Taxes are only within machine gun range!

Chapter 123 Have you heard? This place is full of gold.

San Marcos.

As the largest city in the San Marcos province, it is equally chaotic, with many people unable to afford food, only the slums are larger.

At that moment, a rusty Toyota pickup truck emerged from the slum road and wobbled towards the town of Malakham.

After some time, they arrived at the edge of a grove of trees some distance outside the town.

Today is their day of fortune, their day of freedom.

The driver, wearing a faded, cheap tactical vest, opened the door and got out. He kicked the door hard, took out his revolver, wiped it carefully, and checked the pistol to make sure it was still working properly and wouldn't misfire.

"Wake up! We're almost there!"

Inside a pickup truck, six people were huddled together, and even with the windows wide open, the stench of sweat was still unbearable.

“Save your energy, Sanchez.” The veteran in the passenger seat exhaled chewed tobacco, his eyelids twitching unnaturally. “Milton isn’t a cowboy; he’s not going to have a Western-style duel with you.”

The youngest boy, with the fiercest eyes, held a newspaper and spoke with greed in his voice: "A total of $700 million in bounty! If we can get this money, we'll be the best of the best! Maybe we can all get a U.S. green card!"

“Look at the recent newspaper reports. How many people have successfully hijacked Milton’s convoy, made a lot of money, escaped the gang, and fled to America.”

"This is our golden land!"

Sanchez pushed the bullets into the magazine one by one, and said hoarsely, "Don't be careless. So many people want this seven million, but so far, the bounty hasn't changed. What does that mean? It means that no one has succeeded so far."

"Moreover, we can't possibly get the entire 700 million bounty; at most, we can only get a small portion."

“But someone almost succeeded, don’t you all read the newspapers? Milton was cursing him out in the newspapers… That guy named Brandon is still in the hospital today, and he was only out of danger yesterday.”

“That’s enough,” the boy said excitedly. “Even he has a $50 bounty! As long as I get that money, I… I will…”

He talked for a long time, but couldn't think of anything to do.

Because the amount of this huge sum of money was beyond his imagination.

"Haha, a little fledgling! Can't figure it out, can you?"

"I can't think of anything!" The boy's eyes held a ruthlessness that shouldn't have appeared at his age. "I'm going to the red-light district of Guatemala City. I have endless money, and I want to play with the most beautiful women!"

"Idiot! You don't even know how to spend money." The man in the passenger seat continued chewing his tobacco and cursed, "Let me teach you how to save money. You shouldn't go directly to the red-light district to spend money. Instead, you should take a fancy to someone and force her to sleep with you. It would be best to play her to death."

"That way her family will call the police, and then you can bribe the police to put the person who called the police in jail... Then you can have their daughter for free forever, hahaha! She definitely won't dare to call the police again!"

"Silly boy, do you know how to spend money now? Hahaha!!!"

"This is advice from someone who's been there. Learn it well, you'll have plenty to learn in the future."

"..."

Imagining the wonderful life after making a fortune, the group had rested and prepared enough.

Sanchez glanced at the town in the distance, shook the "bounty" poster in his hand, and said, "Our target today is the hospital, and this Brandon."

“Milton has been under attack for almost half a month. He must be exhausted and constantly on the run. This is the best time for us to make our move.”

"The reason we didn't make a move at first was to let those cannon fodder wear down Milton's strength... Heh, our colleagues are really too stupid. Did they really think that such a high bounty would be awarded to the first come, first served?"

"Let's go!"

After getting some fresh air, the bounty hunters got back into the car, hid their guns, and arrived at the entrance to the town.

After Flora's military transformation, the roads leading into the town now have multiple layers of sentry posts—hidden sentries are hidden in every corner, and the visible sentries are also made of reinforced concrete. From the outside, you can't even see people; you can only see a bunch of real and fake firing ports.

There are electrically operated lifting concrete blocks at the intersection, which do not affect pedestrians' entry and exit, but it is not so easy for vehicles to enter and exit.

But the people in the car didn't think so.

"Sure enough, they're incredibly nervous right now... Let me tell you, the more Milton acts like this, the more it shows he's all bark and no bite."

"Our operation had a very high success rate!"

"Hey!" Sanchez chuckled, sticking his head out. "Hey bro, can we go in?"

A police officer in uniform, with dark circles under his eyes, carefully walked over, holding an armored shield, and asked, "Who are you people? What are you doing here?"

“We’re from San Marcos. We’ve heard there are lots of jobs here, gold everywhere, so we came to try our luck… Praise be to the ‘Hell’s Tax Collectors’! We promise we’ll pay our taxes.”

With that, Sanchez pulled out an envelope stuffed with several hundred guilders, handed it over, and said in a low voice, "Hey, sir, listen to me... we've brought some bootlegging, nothing valuable, but can you let us through without checking?"

The officer weighed the envelope in his hand, a hint of reluctance on his face, but he still turned his head, raised his arm, and waved it rhythmically three or four times.

With this action, the concrete block was slowly lowered—meaning they could now enter the town.

"Thanks you!"

As Sanchez expressed his gratitude, he rolled up the window. After leaving the checkpoint, he sneered and said, "Just as I thought, Milton's finances are on the verge of collapse after being robbed for half a month. We can easily bribe any officer, and that's the evidence."

"He probably can't even afford to pay the police officers' salaries right now!"

The boy, eager to earn the money, excitedly asked, "Shall we go straight to the hospital now?"

Sanchez retorted, "Are you stupid? Didn't you see all those police officers along the way? We just got here, saying we were looking for work and selling bootleggings, why would we go straight to a hospital? Milton has lived this long, do you think he's stupid?"

"Of course we'll go to the bar first, then sneak into the hospital at night and catch them off guard. Maybe we can even take a couple of nurses with us, haha!"

“You can find out a lot of information in places like this—you know, people who drink are most likely to accidentally say something.”

Soon, the seven drove to the old street, got out of the car, and went into a bar.

Sanchez pulled out a handful of coins, piled them on the bar, and said boldly, "Give us each an ice-cold beer to soothe our throats!"

The bartender glanced at them and asked, "Out-of-towners? Just beer? How about some strong whiskey, something a man should drink?"

"Tomorrow, tomorrow!" Sanchez chuckled. "We still have some business to do tonight, you understand? How can we get an erection if we're drunk? Everyone knows you can't go to bed when your brain is clouded by alcohol."

For some reason, a hint of heartache appeared in the bartender's eyes, but he still nodded and said, "Oh, okay... just a moment, I'll go to the refrigerator in the back to get you some ice-cold beer."

He quickly turned around and went to the back, seemingly to prepare drinks.

A few minutes later, the bartender arrived with a bottle of beer full of steam and several glasses filled with ice.

He poured each glass of beer with barely any enthusiasm and said, "Gentlemen, ice-cold beer."

Sanchez picked up a glass full of bubbles and praised, "Beautiful bubbles, your beer is of very good quality... But why do you look so listless?"

The bartender looked at his glass with a strange expression: "Uh, because, I lost some money, I guess."

"What's there to be afraid of!" Sanchez downed his drink in one gulp and laughed heartily. "Brother, Malacan is full of opportunities and gold, isn't it?"

The bartender looked at his face, seemingly enduring something, and after three or four seconds he reluctantly nodded and said, "Yes, sir, you are right. There is indeed gold everywhere here, as far as I can see."

Sanchez nodded and put down his cup: "Hahaha! Believe me, you'll definitely make a fortune. I've heard that many people who come here have made a lot of money and gone to America to realize their American dream!"

"...Hmm, this beer of yours is pretty strong? Interesting, I'll have another one..."

Before he finished speaking, another man walked into the tavern, knocked on the table, and called out to the bartender.

"A glass of whiskey, please!"

The bartender turned around, nodded, and said, "Okay, Mr. Brandon, please wait a moment."

A slightly dazed Sanchez instinctively turned his head and said, "Dude, here for drinks too? A regular customer..."

As he spoke, Sanchez suddenly felt something was off. He felt like he'd seen that face somewhere before, heard that name somewhere before…

Is it an illusion...

When the thought flashed through his somewhat dazed mind, he suddenly snapped back to reality—the instinctive alertness of someone whose life was under severe threat was triggered.

The man's face and name next to them—hadn't they appeared on the bounty poster in their hands?!
Before entering the town, the group had seen the bounty poster!
Wait a minute, didn't Milton confidently state in the newspaper that Brandon was seriously injured, had just been pulled out of danger, and was still unconscious in the hospital?!
Didn't Milton strongly condemn the bounty hunters who carried out the attack?
Why is Brandon here now, even having the leisure to order a drink, without showing any signs of injury?
Sanchez's mind was already foggy, and he couldn't think too much, but his subconscious told him that something was wrong, very wrong.

Then, he collapsed to the ground with a thud, his whole body weak and sore.

In his field of vision, the other members of the squad also fell to the ground one by one, motionless.

Brandon, sitting on a high stool, sighed. "I told you they wouldn't order whiskey, didn't you believe me? Fine, give me a dollar, this is what you owe me for losing."

The bartender sighed, "Mr. Matteo's judgment isn't always so accurate!"

"Isn't this medicine too strong? Won't they die?"

"Probably not. That was flunitrazepam personally prepared by the hospital director. He said it can cause confusion and temporary amnesia, and it works very well."

“Sigh…” Brandon shook his head. “I don’t know what those bounty hunters were thinking. Three days ago, those guys didn’t even have knives and they still dared to fight back, forcing us to kill two people and lose a full $6000.”

After that incident, the slave-catching team updated its methods to try to capture all the enemies alive, so as to sell them for a good price.

Finding a way to administer the medicine is a product of this updated approach.

The bartender, wiping his glasses, sighed, "You have no idea what that idiot just said. I lost a dollar and wasn't in a good mood, and he actually comforted me by saying there was gold everywhere in town... Holy crap, I almost burst out laughing, you know?"

"Of course there's gold everywhere! Right in front of me are seven talking, drinking, and joking gold diggers..."

"Going to America to realize the American Dream... Well, that's not entirely untrue. Being sold to America as a corpse counts as going to America."

"..."

Sanchez, lying on the ground, heard it all clearly and was filled with extreme terror—

Even a fool could tell from this conversation that the bounty hunters had been tricked; it was a trap, a trap from beginning to end!

Milton lured the bounty hunters in, then sold them off!

Brandon was not injured at all, and Milton was not as weak as they had imagined.

But... when was it exposed?!
Sanchez thought about it for a long time, but still couldn't figure out which step went wrong.

Just then, a series of hurried footsteps were heard, and a large group of police officers entered the bar and handcuffed the people who were lying on the ground.

In the line, he saw the police officer who had just taken his envelope.

There were traces of ink smeared around his eyes, which he then wiped away.

"It was exposed from the very beginning?"

But regardless of his thoughts, they were roughly thrown onto slave wagons and then moved away.

Brandon tapped on the bar, stood up, and said, "You can keep this drink for now. I still need to report to Mr. 'Godfather'."

"Okay, take care, Director!"

"..."

Ten minutes later, Milton's office door was pushed open.

Milton looked up at him and asked, "How was the day? How many people did you catch?"

Brandon laughed and said, "Seven of them, after deducting costs, will probably yield a profit of $20000."

Milton said, "That's not bad... but we've been doing this for over a month now. Even if Lopez and Lyman are really two pigs, they'll have figured something out by now."

"Next, they might test us a bit."

Milton's original plan was to conduct triangular trade for two months, earn $1 million, then take down Lyman's checkpoint, seize the funds, and build an airport.

But the bridge-blowing operation had an unexpected effect; Lyman, in desperation, actually offered to concede to Milton.

Now, a month has passed and he has already earned nearly $80, which is not far from his goal of $100 million.

Brandon agreed with Milton's assessment, nodding and saying, "We'll be careful from now on, and we'll earn as much as we can."

"Taking Lyman's checkpoint will be a tough battle," Milton said slowly. "Even with all our advantages, we are still on the offensive. If the other side reacts even slightly faster, a protracted battle is inevitable."

"Air superiority is an unparalleled advantage, but air superiority alone cannot win a war; ultimately, it still depends on the occupation by the army."

"There may be casualties, but a fighting force must be tempered by blood and fire."

Brandon patted his chest confidently: "Boss, don't worry, those three new instructors are indeed very experienced in combat, and our soldiers are fully prepared for battle."

“Logistics is the most important thing.” Milton tapped the table. “If it really turns into a protracted war, logistical support will be the most crucial thing. We must not only maintain our own logistics, but also cut off the enemy’s logistics.”

Warfare is largely about logistics.

"Boss, don't worry, everyone knows this now."

Milton nodded again: "As of today, excluding our core team, how many people are currently in combat readiness? I need an exact number."

"A total of 125 men," Brandon reported. "They've already learned basic infantry-tank coordination and infantry-artillery coordination!"

"Come on, you think you can learn true infantry-tank coordination in a month?" Milton shook his head. "They only need to understand one principle—the artillery bombards from behind, the armored vehicles push from the front, and the infantry charge from behind—and they can sweep away the vast majority of enemies."

True combined arms warfare is a systematic operation, and very few countries in the world can do it—including most of the countries in NATO.

Even the IDF, yes, the "heavenly soldiers" IDF are not very good at infantry-tank coordination.

If Milton's troops truly mastered these tactics, they would be able to defeat no army in the entire Americas except the U.S. military.

For example, Tanzania doesn't know much about combined arms tactics, but it uses the simplest tactics of artillery bombardment, armored vehicles pushing forward, and infantry following up, which is enough to make one of the most powerful coalitions in Africa (Uganda + Zambia + Libya) cry out in pain.

Who taught them this trick?
That's right, China.

Milton didn't think he could outperform his homeland's professional instructors, so he didn't expect to teach them anything about infantry-tank coordination; he just needed to replicate his homeland's successful experience.

Latin American armies and African armies are basically on the same level.

"Take me to see my troops."

Just as Milton got up, a notification suddenly appeared on his panel.

[The host's informant has died and has been removed from the allies list.]

[The host's informant has died and has been removed from the allies list.]

Ok?
Upon closer inspection, Milton discovered that the fallen informant was a remnant of the resistance... It seemed they had begun attacking government forces, attempting to break through the encirclement and return to their base.

One can imagine how intense the battle was; even with equipment support, it would be difficult for them to avoid casualties.

But at least their efforts finally had meaning.

Brandon saw Milton standing there, stunned, and asked, "Boss, what's wrong?"

"It's okay, let's go...we're about to start fighting too."

(End of this chapter)