Working as a police officer in Mexico

True "sweep crime."

"It's that chaotic, huh."

"The mayor is a member of the Aryan Brotherhood."

The taxi driver came with another explosive piece of news.

Casare scratched his head, a world of magical realism.

Now he had seen everything but ghosts.

"Who do you support?"

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, laughed, "I support money. Fighting doesn't do me any good, right?"

Casare nodded, the driver was right. Explore stories on empire

As they chatted, they arrived in the U.S. Military Retired Center in downtown Detroit. It should be called the Military Retirement and Job Reintegration Center.

Just as he was getting out of the car, the driver stuck his head out, "Sir, be careful. I have a bad feeling lately. Don't get caught up in this; Detroit is beyond saving."

Casare was taken aback, and impulsively, he handed out his business card, "If you're in danger, call me. You take care too."

The driver took the card, stuffed it into the crevice of the car, and with a smile, made an OK sign, "God bless you!"

With that, he pushed the gas pedal and took off.

"Victor bless you," Casare murmured to himself, then with a glance behind, he walked into the retirement center with his people.

Outside, banners and signs were hanging.

Inside, there were already exhibition halls, and people armed to the teeth were standing on display.

"Which company are you with?" A sergeant in U.S. Military uniform came over with a smile, dimples on her cheeks, looking very nice.

Casare looked at her, taking an extra moment.

"Mexican Foreign Legion," his colleague spoke up.

The sergeant flipped through the location map in her hand, "C—21, please follow me, it's inside."

Leading the way, she looked cute, and her figure... was nice.

"Here it's divided into A, B, and C sections. A section is closest to the entrance, with higher visibility, and C section is the worst. I saw companies like Military Professional Resources Inc. (MPRI), SCG International Risk, and big U.S. arms manufacturers like Colt, Lockheed Martin, Raytheon Company, Grumman Corporation, and Northrop Corporation in the A section, almost a dozen companies."

"Arms companies also need people?" Casare was surprised.

"They also have PMC companies that maintain their interests abroad," a colleague from the joint operations department apparently knew more, "But they mostly recruit special forces, even retired generals, to satisfy their interest transmissions."

Casare slowly nodded, looking at A section, where indeed the big companies' exhibition halls were very "stylish," obviously of higher status.

"If A section is backed by a country, B section mostly consists of large private organizations, like South Africa EO Company, the UK's Control Risks, and Erinys International registered in the British Virgin Islands."

"Erinys means goddess of revenge, that one there," his colleague pointed to an exhibition hall in the side of B section, with a sculpture of the goddess drawn on it.

Looked... like something out of anime?

"They all look so professional," Casare remarked.

"The oldest British PMC company has been established for 200 years, they are all professional military experts inside, B section has about forty companies."

"And C section..."

No need to explain, Casare had already seen it for himself.

C section was TMD without exhibition halls, just booths.

Like those at job fairs.

Going down that row, NMD, there were hundreds!

"Most here are private companies that were invited or submitted applications on their own," the leading sergeant looked back and explained.

Casare frowned, "We're representing Mexico."

"That one's from Malaysia, that's Colombia, there's South Africa, and that one... Ethiopia," the sergeant pointed to some booths in the distance.

Though it sounded like an introduction, why did it feel humiliating?

Fuck!

It's all because Emperor hasn't risen to power yet.

Once in power, straight to A section.

If you're going to be a dog, be the king of dogs.

Casare held back, what else could he do?

"Your spot is over here, next to Spain."

Putting Mexico next to Spain?

Are you not looking for trouble?

Casare was visibly confused. Are you trying to make us fight?

It's like putting the Soviet Union next to the RB.

Germany with Italy.

But it was arranged by the Americans, so Casare could only hold his nose and agree, following the sergeant toward a more remote corner.

And then he witnessed a scene that left him stunned.

His booth was knocked over, and a white guy was vigorously stomping on the national flag.

"What's going on here?" Casare shouted to the sergeant.

She was a bit embarrassed, "Don't worry, I'll ask. We're short-staffed, it's probably a misunderstanding."

A white man at the nearby Spanish booth was clapping and laughing, obviously acquainted with the flag-stomping guy.

And many others watched as if it were a joke.

"Ask! Ask TMDB!" Casare lost it, rushing forward, leaped with a side kick, knocking the guy down with one blow, and began forcefully ramming his head into the ground while sitting on top of him.

"Hey! What are you doing! Asshole! What are you doing!" Another Spaniard stood up and went to choke Casare's neck.

The bodyguard wanted to rush forward, but Casare shouted at him, "Don't... don't fight! I got this!"

With a few hits, Casare knocked the man under him unconscious. He couldn't take the weight.

He then grabbed the hair of the Spaniard behind him and executed a flashy overhead throw!

"Wow!" A black guy in the crowd whistled and clapped.