Chapter 4: Full of Malice!

Everyone who frequently tosses hand grenades knows that they come in defensive and offensive types, but in reality, that's all bullshit. Once you throw it, who gives a fuck about the type, everyone's going down!

An F-1 hand grenade crammed with 60g of TNT, motherfucker, even a turtle coming at you would blow up like a Japanese ghost.

Even though it's a relic from World War II, it's still a relic from your granddaddy, after all.

Victor crouched and moved close to the edge of the trailer, looked at the half-open window, pulled the pin, and lobbed it inside. The crisp sound it made as it hit the ground turned the heads of both Haggis and Mil Baird.

An oval-shaped object resembling a large turd rolled across the floor.

Mil Baird, with his abundant experience of taking hits, reacted quickly. He grabbed his head, tucked his ass in, and curled up into a ball on the side.

This reduced the area exposed to injury, which could increase his chances of survival.

Anyone who has used a hand grenade knows that the chances of it actually killing someone outright are not high—not that it's impossible. Its deadliest harm comes from the fragments inside that can slice through a person's organs.

Basically, it's beyond salvation.

Even Jesus would have to be hospitalized.

However...

Just to be sure, Victor didn't wait long after throwing the first one before lobbing a second grenade inside!

Double insurance.

Boom!

Two trails of smoke seeped out from the edges of the trailer window. The explosion was muffled, but it was loud enough to startle Casare, who was in the midst of fucking a girl. He shot up, his balls shriveling, panic-stricken as he grasped for his clothes and dashed out of the tent like a scared elephant.

Around him were other old johns just like him.

Completely shameless, all baring their naked bodies.

They glanced at each other, their eyes filled with fear.

"What's going on? Why was there an explosion?"

"How the fuck would I know? I was in the heat of battle and it scared the hell out of me too. Don't just stand there, scatter!"

Someone shouted, and some people ran off in panic. Some didn't even pay for their services.

As experienced Mexicans, they understood a principle—never be curious. Whoever's curiosity gets the better of them, their entire family would be screwed.

It was different for Casare, though; as he looked towards that corner, his mouth half-open, it seemed like...

That was exactly where Victor had just gone!

...

Victor had balls of steel; after throwing the hand grenade, he didn't run off immediately. Standing at the door, he could hear moans and screams from inside.

He kicked open the already blasting-battered door, crawled inside, and saw Haggis rolling on the ground, bleeding all over, while Mil was not so lucky, clutching his neck with wide-open eyes, already dead.

Seeing a figure, Haggis instinctively reached out for help, a wheezing, blow-dryer-like sound coming from his throat, "help! help!"

"Don't you know you're supposed to say 'please,' buddy?"

Upon hearing a familiar voice, Haggis's face cleared with recognition and he became frantic, gasping for breath, his chest heaving.

"No rush, no rush."

Victor squatted down, looked at him, and smirked, "Does it hurt? No worries, I'll help you out."

He glanced around and saw a fire extinguisher rolling on the ground, picked it up, waved goodbye to Haggis, then smashed it down hard on his head.

What's harder, a skull or a fire extinguisher?

Clearly, the latter won.

After banging hard a few times, brains were oozing out. Looking at the unrecognizable Haggis, Victor tossed the fire extinguisher aside, lit a cigarette for himself, and then tried to wedge it into the mouth that had been smashed to pieces.

But the mouth was battered beyond holding the cigarette.

Victor lost his patience in no time, and with a final smash, he flattened the head again with the fire extinguisher.

"Fuck you, not even giving the respect for a smoke, you goddamn bastard."

After swearing, he bolted, already hearing people coming nearby, the clamor of footsteps growing louder.

In the pitch-dark night, just dive in and as long as you're not caught on the spot, how hard could it be to escape?

About two or three minutes after Victor sprinted off, a dozen armed men holding weapons rushed to the scene, their arm tattoos revealing they all came from the same organization.

Leading them was a bald man with a scar between his brows, his complexion ashen and grim. Someone had stirred up trouble on his turf; the fucker was asking for trouble!

"Boss, there's trouble, this guy looks like Mil Baird." a subordinate called out.

The bald man paused, his expression something akin to constipation, as if he realized something. He bellowed and rushed over, recognizing the familiar face on the ground, his face contorting even more.

He knew Mil Baird all too well. Mexico City's turf originally belonged to the Guadalajara Cartel.

But due to the destruction of a 1000-hectare plantation, Quintero, one of the three bosses, couldn't swallow his pride. At the time, Gallardo had already arranged a deal with Pablo of Colombia, so the money could definitely be recouped.

But on February 7, 1985, under Quintero's orders, a DEA agent, Camarena, was kidnapped in broad daylight.

The autopsy revealed he had suffered 30 hours of brutal torture, and that during the ordeal, he was repeatedly injected with adrenaline to keep him conscious.

The grisly state of Camarena's body prompted the DEA to launch its largest-scale murder investigation ever.

As things blew up, Quintero ran off with his girlfriend Sara, who happened to be the daughter of the Mexican Minister of Education.

Talk about education going to the birds.

The Godfather Gallardo sacrificed pawns to save the game, handing over Quintero and Tang Neito to the authorities, while he continued to lead the Cartel, meeting officials' demands for shares.

Quintero was sentenced to a maximum of 40 years in prison.

But since there was no extradition agreement, the Yanks disagreed. In order to give their employees an explanation, they launched "Operation Legend", sending agents with bounty hunters to infiltrate Mexico, abduct the six murderers involved in the killing of Camarena to the United States for trial, and simultaneously exert pressure on the Mexican authorities.

Then Gallardo was abandoned by his protection umbrella, Defence Minister Barela, and in 1989, the Guadalajara Cartel crumbled to the ground.

During this power vacuum, Mexico City, of course, couldn't stay calm.

Palma, leading the Sinaloa, clashed with the Gulf Group commanded by the Abrego family.

Among them appeared many characters with cruel and insidious tactics, and "Family stud" Mil Baird stood out especially.

He led Gulf Group gunmen to attack the costume party of Guzman's younger brother, who held the second-in-command position in Sinaloa, resulting in 17 deaths.

These included Guzman's brother's lover and their four illegitimate children.

His reputation was severely shaken!

The Sinaloa Group offered a bounty of 150,000 pesos for his life!

For such a hotshot to die here was a stark reminder of life's unpredictability.

But this bald man saw another business opportunity. He looked at Mil Baird's body, his eyes glowing with greed.

150,000 pesos!

Most importantly, getting in good with the Sinaloa could be a huge advantage, even if it meant facing retaliation from the Gulf Group and the Baird Family. But in this line of work, is life and death really that important?

Make money, make money, make money!

Those with faint hearts had long either died on the streets or emigrated.

"Who is this person?" the bald man asked, pointing at Haggis's body.

The subordinate looked left and right, shook his head, "Can't recognize him; he's too disfigured."

"Don't waste it, take him with us. Tonight, we're throwing our lot in with the Sinaloa Cartel."

His subordinates exchanged glances, hesitating.

The bald man, perceptive, understood their thoughts and said, "We were in charge here tonight. With Mil Baird dead, do you think we won't be thrown out as a scapegoat?"

"This..."

"Boss Vladen surely wouldn't do that," a subordinate whispered, but even he trailed off and closed his mouth.

In Mexico, the unwritten rule for small gangs was to always stick close to a major cartel. If you had a powerful backer, you were good; without one?

You were just expendable and cannon fodder.

"Alright, no more hesitation. Those who want to leave with me, let's do it. The bounty for Mil Baird will be split among us all. Those who don't want to, we can part ways here," the bald man said, furrowing his brows at the subordinates in front of him.

In the end, all the subordinates followed him. Clearly, the draw of the bounty in pesos was stronger than loyalty to their boss.

With the watchers gone, who else would come around for no reason just to take a look?

If it's none of my business, then keep it off my back.

After all, death was far too common an occurrence.

...

Victor made his way to the prison under cover of darkness. His dormitory was inside. On the way, he encountered many colleagues, who were cursing and swearing, all because they felt the night had been too dull.

When crossing a pontoon bridge, he stumbled, not seeing a stone that had been placed there at some point.

"Victor."

In the darkness, a soft call made him tense up. Frowning as he saw the emerging figure, he relaxed, "Casare, don't you know it's very easy to scare someone to death lurking in the night like this?"

The fat man approached, looked Victor up and down, "You alright?"

This perplexing question caught Victor off guard, setting his heart pounding, but he quickly regained his composure, his eyes fixed on him, "You mean the explosion just now? Scared the hell out of me. I was just about to find a spot to pee when I heard the blast and immediately hid. Are you okay, pal? I heard that getting startled during exercise can lead to impotence."

He laughed, reaching for Casare's groin, and Casare stepped back, "I'm fine." Then, turning away, "Good that you're okay."

But a slight hardness in his gaze, he smelled the scent of blood on Victor.

Definitely, it was not as simple as he had claimed.

Casare was no fool; there are no real fools in this world, just different perspectives.

Don't think you're too clever.

Behind him, Victor squinted his eyes, his instincts telling him that Casare was beginning to suspect him.

His instincts were always accurate.

Looking at the back of Casare's head, there was a sudden urge in him to go forward and crack it open.

Murdering a colleague, especially one from a criminal family, required only a shred of suspicion before those dog-bred drug traffickers would strike a deadly blow.

Victor was not someone who liked to leave his fate in others' hands.

Casare walked ahead, suddenly feeling a twinge at the back of his head.

As if someone was staring at him with malice.

In the end.

Victor refrained from striking him down; after all, he was now visible to the guards on the high walls at the entrance of the prison.