Back to the familiar Tijuana Security Department building.
Kennedy rushed over and grabbed the door to open it.
Casare, fluttering his eyes, said, "You open the door, so what am I supposed to do?"
"Director, do you want to rest a bit? Are you tired from coming back from the United States?"
Victor waved his hand, "Where's Uday?"
"Locked up in the interrogation room."
Kennedy, with an embarrassed look, lowered his voice, "In Mexico City, our guys beat him up, and his bodyguards got killed."
"Oh? For what reason? I don't believe my officers would bully someone for no reason."
The Anti-Drug Force does have a moral baseline.
"Uday cursed you as a clown in front of Cuauhtémoc and said you're just a petty officer. No matter where, you should be the one visiting him, not the other way around. Carlos didn't take it well and gave him a beating before throwing him on a plane to Tijuana."
How could they beat someone up for no reason?
Mouth asking for trouble and you think you're still in Iraq?
You'd call Victor 'Dad' and he'd still think you're hideous.
"Nice young man. Count him in for this year's training quota; we'll promote him when the time comes."
Anyone who stands up for me, Victor, I make sure they get promoted and prosperous. And those officers who charge forward and put their lives on the line for me, wouldn't I let their ancestors' graves sprout green smoke?
Applaud that understanding!
"Let's go, check on Uday. A visitor is a guest," Victor said, adjusting his sleeve and heading towards the interrogation room.
This is where they keep international newsmakers in Mexico, and you'd have to be a certain caliber and VIP status to get locked up here. Once inside, the chances of escape are even more impossible.
The likes of electric chairs, water boarding, and burning at the stake are plentiful. No way you're not opening your mouth.
Actually, Victor has no personal grudge against Uday, nor against Saddam, but when you deliver yourself to our doorstep, it's a problem. If the CIA got wind of it, the White House might think I'm not being straight with them, and that would be a loss beyond worth.
I'm in very good standing with my godfather right now.
The military aid arrives tomorrow.
This is a chance to pick sides.
Absolutely no slip-ups, the bastards at the CIA might have their documents ready, about to hand them over to Bush.
Of course, not a single error can occur, the best plan is to hand you over to the Americans.
Who knows, how much stuff an Uday could get exchanged for.
Entering the interrogation room, three floors underground, the air was already thin and oppressive, with lights flickering inconsistently. Screams could be heard from the rooms on either side.
In the innermost room, a young man with black hair was tied to a crucifix, his body without wounds.
"Don't hit me... don't hit me," he mumbled incoherently, head down. At the sound of the door, he lifted his head, and that meticulously groomed beard had all been shaved off.
"Victor? Victor!" The other man's eyes bulged. He excitedly reached out to grab him, but the ropes bound to his body limited him.
"You recognize me? Seems like I'm quite well-known in Iraq."
"You... why have you tied me up? My father is Saddam; I'm in charge of the Iraqi National Olympic Committee. You're ruining relations between our countries, you'll..." Uday's eyes were bloodshot.
"Will your dad hit me?" Victor interrupted him directly and said earnestly, "Honestly, I'm a bit scared."
Casare couldn't help but let out an appropriate laugh.
Victor never joked. He really was a bit scared.
Because, at a glance at Uday, he was simply stunned by the sight.
Born June 18, 1964, in Iraq.
Graduated from Baghdad University.
At 18, he stormed out of a class after a fed-up teacher scolded him for causing trouble.
The next day, the teacher and his family of seven were found dead at their home.
117 bullets were found at the scene.
In 1984, Saddam put his son in charge of Iraqi sports and soon, the Iraqi National Olympic Committee became a "hell on earth," with athletes who failed in competitions being sent directly to Uday's Palace's "zoo" to feed his pet tigers.
In 1988, Uday killed Saddam's favorite food taster, Kamel Hanna Jajjo, with a baton, over an issue related to taking a mistress for Saddam. Upon hearing this, a furious Saddam imprisoned Uday for 40 days.
In 1989, Uday had a verbal altercation with his brother Qusay Hussein, which turned into a firefight between their bodyguards!
It led to the death of 27 innocent civilians and injured 17 others.
Saddam was greatly disappointed in him afterward and considered removing him from the line of succession.
Crime points: 1 billion 200 million!
Victor was stunned but then quickly checked his own scorecard. Sure enough, it had skyrocketed from 1.2 billion to 2.3 billion!
"Rookie" Carlos had scored another point!
Who would have thought a pampered playboy, a psychotic maniac, could rack up such high crime points? How many outrageous acts had he committed?
Those numbers, red to the point of purple, compared with a few of Mexico's big drug traffickers. NMD, if the son has that many points, how much does the father have?
Could it be more than 50 billion, or even 100 billion?
To think, Uday Hussein didn't even hold any official position of power.
Eliminating drug traffickers actually requires the least amount of skill.
If I managed to overthrow Sadaam's regime, how much would I gain?
If I swept over Africa, all those African warlords, dirty one and all, surely I could trade them in for an aircraft carrier.
Who says the Anti-Drug Force can't become "world police"?
After the Russian Bear died, Americans got involved in wars all over the world. If I sidle up, couldn't I also grab a bite to eat?