Chapter 2: I've Turned Over a New Leaf, Please Spare Me

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The station chief was also part of the problem! No, more accurately, the station chief was likely the problem itself.

After the initial shock, Milton calmed down and thought it through carefully, surprisingly finding it quite reasonable...

Could Maynard, an ordinary inspector, really be organizing factions, colluding with criminal gangs, and engaging in rampant corruption right under the station chief’s nose without being discovered?

In a checkpoint where corruption was rampant, was it really possible for the station chief to be completely clean?

Milton finally saw his current situation clearly.

There was no one to rely on, no one to trust.

What was even worse... since the station chief, Warta, was colluding with the Vankang gang, how could he not conveniently eliminate Milton to gain another bargaining chip at the negotiation table?

Fortunately, Milton hadn’t revealed his plan just now.

Otherwise... it was likely that within minutes after he spoke, Maynard would have received the intelligence.

A chill ran down Milton’s spine.

Warta’s tone remained gentle, seemingly genuinely concerned about the “young man’s future,” even willing to delay important meetings for this: “It’s all for the checkpoint’s work, to serve the people. It’s good to transfer you two away, don’t you think?”

Every word was filled with concern.

Every look and expression was kind.

Who would have imagined that such a senior figure, just minutes ago, might have been smiling maliciously while discussing how to cut off his head!

“Really! That’s great!” Milton forced himself to look happy. “Honestly, I also feel very regretful about what happened before.”

When you are still weak, sometimes you have to play the humble subordinate.

Give the other side the illusion that you are honest and begging for mercy.

Warta slowly put away the items on the table and took out a form: “Take a look, these are the positions currently lacking personnel.”

“You could guard those detained smugglers. If you’re lucky, you might get some information. Before I was the chief, a colleague got rich that way.”

“There’s also here... you can assist with handling dangerous contraband. If you’re smart enough, you can make a lot of money.”

“...”

Milton quickly scanned the form. Most of the positions, though seemingly away from Maynard, were still completely under the station chief’s control upon closer inspection.

No, none of these posts were acceptable.

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At that moment, Milton noticed a position with many vacancies.

“Sir, what does the Customs Recovery Officer do?”

Due to the Guatemalan civil war and the distance from the central government, this checkpoint was largely out of government control. It had become a sort of “tax farming” private contract station, where most positions and ranks were unofficial and chaotic to the point of being incomprehensible.

In other words, the station chief arranged positions as he pleased, regardless of official designations.

Warta frowned: “That position... let me put it this way, we occasionally discover people who passed the checkpoint but didn’t fully pay their taxes.”

“The Recovery Officer is responsible for pursuing those unpaid taxes.”

“Milton, I must warn you, it’s a very boring and arduous job. No one knows where those people are hiding, and searching for them wastes a lot of time. Also, no one knows what dangers might be encountered when collecting the tax; many smugglers are armed.”

“In fact, no one at the checkpoint fully performs this job. They keep busy inside and only go out every few days.”

Poor, overworked, and dangerous—this thankless task was always given to those marginalized at the checkpoint.

But Milton saw a glimmer of hope in this position!

Going out every few days meant a chance to completely escape the watchful eyes inside the station.

Being assigned here meant that at least his colleagues were not the station chief’s spies or Maynard’s allies.

Moreover... system points earned from normal tax collection equaled the value of the amount collected; confiscated contraband of three different levels yielded two, three, or four times the points.

But taxes and contraband recovered through pursuit earned a whopping five times the points.

High risk, but high reward!

What others viewed as poor and busy work held promise for Milton.

With the system’s help, pursuing these “smugglers” was far easier than normal because Milton could exchange points for leads, weapons, armor, and basic attributes...

With firepower up, there was no danger.

If there was danger, it meant the firepower wasn’t strong enough yet.

“Sounds like a job full of honor,” Milton smiled, handing over the packet of intact cigarettes. “I want to give it a try.”

According to checkpoint rules, contraband like tobacco, alcohol, or similar second- and third-level prohibited items could be kept by inspectors as spoils of war.

Only weapons, narcotics, and the like needed to be turned over to the checkpoint.

Warta, full of righteous concern, pushed the cigarette pack back with a serious expression: “Is this some prank of yours? Don’t joke about work, and don’t joke with your life.”

His hypocritical expression was more nauseating than the syrup-soaked General Tso’s chicken at an American-Chinese restaurant...

“No, sir,” Milton imitated the station chief’s righteous demeanor and shook his head. “If we let these smugglers go, their stories of getting rich through crime will quickly spread across the region.”

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“Even if we seize most contraband, the voices of these few survivors will still inspire many others to commit crimes... I once read in a book that scholars call this the ‘survivorship bias.’”

In a place like this, even middle school knowledge could easily baffle most people.

Warta furrowed his brows, taking a while before he finally grasped the meaning of the phrase.

“I see.” He relaxed his brow and got up with a smile, patting Milton on the shoulder. “Indeed, we cannot allow the ‘survivors’ to exist. Very good, very good—that’s the spirit of youth.”

“Then, from now on, you’ll go out every two days to investigate. The rest of the time, you’ll do your original duties inside the station. I’ll approve the search warrants for you. For such a dangerous task, one pistol isn’t enough. Later, go to the armory and pick out a new weapon. Just say I authorized it.”

Milton quietly took back the cigarette pack and straightened up to salute: “Yes, sir!”

Warta tore his gaze away from the pack and smiled kindly: “Good, get to work.”

After leaving, Milton walked to the nearby armory filled with old weapons.

What came next was simple—check taxes, earn points, exchange for weapons, build power, and then take down that damn station chief!

He glanced at the array of weapons from all over the world, sighed, and took out a familiar gun, inspecting its mechanical parts based on his previous knowledge.

Old, heavily worn, but still usable.

Just then, Horn, patrolling nearby, came up from behind and nodded approvingly: “Haha! I knew you’d pick the AK-47—real man’s choice! Only women use those ARs.”

Milton grabbed three magazines, strapped them on his waist, signed the registry, and replied: “Screw you, it’s a Type 56.”

In this poor, rundown place, how could he get a genuine AK-47?

Getting a Type 56 made in East China or Peshawar was already good enough.

At least it was sturdy and reliable, more practical in harsh environments than American or European weapons.

Actually, the Swedish M45 submachine gun was quite good too, but unfortunately, Milton couldn’t find one among this heap of junk.

Besides, ARs or M16s are good guns too, right?

Just as Milton picked up the gun, an old Toyota Hilux SR5 pickup truck pulled up outside the checkpoint and stopped at Milton’s inspection post.

Horn glanced at the vehicle, took a drag of his cigarette, and mocked, “This falling-apart junk? I bet there’s nothing left to gain.”

However, Milton’s gaze lingered slightly, and he shook his head gently: “Not necessarily.”