Working as a police officer in Mexico

Colombia, Bogota!

In a mansion in the affluent district.

The news anchor on TV looked serious as he glanced at his script before speaking to the camera, "The United States CIA has sternly refuted rumors of drug trafficking involvement and claims that Mexican Drug Cartels are the enemies of humanity. No person or organization with a conscience would allow the circulation of drugs, and the CIA will fully support drug prohibition efforts!"

"Director William Webster also stated that the existence of the Sinaloa Drug Cartel is an insult to human society, and he will urge Mexico to eradicate them."

Bang!

Guzman, who was sitting on the couch, suddenly jumped up and kicked the coffee table away, sending fruit and snacks tumbling to the floor. Furious, he grabbed a Winchester Defender 1300 shotgun and fired three shots at the TV.

Bang, bang, bang!

The TV was blown up.

The bodyguards outside, hearing the commotion, hurried in and looked at one another in disbelief.

"You son of a bitch!"

Guzman cursed furiously. Do I look like that kind of idiot?

Take on the CIA head-to-head?

Wouldn't it be nicer if you just put a white cloth over me?

If I dared to bomb the CIA's buildings in North America, why would I still bother trafficking drugs? I might as well go and join Castro!

Most importantly...

Who would admit to their wrongdoing after committing the act?

Any clear-minded person can see this as slander, but as a drug trafficker, I'm naturally the villain. Can I actually stand up and deny my involvement?

Guzman considers himself a very low-key and humble person, or so he believes. He never makes a spectacle out of murder. Having this shit dumped on his head almost made him want to "cry."

Isn't this bullying an honest man?

Arturo Bertran Leyva walked in from outside, glanced at the living room and waved the bodyguards away. He kicked a piece of broken glass under the TV cabinet then shouted to the livid Guzman, "Cousin..."

"Did you find out who it was?"

"Not... not yet, they did a neat job, leaving no trace at all," Arturo answered somewhat nervously.

Guzman took a deep breath but couldn't help cursing, "Useless trash!"

Arturo hung his head in silence.

"Sinaloa has reached the end of the line, we've been forced into confronting the CIA." He became extremely calm under pressure.

"We can try explaining to the CIA, maybe offer them a larger share."

"It's no use, the CIA will surely throw us under the bus to recover their reputation quickly. They don't care who traffics drugs; they care about who can make them money. Without me, Guzman, they could support someone else. Perhaps, they are now thinking about how to kill me to shut me up!"

Arturo swallowed hard, looking at his cousin with darkened face, "Now, our only hope lies with the soon-to-be-established North American Drug Syndicate. With enough people on our side, the CIA will have to think twice before trying to kill us."

"Heh~"

Guzman scoffed coldly, "Do you really think they will stand with us? Perhaps they are already considering how to kick us out. They only aim to confront Victor, not the CIA!"

A drug trafficker is fundamentally a businessman; if you, Sinaloa, are finished, it's useless to pull you back in.

"No, there's one person in the syndicate who may not fear the CIA, someone we can work with."

Arturo looked puzzled, "Cousin, who are you talking about?"

"Pablo Escobar!"

"If there's a list of people who hate the CIA the most in the world, his name would definitely be on it. Just one nod from him, and with his men, Abrego, Aguilar, and the rest won't stand a chance of kicking us out. They wouldn't dare!"

"Let's go find him!"

Guzman was indeed a direct person; any later, and he might well be collecting his own corpse!

Meanwhile, in a coffee shop in Zone 7 of the same city.

"Clown" Jeff Bennett saw Ethan Hunt. He had to meet a colleague if he was here to help.

First glance: Wow, this guy's got some serious dark circles!

Second glance: Damn, why does he look so familiar?

Third glance:

"Ethan?" Jeff Bennett called out softly; the other man looked lifeless and numbly nodded.

"What happened to you? Is the Colombia assignment that exhausting? Jason Bourne said you were tired, but this seems too much."

"Jason Bourne? I'm so fucking done!"

At the mention of that name, Ethan Hunt clenched his teeth, wishing he could just kill that guy.

Making me out to be a gigolo, Blanco was indeed generous, but you didn't fucking tell me Blanco wanted it seven times a day!

That woman could seriously drain a man dry.

And every night she'd go back and make "tonic" for Ethan Hunt, and this guy's tastes are getting wilder...

Blanco is infamously known as the rich widow from the male model club.

"What the hell did you do?" Jeff Bennett urged with an intense look.

Ethan Hunt hemmed and hawed, "Drilling holes, that's not important."

He quickly changed the subject, as being a gigolo was nothing to be proud of, and he was well aware of his sense of honor and disgrace. He took out a photo and slid it across the table, "This man, take him out when you get a chance. The specifics can be found at the Houston burger joint; our people are everywhere there."

"Urgent?"

Ethan Hunt nodded, "He's the intelligence leader of the Cali Cartel. His being alive affects my... drilling holes."

Jeff Bennett looked at the photo of Salsedo, nodded slowly, and said, "Don't worry."

He downed the remaining half cup of coffee, then ripped off the napkin hanging from his collar, "Pay for me, thanks, I don't have any Colombian Pesos." After saying that, he walked out of the café.

Ethan Hunt clutched his head. Were there no normal people in the Mexico International News Department?

The boss is a penny-pinching old goods, I'm a gigolo, and then there's a Clown to help me, my god!

This is even more magical than the British royal family's gossip.

"Waiter, the check!" Ethan Hunt snapped his fingers.

Meanwhile, "Clown" Jeff Bennett, who had just left, popped a piece of gum into his mouth, then his gaze swept around, eventually resting on two hoodlums leaning against a trash can.

He cracked a smile and approached, "Hey, gentlemen, can I ask you a question?" He said as he pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.

The two hoodlums' eyes lit up, and then they sized him up.

Single, artist? A skinny man?

"Of course, but I think we should talk in the alley." One of the hoodlums raised an eyebrow.

"No problem."

Jeff Bennett's smile was harmlessly amiable as he followed the two hoodlums into the alley.

Thud... snap... bang!

After a few noises from the alley, it quieted down.

Passersby outside just took a glance and then hastened their steps.

Jeff Bennett, with a cigarette in his mouth, had one foot on the face of a hoodlum, who looked terrified, while the other was lying on the ground, blood flowing from his neck, life and death unknown.

"Sir, could you tell me where there's a good ice cream shop?"

...

In the Tijuana conference room.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Victor frowned as he looked at the financial report in his hand.

"What the fuck? You're telling me a city with nearly 2 million permanent residents and an annual turnover of 10 million only made 700 million US dollars in the first two quarters?"

At this, Victor laughed, dropping the report heavily to the floor, "Where's my money!"

Tijuana was famously a... tourist spot, with antiques, gourmet food, horse racing, gambling, and other industries almost the largest in the Americas. Many Yanks come here, and because it's so easy to sneak across the border here, quite a few illegal immigrants stay for a while.

In such a prime location, you're telling me it only made 700 million US dollars in half a year, are you thinking I'm an idiot?

Cracking down on crime makes money faster than this.

Earning that little, I'm embarrassed to say it comes from taxes!

"Can you tell me why?"

Everyone in the conference room was silent, not daring to make a sound, exchanging glances.

Most people here Victor hadn't gotten involved with, as they were part of the original crew, with some coming over after Cuauhtémoc took over.

Victor rarely touched personnel outside the police department, but these people were treating him like a fool!

"Mr. Jeremy Sabah." He looked towards the Tijuana finance minister.

"This... I'm not sure, sir." The silver-haired middle-aged man seemed very cultured but shook his head hesitantly.

"You don't know?"

Victor laughed in disbelief, shook his head, grabbed the ashtray, and threw it, hitting the man in the forehead. He rushed over, grabbed the man's head, and punched him repeatedly in the face.

The man's nose was broken!

His face was covered in blood!

"Useless!" Victor stood up and kicked him in the head, his eyes fierce as he looked at the others, "Can any of you tell me, where is the money!"

"S... Sir!" A figure in the back timidly raised his hand.

"Speak."

"Many industries are tax-free, and many people underreport their income. Plus, many factories don't pay their taxes on time, and we can't deal with them."

"You mean there are tax evaders?"

The man nodded, "Many factories as well, and the tax department turns a blind eye to many cases, most of which are foreign enterprises."

"Not paying taxes? And they dare to run factories in Tijuana?"

"Here, even sex workers have to pay taxes! Do their factories have nuclear bombs or atomic bombs? Casare, rock the boat. I want to see which monsters and demons in Tijuana aren't paying taxes!"

...