Working as a police officer in Mexico

I felt like the superfluous member of this family.

He quickly changed the subject, "I remember you can serve in the Green Berets until you're 30, did you apply for early retirement?"

"I hate the U.S. Government, I hate politicians, they wage wars, and war is just a mother's child trekking thousands of miles to kill another mother's child, I don't know what I'm fighting for, justice? Ideals? Or those bastards at the negotiation table?" Paul Boymer spread his hands, "I think I can find my purpose in life in Mexico."

"I work towards liberating all the nations oppressed by drugs!"

"Of course, there's also the high salary, goddamn, they pay too much."

Paul Boymer's honesty left Damien Jarvis somewhat at a loss for words.

"Alright, gentlemen!"

Casare, who was sitting in front, stood up a bit unsteadily and said with a smile to the 182 "American mercenaries" sitting in the cabin, "Welcome to the hell of drug traffickers, the paradise of drug enforcement, the city of Governor Victor—Tijuana!"

"Awoo~"

Some Yank yelled, drawing everyone's attention.

Casare also smiled, "The beauty of Mexico and the journey will make you scream!"

As he spoke, the gangway was lowered with a thud, he looked back, clapped his hands, "Gentlemen, please take your luggage, we're getting off the plane!"

A group of excited people took down their luggage and orderly disembarked.

Once they got off, they saw seven or eight troop carriers already quietly waiting, with seven or eight soldiers from the Northern Alliance grinning widely, looking very friendly!

Well, "Here they finally come, cash cows!"

Nonsense, of course, they were friendly to the suckers.

If they didn't think it would look bad, they even considered bringing some cheerleaders.

What Yanks love most are chicks.

During World War II, when Japan sneak attacked Pearl Harbor, those old men in the White House were racking their brains to recruit soldiers; they thought about appealing to national and ethnic righteousness, but the youth would just say, "Go f*ck yourselves!"

This left the recruitment experts both helpless and angry; eventually, one frustrated expert drew some provocative posters...

The number of soldiers instantly soared from 600,000 to 13 million!

Yanks only enlist for two reasons, cash and women.

"Sir!" The Major leading the team straightened up and saluted when he saw Casare.

"Are all 182 warriors accounted for, have their accommodations been arranged?"

"Report to the Culiacán Military Camp, warriors should go where the bravest are." The Major said in a low voice, perhaps feeling that Casare was overthinking, so he added, "Orders from the highest command."

Fat Casare didn't mind at all, instead, he nodded, "With such high salaries, indeed they should be sent to the front... to show their worth."

He almost said sent to their deaths!

He glanced at the youngster, who pretended not to hear.

There are no officers in the "Foreign Legion"; they are all appointed from the joint operations command, the goal being to keep this unit firmly in their grip.

So, the base salary for these "foreign monks" is about the same; the lowest is 1000+ US Dollars a month, with a little extra for technical soldiers.

Much more than what Victor's own troops get.

Even beggars in civil engineering have to be given a bit more.

With such high wages, it would be a pity not to send them to the frontlines…

After all, no need to pay these guys any pensions or insurance.

These rates aren't cheap; during the Gulf War, the participating American soldiers received a fixed salary of 753.9 US Dollars a month, but if they served less than four months, they only got 697.2 US Dollars.

"First, send them to Tijuana to enjoy the night scene; even before slaughtering pigs, they should have good dreams," Casare couldn't help laughing out loud.

The Major who was receiving them laughed as well.

And the young man, Paul Boymer, who had already climbed into the vehicle, asked the old military doctor Damien Jarvis, "What are they laughing about, they seem very happy."

"Do you understand Spanish?"

"Of course not, but maybe he's happy for us, yes, definitely," Damien Jarvis muttered to himself.

After chatting with the Major for a moment, Casare turned and whispered something to his bodyguards, then his brother, sister, and mother were "escorted" onto another sedan.

He even brought his mother, what use was he in the United States?

To make a fool of himself?

The convoy left Duke Victor Airport.

The Yanks were accommodated in the "Tijuana Military Camp" at the city center, whereas Casare didn't even return to his own villa, but went straight to see Victor.

Here's a note, he lived in Villa No. 2, which used to belong to the Benjamin brothers of the Tijuana Cartel; from these clues, it was clear that Victor treated him very well.

The villa was a gift to him, and if he wanted to sell it, no problem, it could definitely fetch four or five million US Dollars!

"Hey, good evening, Miss Krista Schroeder, you are looking more and more beautiful, is the boss here?"

Casare got out of the car and encountered the chief secretary downstairs, greeting her with a smile.

Krista Schroeder saw him and was very polite; this woman had some brains—she knew she couldn't afford to offend the fat man standing before her.

She knew to show him the utmost respect.

If she offended him,

Victor would discard Krista Schroeder as if she were trash!
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There weren't women everywhere?

After reaching a certain status, to speak a very cruel truth, women and goods were alike, merely there for the taking.

But a loyal and obedient companion was more important than anything.

"Governor Victor is in the office," Krista Schroeder said.

"Thank you~"

Casare expressed his thanks and, holding his big belly, he hurried upstairs. The secretary watched his departing figure with a trace of envy. In the Northern Alliance, he was the only one who could call the boss by his name.

The others?

They were simply not worthy.

Meanwhile, Victor was furrowing his brow, with a cigarette in hand, listening to Jason Bourne's intelligence.

"You're saying that the Sinaloa Group has splintered internally?"

"Yes!" Jason Bourne nodded, pointing to the map of Mexico hanging behind him, "There are a total of nine factions now, in Sinaloa State, Chihuahua State, and Coahuila State."

Victor could tell right away that something was off.

Hadn't the drug traffickers just turned into a small guerrilla force?

If they had money and weapons, they could easily gather a new group of people, which meant these nine could become nine separate powers!

Why did it suddenly feel like the end of a dynasty, with warlords rising to power?

This was like "The Mexican Civil War"!

Shit!

Mexico was falling into chaos before the United States did?

If such a situation spread, remember there are many states home to Indigenous peoples who have little goodwill towards the government, just waiting for an opportunity.

This is it, isn't it?

If a rebellion suddenly broke out!

Well then...

The government's credibility would be instantly lost.

It's not like this hadn't happened before, many southern states were the pioneers of "uprisings".

Victor was feeling a headache coming on.

Was he really going to have to tear down the entire Mexico and rebuild? That would cost even more!

Jason Bourne was clever too; he sensed something was amiss and immediately shut up, making the office suddenly much quieter.

After a while, Victor spoke,

"I will seek new support at the United Nations meeting, find someone to label everyone other than the Mexican Government Forces as drug traffickers! We will take the moral high ground."

"Once Culiacán is stabilized, take over all of Sinaloa. Don't let the others have time to develop."

"This is a war of attrition, Jason, we cannot allow these drug traffickers to grow into a rebellious organization. Figure out a way to stir up conflicts among them, let them destroy each other."

If it really comes to it!

Then charge in ourselves.

A kingdom is born out of battle!

France rose under Napoleon; Mexico too can welcome its own Emperor!

Thump thump thump~

Just then, a knock on the door sounded, and Victor, startled, called out for the visitor to enter, only to see Casare's familiar fat face poking in, "Boss!"

"Back already? I thought you wouldn't come back from the States," Victor teased as he rose to size him up, patting his belly, "Looks like capitalism has gotten to you."

Casare chuckled, "Wherever the boss is, that's my home. Of course, I had to come back."

"It's all talk with you, isn't it? So, any surprises? Sit down, let's talk."

Just as Casare sat down, he said something that bewildered everyone, "Boss, do you know any good people? I'm looking to find a companion for my mom!"

...