Working as a police officer in Mexico

Casare rarely got angry.

But "dear brother," "Mexican Father," "Life Mentor" Victor was his Achilles' heel.

After checking into the hotel, he even wrote this passage in his notebook.

"The locals in the United States lack a certain awe, which is not good. Perhaps, this is the price of freedom."

First, let the people of Detroit see Victor's iron fist!

Having "written out" all his heartfelt words, he felt much better and picked up the document from his briefcase.

The U.S. military veteran center hoped Victor would "help" at least 100 retired servicemen "re-employ."

100?

Victor had no intention of hiring so many American Silver, but such KPIs were there to show performance, so he could only reluctantly agree, but definitely not in the police force.

What a joke.

Letting these monstrosities in would directly spoil the discipline.

The military discipline in some European and North American armies is genuinely poor!

New stories about the U.S. military getting caught prostituting seem to be a dime a dozen, and there have even been horrifying incidents where, during overseas operations, they forcefully took advantage of a local man's wife to capture a criminal, then tied up her husband and made him watch.

In the end, when they left, they blew up the man's entire family!

This incident caused an uproar.

Letting such scum into the police force would be worse than getting two dogs, at least when dogs are neutered, they truly can't play around anymore.

However, you can't just disregard American face.

In his dilemma, someone gave Victor an idea.

Why not establish a Foreign Legion?

"Mexican Foreign Legion!"

It would recruit citizens from all countries except Mexico, but this organization would not be based in Mexico, but rather under Victor's "Hope" group, funded by the Governorship of Northern Mexico to "appoint" them to strike at drug traffickers!

That is, the so-called PMC company (Private Military Contractor).

Wouldn't this just give Victor another chance to rake in money?

Of course, such companies are well-suited for dirty work, too. If something really happened, just pull someone out to take the fall.

But most importantly, Victor had a little scheme in mind. If, just if, a break with certain countries happened in the future, this "Mercenary" force could be parachuted into enemy territory to commit misdeeds.

Even possibly, when necessary, it could earn foreign currency for Victor.

The African market, with its high demand for coups, was full of amateurs like Niger who only knew to shoot wildly without any technical content, needing professionals to handle the job.

You give money, Victor's "PMC" delivers you to power, as long as the price is right, all you need to think about is how you want to position yourself in power.

If you die...

At worst, give some condolence money.

How much is given, will depend on Victor's conscience.

Do you really think the Yanks will stand up for these "fools"?

Stop kidding, they're just worried these people will cause unnecessary trouble in society.

Casare was just about to add a few touches to the "PMC" plan when he heard the phone ring.

???

A proactive call from a hotel phone?

Damn it?

Squeak~

Casare slid his chair back, furrowed his brows in annoyance, and picked up the phone, "Hello~"

"Good evening, Mr. Casare," came a woman's voice from the other end, seductive, the kind that... makes you hard just listening to it, deliberately dragging out her tone.

"Sorry, I don't need a prostitute!" Fat Casare hung up the phone directly.

Who the hell calls this late at night, sounding so provocative? Could they be normal?

Just as he was about to sit back down, the phone rang again. Casare was getting impatient. Why would the Hilton allow prostitutes to harass guests like this?

He grabbed the phone irritably, "I don't want one, I don't want a prostitute!"

"I'm not a prostitute, Mr. Casare!" The woman on the other end forced a laugh.

"Then who are you?"

"Come out for a drink, let's meet and talk."

"Talk to your mom!" Casare hung up again, and even yanked the phone cord out, scowling, "Stupid bitch!"

Meanwhile, in Detroit, at the British Office.

A woman with big waves in her hair, dressed in a red skirt, wearing nail polish on her toenails, and holding a cigarette paused as she listened to the dial tone, then stood up in anger, smashing the receiver to the ground while cursing, "Damn fatso! Fuck XXX!"

"Hey, who's got our Black Rose worked up?" A young Caucasian man walked in, cracking a smile.

"Get lost, George, or I'll kick your balls off!" the woman snarled with a fierce look, inhaled a puff of smoke, growing more enraged as she thought about her failed seduction attempt and tossed her cigarette to the floor angrily.

The resentment flashed through the man's eyes at her verbal abuse, and he unabashedly scoped out her figure, imagining having her beneath him, swallowed his spit, and said with a smile, "I hope you can complete the mission, Eliza. You still haven't finished this year's mission. Don't end up last again."

He quickly ran off after speaking.

As soon as the door closed, the woman picked up the ashtray and hurled it.

Clearly, she had a volatile temper.

Eliza took a deep breath, furrowing her brow in thought, considering her next move.

How could she bait the other party successfully?

Back in the hotel, the more Casare thought about it, the more he felt something was amiss with that phone call; it was probably not a good sign. He called his colleagues over, looking serious, and told them, "None of you are allowed to leave my sight without permission. If anyone has to do something, there must be at least two of you, no going out alone."

His serious expression made everyone exchange uneasy glances.

"Is something wrong, sir?" one of them asked.

"We've got a Rat on our tail," Casare squinted, "Just be careful. If any suspicious person, especially a woman, tries to hit on you, tell her to scram. Any woman coming on to us is either gonorrhea or AIDS. Be alert, and if anyone screws up, I'll throw him into the Pacific Ocean!"

The others showed embarrassed looks but still nodded vigorously under Casare's gaze.

Seeing their compliance, Fat Casare's face softened a bit.

His status had changed now.

Governorship of Northern Mexico... Head Steward.

This to some extent could now gain official recognition from certain countries.

The more people wanted to "climb" into his bed, the more cautious Casare became.

A new war had already begun!

…

Soviet Union. Rostov.

In this tranquil city, Victor "Envoy" Best was sitting in a café, lost in thought as he quietly observed the street outside.

Desolate and empty.

A gust of wind blew the garbage bags on the ground up several meters before they fell back down, leaving the city in such a state of desolation.

Should I blame the authorities for their incompetence or is it an inevitability of society?

Beneath these deserted streets lies the lamentation of the poor but also the frenzy of capital. What does Best amount to?

He considered himself a thief.

Crouching in the home of a landlord who was nearly starved to death, a home filled with gold.

Lately, he had been planning to short sell the Ruble.

He would mortgage assets to borrow US Dollars from the bank, then agree to repay the loan in Rubles. Of course, he couldn't do this alone; you had to find a "Soviet traitor."

The thief discovered that the person moving things out of the house was actually the landlord's son.

Quite the irony.

He pulled out a cigarette, lighting one for himself.

The listless receptionist at the front desk, upon hearing the lighter, lifted his head, gave a glance, then acted as if nothing had happened.

The café was on the brink of closing.

Having any customers at all was a blessing.

The reason Best was here today, however, was someone else's invitation, an Italian... who was not punctual.

He glanced at his watch; the other party was more than ten minutes late.

"Waiter, check, please," he called out, raising his hand, but just then he saw two white men entering from the door, one of whom was a short man in a blue suit...

Not tall, but those moustaches were quite sexy.

Seeing Best, he raised his hand in a familiar manner, "Mr. Best?"

"You're late, Mr. Cironimus, if it weren't for Colonel Mojakin's sake, I would have left already."

"I'm so sorry, we were... stuck in traffic." The other man smiled apologetically, yet his expression and excuse were damn fake.

The streets were so empty one could run wild, yet you talk about traffic.

Best couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity, sizing up the Italian man. The last pompous scion of the Mo Family had half their head sold off in the Black Market.

He was not a man of patience, standing up abruptly, "Sorry, I have to go home, otherwise the streets will be crowded, you know I hate crowds."

Cironimus was taken aback and looked at his bodyguard with furrowed brows, extended his hand to block Best's way.

"Since you're in a hurry, I have a lucrative business proposition for you."

"It's worth a lot!"

Earn money?

Best's eyebrows twitched; he couldn't say no to money, and asked him, "What is it?"

If the benefit was substantial enough, he would be willing to forgive the other's behavior.

"I know who you work for. I can offer you half a million US Dollars if you help me gather information on Victor."

The other man was quite direct.

NTM, shouldn't intelligence gathering be done secretly?

What kind of idiot was this?

But there was no rule stating intelligence operatives had to be smart.

The Big Bear once made an appearance; fifty novice agents fresh out of training caused a big sensation. To celebrate their graduation, they rented dozens of luxury cars and paraded them through the city recklessly, occupying lanes, honking, whistling, and even catcalling women at the side of the road.

Moreover, they hired a professional cameraman to document it all.

And in a grand finale, they uploaded the footage online.

Subsequently, they were sent to dig little cherry potatoes in Siberia, a place suitable for racing, since only bears would be drawn to the attraction.

The video was finely produced, with a flashy soundtrack and, most importantly, high definition that unveiled the young agents' faces to everyone.

Understand this.

Stupidity has no limits. (Dumbing-down novels exist because reality is truly stupid!)

Best's heart skipped a beat; he narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the man, "Whom do you serve?"

"Ministry of Internal Affairs Democratic Security Intelligence Bureau, we can help you take the position of Northern Governor…"

Italians really do love peace, even their intelligence agency has the word 'democratic'. Reflects ambition.

"You are as stupid as in the Second World War." Best cut him off, and while the other was still unresponsive, he kicked away his bodyguard, firmly held Cironimus by the neck, pressing him down on the table before he grabbed the ashtray and smashed it on the back of his head.

The bodyguard came to his senses, cried out, but was shot in the head by Best's bodyguard.

He died with a face full of shock.

You... you shoot?!

Can't handle the game!

"Ah~!!" The café staff screamed, fleeing for their lives.

Best grabbed Cironimus by the hair, pulled him to the front desk, took out a fruit knife, and with a snip, sliced off his ear. The man clutched his wound, howling in agony, "Idiot! 500,000? Do you freaking know how much I make a year?"

"A pauper trying to bribe people?"

Best got angrier as he spoke, thrusting the fruit knife into the man's right cheek, puncturing his face.

You think you can make me betray Victor with such a sorry bunch?

Anyone who teamed up with you ended up badly.

The German Army was heading to the enemy's crystal, while Italy was still hitting the surrender button in the wild, truly team sabotaging.

Moreover, they were the first European nation defeated by an African "tribe"!

Such a sorry bunch...

The Germans said they wouldn't share a bite with you even if it were poop.

"Kill him!" Best let go, and as Cironimus convulsed on the ground, he told his bodyguard.

The bodyguard nodded, pulling out the gun and firing three shots at him.

Best turned to leave but, on a whim, crouched down to search the man's pocket, pulling out an invoice.

"Uranium-238 delivery order!"

He was not a poor student, and seeing this, his eyes widened in shock, inhaling sharply. It was handwritten in Spanish.

His entire body...

Chilled to the bone!

Don't tell me... Stop messing around!

Best felt his hands trembling, looking down at Cironimus.

NMB!

What do I want with this thing!

...