Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 656 - 385: Grape Wine and Luminous Cup, You Soar with the Bunker!
The largest prison in the First Republic.
The "Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla" prison.
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It was named after the founder of the judicial system in Mexico, who advocated for judicial reform.
But obviously, in this country, you have to rely on guns to teach these bastards how to "obey the law."
This prison could accommodate around 13,000 serious offenders.
And it wasn't guarded by the National Guard but by the Regular Army, with about two battalions stationed here; if deployed to the front lines, they could at least hold off a brigade of drug traffickers. This was one of the reasons Victor wanted to wipe out the drug traffickers.
Such a waste of military power!
And these drug traffickers didn't keep quiet!
In this prison, there were fights and brawls, sometimes even escalating to murder. When the addicts had their urges, they would attack law enforcement officers.
The prison was located in Durango State, occupying an area of over 25 square kilometers. These drug traffickers weren't kept for nothing; they were put to work clearing land, effectively an alternative "Settlement Team."
At this moment, a dozen drug traffickers were bent over, digging up potatoes, their faces covered in sweat.
One of them had tattoos of Jesus on his left hand and Satan on his right, bald-headed, but walked with a limp, obviously not looking like any good person.
"Big Brother Scott!"
A fat man approached cautiously, glancing left and right. Seeing the guard in the distance, he sneakily pulled out a cigarette from his trousers and carefully handed it over.
The muscular man's eyes lit up, and he eagerly tore open the cigarette, stuffed the nicotine inside his mouth, and chewed vigorously, almost in tears.
It was unclear if it was the smoke or the emotion that affected him.
"Ah, what a great taste!"
In prison, you want to smoke? No chance!
You can't even get enough food, and if you're full, it's time to cause trouble.
A cigarette in prison could cost a man's life.
But there were some guards who would secretly sell them anyway; after all, where there are people, there is society, and many things can't be controlled. As for a lighter? Forget about it, you'd just chew.
"Word from the outside is that the Popovich Government has mobilized 200,000 troops to obliterate Victor's regime!"
"200,000?"
Scott squinted, "That many?"
Claiming 200,000 when it's actually 100,000 isn't much of an exaggeration.
"It shouldn't be fake. A tyrant like Victor inviting wrath from both heaven and the people – surely someone will deal with him. Big Brother, if the fight reaches Durango, we'll be free," the fat man said with excitement in his voice.
Scott, too, trembled slightly, his eyes turning red.
He had had enough of this godforsaken place and truly wanted to die.
"Should we get the brothers to respond? We'll grab the guards' weapons, and then fight our way out?"
"No, don't rush it. Let's wait and see. If Victor wins, we might be purged, and that would be a loss. But we still need to contact others—the Michoacan Family, God Cavalry Group, and Sinaloa Group—let everyone know," advised Scott.
The fat man nodded, "You think deep, Big Brother. Alright, I will find a way to pass the message."
Then, the siren for the end of work sounded, and all the drug traffickers hurriedly picked up their tools and formed lines, running. It was instinctual.
They sang labor songs on their way back to their cells, and dinner would be delivered there.
About 35 square meters space housed six people, all on a large communal sleeping area, no matter the status.
When the cell doors closed, Scott felt an unsettling sense of dread, his left eyebrow twitching frantically like an engine.
"Big Brother, why do I feel my heart beating so fast!" the fat man, sharing the same cell, whispered, clutching his chest.
"You feel it too?" Another inmate asked in surprise.
"Me too."
Others in the neighboring cells began speaking up, and everyone suddenly quieted down.
That Sixth Sense can sometimes be very accurate; they hadn't been killed in battle because they sensed danger and fled, hadn't they?
"What is that!!"
Suddenly, someone in the outermost cell screamed.
Scott and the others craned their necks and saw a dense white fog spewing from the pipe, quickly enveloping the front cells. The sound of crashing and howling could be heard from inside.
"!!! What... what is that?" the fat man turned pale as death.
But no one could answer; nobody knew.
The fog swept through the entire cell block quickly. Scott took a deep breath and noticed a sweet apple scent?
Just as he was about to speak, his mind went blank, followed by a burning sensation all over, his throat feeling as if something was trying to burst out.
"It's... it's poison!"
With a thud, he collapsed to the ground, convulsing.
"Ah!!!"
The fat man kneeled, clawing at his face with sharp fingernails, in an instant, flesh blurred with blood, yet he kept scratching, his eyes blood-red, eventually bulging, mouth gaping, curled up like a shrimp.
The entire cell block, thousands, shared the same ghastly fate, though there were a few low moans of agony.
About an hour later, the sealed iron door was opened.
Hundreds of people wrapped in protective suits entered, submachine guns in hand.
"Search! Leave no one alive, load the bodies onto the truck," the leader spoke calmly, as if the death of thousands were just an everyday occurrence.
"Yes, sir!"
Hundreds began to move.
"Help... help me..." a drug trafficker with a face covered in pimples, stretched his hand out of the cell, the back of his hand full of boils, weakly and desperately calling out.
