December 25th.
Christmas.
A rare sunny day in Mexico.
On the hill behind the National Palace, Victor was wearing a sweat-absorbing long-sleeve shirt, accompanied by Casare, with bodyguards on either side and at the front.
Jogging in the early morning.
Fat Casare took a deep breath and felt his throat like a knife scraping painfully.
His legs felt as if they were filled with iron blocks.
He was out of breath after just a couple of steps.
"I can't, I can't, boss, I can't run anymore." He slowly stopped and waved his hand.
Victor laughed, "Your body is not up to par, you need to exercise."
"I certainly can't compare to you, boss. When you were a policeman, your fitness was the best in the entire prison."
Casare gave the accompanying secretary a thumbs-up, "It was something convincing, if it weren't for the warden being so corrupt, you would have climbed up long ago, boss."
The secretary nodded beside them, listening intently.
"Don't talk nonsense."
