Working as a police officer in Mexico

Three days after the establishment of the new tax department.

A group of tax officers in bulletproof vests stormed into a shoe factory in Tijuana with about 600 workers.

They dragged the boss out of his office directly.

"Don't! Don't shoot! I'll pay," the bald boss cried out in panic, raising his hands and shouting loudly while his eyes darted shrewdly around him, only to see an armored vehicle with an English acronym written on it: JDJS. (Just Do the Job, Sir)

"We have received a tip-off that you've been evading taxes."

"How could that be! Impossible, I've paid every quarter, wait, my nephew is in your tax department, this must be a misunderstanding," the bald man said hastily, and spotting his nephew hiding behind, his eyes brightened, "Mike! Mike! Come and vouch for me."

"Please address me by my official title during work, call me Inspector, or sir," Mike said sternly, looking at his uncle and then addressing his superior, "He owns about six properties in Tijuana, but as far as I know, he hasn't paid taxes on them."

"Mike! I am your uncle!" the bald man exclaimed with wide eyes.

Your money is not my money, but the money you save from tax evasion includes my cut, Mike thought with his square-jawed face, "Even if you were my father, failing to pay taxes on time would do you no good."

"Drag him away, drag him away, take him back to the office so he can have a good think about where the money is hidden!"

Two tax officers grabbed the bald man's arms and pulled him onto the vehicle.

"Seal the place!"

"Boss, what about these workers? If more than 600 people lose their jobs, that'll put a lot of pressure on public security."

"So what do you propose?"

"How about keeping the production line going? The more orders we have, the higher the fines we can impose."

The superior's eyes lit up, and he patted Mike on the shoulder, sighing, "Not bad, with this kind of attitude, you're definitely up for the next promotion!"

Mike nodded excitedly.

All for Mr. Victor!

Security Department. Office.

"Look, there are so many rich people in Tijuana, but they just won't pay their taxes willingly." Victor said, looking at the new report that had just been brought in, relaxed with his leg propped up and sipping coffee.

In just two days, 71 businesses that had failed to pay taxes on time were seized, and with fines based on company size, at least 63 million US dollars were to be collected, which would result in prison and hefty fines in the United States.

In Mexico here, it depends on your "sincerity"—the higher the fine you pay, the lighter the criminal punishment.

"This is only a part of it. According to estimates by the tax department, there are about 600 companies across Baja California that are evading taxes. Boss, we can collect at least 1.2 billion US dollars in forfeiture funds!" Casare said excitedly next to him.

An average fine of 200,000 US dollars per company!

"Have the tax department work overtime. If anyone doesn't cooperate, send the armored vehicles over, and as soon as we get the money, pay the police force immediately, and make sure to supplement the monthly allowances for the families of retired officers and fallen officers."

The Golden Finger only helped Victor squeeze people, but these guys needed to live and faced heavy pressures; without money, nothing could progress.

The recruitment of 15,000 National Guard members was still not complete, but according to the new "Police Personnel Salary Standards" introduced by Victor.

A regular Police Junior Sergeant must receive 570 US dollars a month, and with miscellaneous benefits throughout the year, it's about 8,000 US dollars, while next door in the United States, according to data from the US Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS), their average salary in 1990 was 20,543 US dollars.

Victor also wanted to convert it into pesos.

But...

Many people in Mexico don't recognize it!

This society has long been fully occupied by the "United States"; it's a hegemony of US dollars, and Mexico can't escape, or rather, Victor of the current period can't escape.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

570 US dollars is just the minimum, not the average, and just the National Guard costs nearly 9 million US dollars a month, not to mention frontline combat troops, intelligence departments, the maintenance of the "Duke Victor" aircraft, and the upkeep of armored vehicles and other weapons.

And the salaries for other department personnel.

Everyone sees the endless glory of being the boss, but they don't see the struggle with money behind the scenes.

The estimated 1.2 billion US dollars in forfeiture funds...will not last long.

"Boss, maybe we could make some investments in tech stocks in the United States? I've heard that on Wall Street, it's almost like throwing money in and carrying it out in sacks," Casare suggested smartly, always ready to solve problems for the boss.

"Stocks?" Victor frowned, and after hearing this, it seemed to remind him that in the 90s, Microsoft, Google, etc., were all "thriving", and perhaps it was indeed possible to make a big profit.

Ring-ring~

Just as Victor was deep in thought, the telephone on his desk rang, the urgent red one. Startled, he picked it up.

"Hello!"

"Director, it's me, Kennedy. My unit has taken control of the outskirts of Hermosillo, the capital of Sonora State, and is now advancing towards it. We've encountered heavy fire from a steel factory outside the city resisting our forces and request indiscriminate bombing permission!"

Upon hearing this, Victor immediately stood up from his chair and ran to the map nearby, looking for Hermosillo, located in the central region of Sonora State. They were moving so fast? Could there be a trap?

He picked up the receiver, "What's the situation with this steel factory?"

"It belongs to the Spanish," Kennedy said from the other end.

It was a foreign-owned enterprise then.

"Bomb it! The legitimate personnel inside must have been killed by drug traffickers. I'll have Cuauhtémoc notify the Spanish side. You just concentrate on taking over the steel factory, then sweep the drug traffickers in Hermosillo. I will dispatch more officers to support you," Victor declared.

"Understood!"

Victor took a drag of his cigarette, furrowing his brow, "Send the rest and re-equipped Vasili's 442nd Regiment (600 men), EDM (800 men), and the Mexican National Emergency Squad (three battalions with 900 men in total) to support!"

"Boss, that would leave just one battalion of the EDN in Tijuana; isn't that too risky?" Casare cautioned.

Victor squinted his eyes, "Just keep the drug traffickers under constant assault. Once we control Sonora State, we'll extend our buffer zone, no need to worry, it will be safe."

He took a secret glance at his points, still over a billion left—mostly because the frontline was spending a lot on artillery rounds daily, which wasn't light, but when necessary, it was still possible to squeeze out some "cannon fodder."

Perhaps, we should mold some people according to the "mercenary" template, for a large-scale war, this bunch would be sufficient.

"Nationwide broadcast! Urge the civilians of Sonora State to evacuate the war zone, allow entry into the northern part of Baja California, set up tents near Mexicali city, and centrally manage the influx of refugees."

Casare hastily noted down his boss's words.

…

After hanging up the phone, Kennedy's expression was grave; the steel plant wasn't as easy to deal with as he had said.

Spanning 6 square kilometers, it was one of Mexico's largest foreign-funded steel plants. Roughly 30% of the populace of Hermosillo worked, lived, and resided there.

Kennedy had already ordered the civilians inside to leave through loudspeakers, but many still remained, resolved to "live and die with the steel plant"!

For if they left… they would lose their means of survival. What could many of them do? Go starve in other states? Or join the drug traffickers?

It would be better to remain at the steel plant and oppose the Anti-Drug Force.

Sometimes, reality was truly filled with magical realism; they knew the benefits of the drug war, but they couldn't bear to see their work destroyed by it. They couldn't give up their patch of land, their three meals a day.

For them, the drug war was the country's business, what did it have to do with them?

Damn it!

They even helped the drug traffickers fight back against the Anti-Drug Force.

Obstinate and unrepentant to the extreme!

Then let's fight.

2,000 police officers charged at the plant but couldn't break through, suffering heavy losses. These damn drug traffickers TMD had buried plenty of mines, and there were even tunnels.

They scurried around like rats.

"Order the BM-13 rocket artillery battalion to fire 10 rounds! Flatten the steel plant!" Kennedy ordered through gritted teeth.

After all, the boss had agreed.

The Spaniard should just go find Victor then.

The rocket artillery battalion consisted of 30 BM-13 rocket launchers. Don't be surprised, the Russian Bear still had artillery regiments, which during World War II made the Germans sigh and lament.

As long as the firepower is fierce, even ants can be turned into dung beetles.

In the open area, the BM-13 rocket artillery battalion got busy upon receiving orders.

"Ready!"

"Fire!"

The red flag was vigorously waved downward.

Whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh…

Impressive!

A rain of fire and shooting stars!

This thing's flaw is the lack of accuracy, but the advantage is that it doesn't need accuracy, there's just one word for it: blast!

Violent aesthetics pushed to the extreme.

Standing to the side, watching the rocket projectiles swarm towards the steel plant, the 6 square kilometer plant area was filled with blasts, the ground's soil flipped over several layers, yet some buildings still stood unmoved!

This steel-reinforced concrete was too damn sturdy.

"Fire!"

In just two hours, the steel plant was hit by roughly 4,800 shells. Based on 1950 prices, back then, each shell was worth eight taels of gold.

Lucky for Victor, he used points, but each shell still cost 12,000 points, amounting to nearly sixty million points blown away—enough to exchange for a patrol cruiser.

It's a good thing we're not dealing with money. If it were money, Victor might as well take vows and become a monk.

The thick smoke from the explosions could be seen clearly from Hermosillo, several kilometers away. People filled balconies, high-rise buildings, and even church rooftops, gazing at this heart-stopping spectacle.

Under the barrage of rockets, everyone felt insignificant.

"God! With so many shells, is the steel plant still there?" a woman asked in distress.

Her husband held her tightly, "Don't worry."

They were both employees of the steel plant, but when the loudspeakers went off, they still returned to Hermosillo. However, seeing the place where they had worked for over a decade reduced to such a state was somewhat heartbreaking.

"God bless them," the woman leaned into her husband's arms.

Whom she was talking about protecting wasn't clear.

Kennedy watched the distant steel plant through binoculars—everywhere was ruins from the bombing.

"Continue the assault!"

"Boss, we're out of shells; the next delivery won't arrive until tomorrow," the adjutant said awkwardly.

Who can afford such lavish warfare?

Do you realize what you've just thrown away?

At the very least, two estates in Beverly Hills!

"Move out the first and second battalions of the Counter-Terrorism Mobile Unit."

"Ground troops, advance the defensive line."

"Take the steel plant!"

…