Chapter 7: A Brush with Assassination

Still cornered...

Milton sighed inwardly. With a twist of his arm, he brought the Type 56 assault rifle into his hands and flipped the selector switch from safety to full-auto.

Unlike the portrayals in many films and games, the suppressive power of an automatic rifle is incomparable to that of a single-action semi-automatic pistol. Unless several people are positioned behind cover, utilizing the advantage of interlocking fields of fire, a successful counterattack is nearly impossible. The trope of a protagonist exchanging fire with enemies armed with rifles and machine guns while wielding only a small handgun is an act of pure suicide.

With his vehicle serving as cover, Milton could easily suppress the two policemen, who did not appear particularly vigilant. In any case, it was safer to assume they approached with hostile intent.

The two officers froze when they saw Milton brandish the assault rifle. They looked at the gruesome corpse on the ground, then froze again. The fierce expressions on their faces softened instantly, replaced by a touch of friendly, sycophantic smiles.

"Whoa, whoa, brother, take it easy!"

"You’re from the checkpoint, right? We just came to have a look. Here’s my badge!"

"Hell of a shot! That Yankee died like a dog, haha!"

"Exactly. Filthy Yankee, coming here to beg for scraps."

"..."

With that, they holstered their pistols to signal their goodwill. The speed of their about-face made even Milton’s movements falter for a split second. Does holding "reason" in one’s hands truly make others more reasonable?

"I am on duty. State your business," Milton said, his voice cold and indifferent. He did not let their behavior numb his senses, his rifle still leveled at them. "Now."

Simultaneously, he scrutinized their expressions, attempting to discern who they were working for. Though it mattered little; every faction seemed to want him dead anyway... ha. Milton still knew how to find dark humor to steady his nerves.

"You’re too tense. We just came to confirm the situation." The two officers took a step back, exchanged a glance, and gave a sheepish laugh. "Looks like everything’s fine. We’re heading out, heading out right now."

It wasn't that they didn't want to stall for time; they were terrified that if they delayed for even one more second, Milton would actually pull the trigger. In a place like this, the death of a cop meant nothing; the uniform provided them with no sense of security. Drug lords would openly post "Wanted" posters for police officers on the streets! A criminal putting a bounty on a cop—can you believe it?

Why risk one's life when you're just here to clock in for a paycheck? Who knew if this guy was a lunatic? For a few hundred quetzals a month, it wasn't worth dying over. The man who could race through the streets and gun down smugglers was clearly not someone to be trifled with. Those colleagues who hadn't believed it were already buried in the cemetery of the town's central church.

As they raised their hands and retreated, they took a quick, sweeping glance around.

Seeing the girl by the roadside with red, tear-filled eyes, the scattered rotten fruit on the ground, and the banknotes in Milton’s hand, the two officers’ faces lit up with grins. Their gaze toward Milton became somewhat "lewd" and "familiar," and they lowered their hands slightly.

"Relax, relax!" the officers laughed as they backed away. "When we first started, when we first did this kind of thing, we were even more nervous than you! See? We all get through it, don't we?"

"Enjoy yourself, heh heh. We won't bother you."

The unexpected turn in their attitude left Milton stunned. Did these two actually think he had taken advantage of the situation to rob the fruit stand and was planning to assault the owner's daughter? And with this assumption, they felt a sense of camaraderie? Was this the "Scum Aggregation Theorem" in action?

These two weren't here to deal with him, nor did they show any inclination to do so. It seemed they truly were just here to observe and gather intelligence. They even thought he was someone they could recruit. No blood feud? Then who were they working for? In other words, these two had likely committed their fair share of robbery, assault, and murder themselves... Thieves in uniform.

Milton’s gaze darkened, but he didn't bother to clarify. At this stage, such a misunderstanding might actually provide a layer of protection for the father and daughter. He could barely ensure his own survival; speaking carelessly would only drag the innocent into his mess.

"Wait." Milton wasn't entirely comfortable letting them leave just yet; he intended to probe them further. "I have a task that requires your assistance."

The two officers looked at each other, not agreeing immediately. "We are on official business. Tell us what it is; if it's on our way, we can help."

In this border town with no industry, the main source of income was cross-border trade. No one wanted to offend a border inspector unless absolutely necessary. But Milton was just one inspector, not the entire checkpoint. If the request was too troublesome, they would find an excuse to refuse.

Milton watched their expressions closely, pointed to Horn’s Buick, and said, word for word, "Help me drive this car back to the checkpoint. This is Officer Maynard's car. I suggest you ensure not a single scratch appears on it."

This lie didn't change the car's ultimate fate, but it could reveal useful information through their reaction. The two officers exchanged another look, hesitated slightly, then nodded. "Fine... Brandon, are you going or am I?"

The officer named Brandon glanced at the contraband drugs at Milton’s feet and said, "You go. I need to keep 'patrolling' the area... heh heh. I’m telling you, over in the old district, Old Sean’s daughter is really something!"

"Heh heh... you, you. Alright, alright, no problem."

"..."

Milton observed their expressions carefully, performing a quick deduction in his mind. If his intuition was correct, these two were likely part of Maynard’s faction. There was hesitation and suspicion, but not a hint of resistance or disdain. Moreover, they didn't seem to hold high positions; they were at the "informant" level. Otherwise, they wouldn't have been so deferential to Milton. They had likely only received orders to monitor, observe, and gather intelligence.

But why? It stood to reason that Maynard was the one with the blood feud, the one who wanted him eliminated as quickly as possible. Was he worried that Milton fleeing alone was a trap, and thus chose to proceed with caution?

There was too much missing information; he couldn't afford to guess wildly, or he would only mislead himself.

Milton shook his head slightly, pushing those thoughts aside, and tossed the car keys he’d borrowed from his colleague Horn to the officer.

Watching the two men head off in different directions, Milton carefully put away his weapon and hoisted the body onto the pickup truck. The little girl, Lia, seemed relatively calm; she should be fine.

Milton drove away, dumped the body in a secluded spot, and headed to the repair shop in town, intending to replace the shattered windshield.

He soon arrived at "Lamesia’s Car King" auto shop and pulled steadily into the service bay. The owner, seeing the foreign plates, had initially planned to gouge the customer, but upon seeing the uniform of the man in the car, he immediately extinguished such suicidal thoughts. A repair shop in a border town like this was filled with smuggled parts, illegally dismantled components, and off-the-books defective items. Engaging in such gray-market business while offending a border inspector was not a wise move.

"Officer? Broken window? Need a replacement? I guarantee it'll be as good as new from the factory!"

Milton glanced at the room full of Grade 3 contraband, chuckled, and decided to let him off the hook for now. "You have the parts?"

"Yes, yes! You're lucky. A customer ordered them last week, but he was killed by a gang on the Mexican side yesterday. They say they didn't even find a complete corpse..."

Milton had no time for pleasantries. "How much, and how long to install?"

"No charge, no charge! I'll wash the car for you while I'm at it. I'll have it done in half an hour!"

Trying to buy my favor with a piece of glass? Keep dreaming.

Milton chuckled, tossed thirty dollars onto the counter based on the panel's information, and said, "Hurry up. Get it done in twenty minutes."

The owner looked disappointed but took the money. "I guarantee your satisfaction. If there are any issues later, I'll fix it for free."

Milton nodded and stepped out of the shop, intending to open his interface to see what items he could exchange to improve his self-preservation. The enemy was closing in; optimistically, he had less than three days. By the time of his next field assignment, he would likely be ambushed...

Just then, from the direction of the border checkpoint on the town's outer highway, a series of faint, popping sounds echoed like frying beans.

*Da-da-da... da-da-da!*

*Da-da-da-da-da...*

Immediately after, at the very limit of his vision, Milton saw a fireball rise, accompanied by billowing black smoke, with car parts being tossed into the sky.

His gaze froze.

A few seconds later, a violent explosion reached his ears!

*BOOM!*