Taxes are only within machine gun range!

Chapter 46 What kind of gun is this?!
The first interviewee had a South American face, with dark skin, and at first glance, he looked quite healthy.

Milton nodded slightly. "Let me introduce myself. I believe you already know my requirements."

"I served in the 2nd Infantry Brigade of the Guatemalan Army as a sergeant. I have just been discharged and have frontline experience. I am proficient in using rifles, including Soviet and NATO weapons. With guidance, I can also try to learn how to use other types of weapons."

You guys treat going to the front lines like it's a joke...

Don't think I don't know that what you call a civil war is actually the massacre of civilians in the resistance zones; it's a massacre.

But there's nothing more to ask for... Milton sighed and nodded, indicating, "Continue."

Number One thought for a moment and said, "I want $400 a month, or a base salary of 3500 ghats. I also need at least $100 in combat allowance for each battle I participate in. If it's an obviously suicide mission, I have the right to refuse."

"And I'm asking you to advance my first month's salary... no, my first week's salary, is that alright?"

The requirements are reasonable, but the price seems quite cheap?

Milton was naturally wary of the word "cheap," so he didn't rush to agree. Instead, he carefully examined the first interviewee once more.

This time, he noticed something was wrong.

Number One's fingers were twitching slightly uncontrollably, and his breath had a distinctly artificial fragrance when he spoke, but his gums had an abnormal color.

A guess immediately came to Milton's mind.

Contrary to popular belief, those emaciated drug addicts who appear to collapse at any moment and resemble zombies are actually nearing the end of their lives.

In the early and even middle stages, as long as the addiction doesn't recur, many addicts don't look much different from normal people.

No wonder he asked for an advance on his salary; he was in a hurry for the money!

Milton blurted out, "You do drugs?!"

The first interviewee's expression changed drastically. He immediately became flustered and even stammered, "I, I..."

Milton immediately confirmed his suspicions and his expression turned serious: "Sorry, my team does not accept drug addicts."

The man's expression immediately turned ashen. He sighed, got up dejectedly, and left.

Before leaving, he couldn't help but turn around and say, "I... I didn't actually intend to use those drugs. It was the army... they wanted to maintain our energy levels. By the time I found out, it was too late, and there was nothing I could do."

Milton stopped eating his noodles and said seriously, "I believe you. But I believe even more that when withdrawal hits, all humanity will cease to exist."

The first interviewee left disappointed.

Five or six minutes later, the second interviewee arrived—they were a mercenary group consisting of five people.

The leader of the five men walked over and shook hands with Milton: "Hello, I am the commander of the Mantis Legion."

His T-shirt was faded and patched... and he smelled strongly of blood.

I can't think of any problems for now.

Milton's questions were the same few, and the commander answered them very well... such as the division of labor among the team members, their weapons and equipment, and so on.

Moreover, they don't need to receive advance payments; they only need to be paid weekly.

It looks pretty good?

Milton pondered for a moment, and just like last time, he scrutinized the commander's clothes and appearance again, trying to find some small details.

They had a rather exquisite-looking human figure pendant hanging from their chests... Judging from their clothing, they weren't in a very good financial situation, so why would they buy such an ornament?

Milton glanced out the window and noticed that the other four people also had pendants around their necks. Although he couldn't make out the details, he guessed they were the same style as the leader's.
Number Two continued his rambling: "Our corps is highly experienced; our most senior members participated in the 1982 offensive against Kiche province and achieved significant results..."

“Wait a minute, if I may ask,” Milton interrupted Number Two, who was still introducing himself, “Do you have any religious beliefs? Catholic? Orthodox?”

The leader immediately became serious and corrected, "No, our faith is primitive voodoo."

Holy crap, they actually believe in a cult! And it looks like a deeply modified, even more evil, voodoo cult!
Milton already kept his distance from fanatical religious figures, let alone cultists.

His acceptance limit extends only to the secular church.

No one else is allowed to join his team.

Moreover, the so-called 1982 Battle of Kiche Province was in fact an atrocity against civilians that killed tens of thousands of people... The cultists intensified the massacre, aren't these people actually terrorists?

Only a madman would recruit a group of terrorists into his team.

Milton immediately refused them with a seemingly reasonable reason: "I'm sorry, I believe in God, and I cannot work directly with you."

Since most people here are more or less Catholic, Milton's excuse for refusing was perfectly reasonable.

Those who have been brainwashed by cults are even less likely to have any doubts.

The regimental commander's face showed a hint of anger. He snorted coldly, stood up, spat on the ground, waved his hand, and led his men into the car and left.

Watching them leave, Milton took a bite of noodles and sighed, "What is all this nonsense? I said something like 'anyone who believes in God is an idiot' just a few days ago, and this boomerang came back to haunt me so quickly... Sigh, only one interviewee left, hopefully it will go smoothly."

Another ten minutes or so passed, and some noise came from outside the door.

Milton glanced over in that direction.

A Jeep Wrangler YJ pulled up at the entrance, and three people—two men and one woman—jumped out. Their tactical gear could only be described as luxurious.

Even the simplest tactical water bottle looks like it's from a high-end brand!

Milton's eyes lit up.

Wrangler, what a nice car! This must be the one who called herself Flora? As expected of a team made up of veterans from NATO countries, at least it looks expensive.

The two burly men seemed to be complaining to Flora about something.

"Isn't it because of this 'hellish tax collector' that our contracts were terminated? Now we're actually working for him?"

"You can't blame the 'hellish tax collectors.' Those idiots actually said the money they paid us could have paid 30 gang members, and then they fired us. Is that even comparable?"

"Sigh, okay... I think we should leave here, boss. We're really starving. We haven't made much money from their civil war either."

"...Stop talking nonsense, trust me, we're going to make a lot of money this time. You guys wait here."

After settling her men in, Flora took off her sidearm, placed it on the back seat of the car, and walked towards the Chinese restaurant.

Milton glanced at their sidearms—two M16s and one M4A1, all equipped with advanced electronic tactical accessories. Their gear was indeed impressive… Hmm, wait a minute!
Wait!
What is an M4A1?!

Wait a minute, this gun has only just come out, only just been named, and hasn't been officially put into service yet, right?

Where did this M4A1 come from?

(End of this chapter)