wasn't messing around; this is really how they operate with other organizations—advisors, weapons, top brass—all from the CIA; everything has to be arranged by their will.

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It's like being a dog, in reality, being a subordinate to them, without any autonomy.

This is also one of the reasons why the CIA is so brazen overseas.

Apart from the U.S. military, they really do have their own "armed forces," which is why the policymakers in America would later try to decentralize their power. Their influence was simply too great!

"Equal authority? What do you mean?" Victor laughed and asked.

Rosie Delagon looked at him, "In any circumstance, you have the authority to replace you in commanding the anti-drug force."

Victor couldn't help it anymore when he heard those words, and looked around.

"Boss, what are you looking for?" Casare asked from behind.

"Where's the ashtray?"

"Fuck XMD!" Victor couldn't restrain himself any longer and kicked the coffee table over. Under Rosie Delagon's incredulous gaze, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her over like a dead dog.

The CIA employees who came with him immediately stood up.

"Don't move!"

Casare took a deep breath; with the ashtray gone, he decided to get hands-on. Despite his inner complaints, he stood up and warned the bunch from the CIA, "Don't be impulsive! Otherwise, I'll fucking kill you, you little bastards!"

The word 'bastards' in Spanish, they should understand, right?

Anyway, Casare didn't speak English.

Victor, pulling along Rosie Delagon who was scuttling on the ground like a dog, cocked his right hand and slapped her across the face!n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

"You stinking whore, what, got period blood rushing to your head—hemorrhaging? Or did a man fuck you silly last night? Didn't sleep well this morning?"

"Ahhhh!"

The pain from the pulled scalp and face made Rosie Delagon involuntarily scream—a slap not light at all, her ears still buzzing with vibration.

Do you really think Victor doesn't hit women?

Don't be stupid!

It's almost the 21st century. It's all about gender equality.

Milovan Garner from the DEA sat there, not knowing where to put his hands. Jeez, was this really necessary? I heard Victor from Mexico has a bad temper, but did we have to go this far over a negotiation gone wrong?

However...

If he hit her, that means he can't hit me.

Victor wasn't afraid of the Americans causing trouble. Can a deputy director make the United States send troops to attack him?

At most, it would leave a bad impression on Bush.

In the United States, there's a saying: "You can stand in front of the president and show him your dick, telling him he's an idiot, but you must never touch a cent of Wall Street tycoons' overseas assets."

Without interests at stake, they wouldn't act.

Unless they're told there's oil under Victor's ass, in which case he'd be ascending to heaven on the spot.

This slap was a message to the FBI and DEA that he had backed out all his escape routes, claiming allegiance to the same camp.

Getting down to business, he delivered a gift package to that bitch—her face swollen and two teeth loose.

The force of it was not light.

Knocked her clean out.

Victor shook his numb hand and picked up the half-smoked cigarette from the ground, blew on the filter, and put it back in his mouth. He looked at Milovan Garner and spread a smile across his face.

"The DEA can negotiate too, right?"

Milovan Garner glanced at the CIA people, and Victor immediately understood, saying to Casare, "Please invite our CIA guests next door to sit, to wait for dinner."

Fat Casare nodded, his double chin very apparent.

The CIA employees, even if they disagreed, had no choice but to be half-pushed and half-shoved to the next room, and as for that stinky bitch, they got her a doctor.

Really NMD satisfying!

The CIA may be arrogant overseas, but they've been screwed over too. Colonel Ka once buried the opposition alive. I can cooperate with you and even protect your American assets and interests because I can't beat you.

But if you, a CIA bastard, jump around on my head, some of us who have a bad temper will just do you in, especially a psycho like Victor...

After the CIA guys left, Milovan Garner gave Victor a thumbs-up, "I've long wanted to blow their heads off."

"What a friend wants to do, I can do."

Milovan Garner smiled and nodded, "Don't worry, I'm on your side. Jonathan Pannier has told me about you, and you've helped me out a lot. My promotion owes some to your help. This matter can be big or small, but if you bring the FBI in, you don't have to worry about pressure from the CIA side."

Upon hearing this, Victor felt reassured, knowing the other side was expressing goodwill, or perhaps... wanting a favor!

He asked directly, "What do you want?"

"I want nothing much, Pablo angered the American public this time, and he must be taught a lesson. The DEA's focus will also mainly be on the North American Drug Syndicate. You just stand out more, and I will benefit from it too."

"In the DEA, a few other deputy directors are not on good terms with me. I hope any intelligence or achievements can bear my name."

So that's the case!

The DEA internal dynamics must also be a struggle for power and profit.

"No problem!"

"FBI's newly appointed Director Floyd I. Clarke's wife is fond of gambling and owes about 3.5 million US dollars in Las Vegas."

"How did you know that?"

Victor frowned, understanding what the other was implying—hoping he would cover for him, starting with his wife.

Milovan Garner looked at him, the two locking eyes.

Finally, the former spoke.

"I slept with her!"

"It was smooth!"

CNMD!

The DEA's North American chief having an affair with the FBI boss's wife.

Americans... sure know how to play!

...