Working as a police officer in Mexico
Chapter 824 - 447: Only Crying When It Hits Your Own Head!_2

Participating in the expo also means putting items up for sale...

"Of course, no problem. The Fire Lizard is quite similar to the U.S. Military's M1A1, but we can offer significant discounts in terms of pricing."

"We need detailed combat footage and data..."

"No problem. We'll first produce two units and hand them over to the 5th Army. Later, we'll use them to stir up trouble with the Southern drug traffickers and collect data—might as well get some use out of those useless scumbags."

"But having just one model seems monotonous. You should also ramp up production of those Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicles I handed over to you earlier. Just slap a new coat of paint on the U.S. Military's stuff, sell it for US Dollars—it won't look pathetic."

Werner Heisenberg exchanged glances with his colleagues and nodded vigorously.

The group chatted as they walked toward the building.

"Sir." Casare's secretary ran up to him and whispered a few words into his ear, causing his brow to furrow instantly. "This... how could something like this happen?"

The secretary forced a bitter smile. "The border checkpoint folks are at a loss too; the personnel below didn't know what to do, so they reported it up."

Fat Casare frowned. "I'll go talk to the Boss. Inform the border checkpoint to take good care of the old lady. Knowing the Boss's personality, if something happens to her, everyone's in trouble."

With that, he quickened his pace.

"Boss, there's some news that needs your attention."

Victor noticed the expression on Casare's face and felt a twinge of concern. "What's going on?"

"The border checkpoint today encountered an old lady carrying a human head into Mexico City. She was arrested, and claimed she was here to file a grievance."

"She said her son worked for a mining company in Jalisco State, helping them dig for gold. But the boss accused her son of theft and, collaborating with local police, beat him to death."

Victor's eyes narrowed upon hearing this. "Jalisco State... Didn't the inspection team head there recently? Have them investigate this thoroughly."

"We cannot wrong a good person, nor let a bad person go unpunished."

He didn't rely solely on one-sided accounts—evidence was a must.

If he ever stopped caring about evidence, that would be the time you should start worrying.

"If this incident is true, then let the inspection team decide on their own!"

Casare acknowledged this, but deep down, he already knew the odds. What kind of mother would be ruthless enough to chop off her son's head just to lodge a complaint?

Moreover, cases of collusion between officials and businesses were far too common in Mexico.

It was an endless struggle.

Looking at the situation, a specialized department would likely be needed to manage such affairs. It couldn't always fall on Mexico City's shoulders; otherwise, it'd become overwhelming.

What would they call it?

...

Jalisco State, Guadalajara City.

Once named one of "Mexico's Top Ten Sinful Cities," this urban hub now boasts clear governance.

The air feels lighter, exuding a sense of ease. In the past, when drug syndicates controlled the streets, people walked with their heads low.

Tourists wanting to visit had to hire intermediaries to plead their case to local traffickers, or else they'd face a barrage of bullets if daring to venture alone.

But now...

The Army's 2nd Corps headquarters is located right next to Guadalajara City Hall. One division stationed within. If you're itching for trouble, you're welcome to try.

At this moment, Army Commander Erich Faginhan and Governor James Trumbull, along with their entourage, stood at the national highway's exit. Surrounding them were guards and secretaries, maintaining a respectful perimeter, avoiding interruptions to the leaders' conversation.

The two men smoked, with Governor James Trumbull furrowing his brow, looking less than happy.

Erich Faginhan glanced at him and broke the silence. "What's wrong? Feeling uneasy?"

The two shared a strong working relationship, being both the civil and military leaders of Jalisco State. Their collaboration was smooth, unmarred by meddlesome drama.

James Trumbull himself formerly served in the armed forces, having been the Deputy Chief of Police in the National Guard before transitioning to regional governance.

When he heard Faginhan's question, James folded his arms, flicked ash off his cigarette, and replied, "The National Palace decided to assign every governor a personal secretary as a direct liaison. This move is bound to stir discontent; after all, we've all fought for New Mexico. Such distrust—it's really..."

He struggled to find the right words but knew this arrangement left a sour taste in his own mouth.

It's akin to slaving away only to have your superior assign an overseer to watch for laziness—the kind of gesture that feels like a slap in the face.

Faginhan chuckled at his words.

"What's so funny, General?" Governor James Trumbull said, annoyed.

"Do you truly serve Mexico with unwavering devotion?"

"After moving from the army to local governance, the temptations of sweet talk and flattery have caused you all to fall quickly. Take the last two months of Internal Affairs Bureau's anti-corruption efforts—how many people were caught? 227. How many of them came from military backgrounds?"

"There are still those mingling with the Red Shoes Club, the Bohemian Organization, and the Illuminati."

"The General trusted you to administer your regions, and this is how you repay his faith?"

Faginhan sighed. "The General cannot abide petty tricks under his watch. What you're doing isn't far from treason."

He paused, narrowing his eyes. "The army's loyalty to the General is absolute."

His words sent a chill through James Trumbull's heart. Faginhan's meaning was crystal clear: even if some officials cozied up to groups like the Red Shoes or other terrorist organizations, as long as they lacked guns, they were mere heaps of scrap metal.

A command from the General, and the troops would march through fire and hell.

Currently, officials in Mexico typically emerged from two factions: the Victor Faction and the local faction. After all, Mexico was vast, and despite Victor's Golden Finger pulling strings, minor positions like village heads and town mayors still had to go to locals.

For roles like village heads and town-level administrators, there wasn't any escaping this necessity.

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