Chapter 1: The Inspector
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1994, Guatemala, San Marcos Province, Lamecia Border Checkpoint.
Most people have never heard of this country, nor do they care about its civil war, so even if a hundred people died here one day, no one would pay attention.
Of course, there are always exceptions.
On the other side of the border lies a place where even a thousand deaths would go unnoticed. And the name of this country is known to all.
Mexico.
The officers at the checkpoint also refer to it as “the northerners.”
Despite its imposing name, the “border checkpoint” in this war-torn nation receives little support from the central government and must contend with threats from the rebels. The drug lords across the border in Mexico, armed and equipped like the national defense forces, are not a force a small checkpoint can afford to provoke.
From time to time, various armed gangs show up to “shake things down.”
For survival, this little checkpoint, which even has to pay its own wages, is naturally highly corrupt.
At this moment, at the second inspection station, a tall, sturdy man with a lieutenant’s insignia on his shoulder appeared to be checking a pickup truck seriously, though in truth he was merely going through the motions.
To be honest, Milton Mins was still a bit muddled. Crossing over was one thing, but why did it have to be in 1994?
If the timing wasn’t great, why did he end up abroad?
If he had to go abroad, why not to America, but to a country he’d never even heard of—Guatemala—right on the border with Mexico? Who could handle that?
The only bit of luck amidst misfortune was that he could see information about these vehicles, and lists of contraband. This allowed him, despite lacking professional skills, to make a living and even save a little money.
[Ford F-150 Pickup]
[Detected level-three contraband (green): shredded meat sandwich]
[Detected level-two contraband (yellow): tobacco products]
[No level-one contraband (red) detected]
As long as he enforced the rules, collected taxes, and confiscated contraband, he could earn points and exchange them for various rewards.
In a place where disputes are settled with gunfire, enforcing the law and playing the role of justice was obviously dangerous—he could disappear from the world any day.
Luckily, the panel had no mandatory tasks, so Milton could set a flexible “justice” baseline.
Sigh, enforcing the law... Useless system, stopping me from advancing!
Milton muttered to himself, knocked on the window, and shouted to the driver inside, “Eat your sandwich before you go, you’re not bringing it in. And that smoke—everyone at the checkpoint can smell it. Hand over everything, no tricks.”
He touched the SW Model 29 Magnum revolver (Smith & Wesson M29) at his waist as he spoke.
The driver’s face twisted in pain; he couldn’t understand how two packs of smuggled cigarettes could be discovered. “Sir, this...”
Milton tapped the door with the butt of his gun, interrupting, “Either I stamp ‘entry refused’ and let your fruit rot in the truck, or you hand over the contraband and pay the tax in full. I won’t repeat myself.”
“Yes, sir... sigh.”
The driver, crestfallen, opened the glove box and handed over two packs of cigarettes along with a few bills totaling 50 quetzales.
Milton took the cigarettes and cash, didn’t trouble these small-time survivors, and stamped the documents for passage. “Alright, take your papers—and nice truck.”
The 50 quetzales were the checkpoint’s taxes; the confiscated cigarettes became the inspector’s “legal income.”
At first, Milton was uneasy doing this, but now he was quite adept.
As soon as this truck was cleared, a Latin man in a cowboy hat, looking like an old West American, called out to him.
“Hey, Milton. The chief wants you in his office—someone else will take over here.”
Then he saw the cigarette box in Milton’s hand, and his voice caught in his throat.
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“Cohiba Shorts?! Damn, premium Cuban stuff! How do you always manage to find these gems? That little box of cigars would fetch at least ten dollars on the black market.”
Ten dollars was no small sum here in 1994.
Cigars? I thought they were just cigarettes... Milton, who knew nothing about tobacco, opened a box, followed his colleague—Horn—toward the chief’s office, offering him one.
Such small gestures went a long way in building relationships, even if only superficially.
“Sergeant Horn, do you have some news for me?”
Sure enough, Horn glanced around, hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Milton... Hey, listen, you seized a car from the Vancon gang earlier. They bribed Inspector Maynard, and they won’t let it go. I’ve heard someone wants you to pay the price.”
Maynard... Vancon gang... Sigh, here we go again.
Half a month ago, just after Milton crossed over, he was checking vehicles as usual. When he saw a car covered in red and yellow contraband warnings, he nearly laughed out loud.
A colleague, seemingly friendly, joked that the car and driver didn’t look problematic.
That colleague was Inspector Maynard... Unfortunately, Milton, fresh from crossing over and short on cash, didn’t catch the hint and, in front of everyone, confiscated every piece of contraband in the vehicle.
Later, Milton learned that the driver had drunk too much and missed the pre-arranged, bribed checkpoint.
Veteran Maynard came to smooth things over, but was humiliated by the new guy, losing all face.
That car belonged to the local armed Vancon gang.
A gang that rose from the chaos of Mexico’s Zapatista uprising.
Milton’s confiscations had cost both Maynard’s team and Vancon dearly!
They were notorious for taking revenge.
Vancon’s thugs had shot at a congressman who criticized them and caused dozens of casualties in a massacre. Maynard had made a colleague who offended him “disappear.”
A female inspector who confiscated Vancon’s goods was raped and fed to dogs after work the next day; her mangled corpse was dismembered and hung from a traffic light, her head mailed to her husband and children.
No doubt, their threats were a naked death sentence!
Fortunately, the checkpoint chief had some authority, and Milton had stayed inside, avoiding retaliation for now.
But danger was looming... Milton needed a plan.
...
As they approached the chief’s office, a round-faced, friendly white man with a healthy red glow on his neck pushed the door open.
He wore the rank of sergeant.
Maynard.
Fate’s cruel joke!
Maynard paused, then gave a wrinkled smile, glancing at Milton’s cigarette box. “Sir, looks like another clueless fool tried to slip past your eagle eyes?”
Far trickier than a straightforward enemy...
The lieutenant’s insignia was clearly bought for the inspector position, lacking any real weight or respect in this remote place.
“The chief wants you; I won’t keep you. Milton, take care of your health! Haha...”
He waved amiably and got into his car—which, to Milton’s eyes, was nearly covered in red alerts!
Among a heap of level-one contraband, only a few cars could be found.
If not for the system, Milton would have thought Maynard was offering an olive branch.
Such an enemy was too dangerous... He needed to strike first, before Maynard’s plans matured!
And the sooner the better!
Otherwise, it would be a slow death.
“Don’t let him fool you—I’ve been burned before,” Horn whispered, taking a drag. “He’s not as magnanimous as he looks.”
“I know,” Milton replied, turning his gaze. “You take care, too.”
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Horn savored his smoke, glanced at the silver pocket watch confiscated from a smuggler, and said, “I’ll go back on patrol. I won’t freeload your cigarettes—tonight I’ll treat you to your favorite Chinese food!”
He jogged back to the outpost to resume patrol.
Damn it, there’s only American-style Chinese food in town; even dogs wouldn’t eat it unless it’s buy-one-get-one-free!
Milton grumbled inwardly, then knocked on the chief’s office door.
“Come in.”
He dusted off his clothes, entered, and gave a simple salute. “Captain Varta, good afternoon!”
Captain Varta, the checkpoint chief, was a not particularly tall or large, middle-aged man with a powerful voice, fond of speeches, and often showed a sense of justice in handling matters.
Milton had checked Varta’s car—it was spotless, not a single contraband item, unlike Maynard’s car, which was covered in red and yellow alerts.
To be honest, Milton planned to gradually, by subtle hints, lay his cards on the table with Varta about Maynard’s misdeeds.
Recently, Milton had displayed remarkable talent for apprehending smugglers and confiscating goods, demonstrating his value.
Even the most righteous need incentive; Milton was not naive enough to rely solely on the chief’s conscience to get rid of Maynard.
“You’ve done excellent work lately.” Chief Varta smiled at the tobacco in Milton’s hand and waved him to sit, speaking kindly. “Those hiding spots for contraband that even veteran inspectors can’t find, you spot immediately!”
“It’s my duty, sir.” Milton handed over the taxes from his pocket to Varta. “Here’s today’s collection; please check it.”
Varta casually took the money, stuffed it in a drawer, and waved his hand. “I heard you’ve had some disagreements with colleagues. Would you like a different post? Same pay, your talents won’t be wasted, and it’ll be easier for you.”
A transfer? Away from the enemy?
Just what he needed!
Getting out from under the enemy’s nose was a perfect way to buy time—Milton couldn’t refuse.
He was about to agree when suddenly the office door was pushed open.
A stranger Milton had never seen inside the checkpoint entered without knocking, glanced at Milton, and saluted Varta.
“Sir, your scheduled meeting is about to begin. The driver has brought your car; are you ready to depart?”
Varta smiled kindly. “No rush, wait for me outside. I need to give some instructions to this young man... You know, the youth are our future—their affairs are more important than anything.”
“Yes, sir!”
With that, the man turned and left, brushing past Milton’s shoulder.
Milton, curious, watched as the man climbed into a formidable Hummer.
Then his gaze froze.
The Hummer... was packed with level-one red contraband!
Among them, he spotted a familiar label.
[Level-one contraband: Vancon Gang-Lamecia Checkpoint Mutual Aid Agreement (illegal document)]
Vancon Gang!
The very gang threatening his life!
And the secret agreement was between the checkpoint and the gang—not with an individual.
Here, the only one who could represent the checkpoint...
Seeing Varta’s kindly smile, Milton felt icy dread creep through him.
Damn... So I landed in a den of villains? Everyone’s a criminal?!
ps: The local currency exchange rate is roughly equal to the RMB; not much difference.