Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 78 Americans

Milovan was a liaison officer in charge of foreign affairs coordination, but he looked like he was over fifty when he was only in his early thirties.

When it was completely dark, he finally opened the second bottle of wine for the night.

The TV was off, and the radio was off too.

The only sound in the room was the occasional clicking of the refrigerator compressor.

Milovan sat alone in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing an old navy coat that he hadn't washed in six months.

In front of him was a plate of pickled cucumbers and an unopened can of pork.

Just then, there was a knock on the door outside.

He frowned and glanced at the clock on the wall; it was almost eleven.

I live at the very back of this six-story apartment building.

We don't usually interact much, let alone with friends, or even neighbors, so I really can't imagine who would come looking for us so late at night.

Milovan felt a surge of frustration and simply shouted, "Fuck you, you've got the wrong door!"

However, the knocking continued.

The pace is not fast, but it is very patient.

"That's fucking damn good!"

Milovan walked over cursing and peered out through the peephole.

A tall, Asian man wearing a black overcoat stood in the darkness.

"Get out of here if you're trying to sell, borrow money, or proselytize!" Milovan warned through the door. "Did you hear me? If you don't leave, I'll shoot!"

“Milovan Panchenkovich,” the Easterner pronounced his name precisely, “I’m here to discuss a deal.”

"I don't need any damn deal!"

After Milovan finished speaking, he turned to leave.

Unexpectedly, the other party took something out of their pocket and waved it through the peephole.

Franklin's green face stood out starkly in the dim corridor light.

Milovan's Adam's apple bobbed, but he finally opened the door.

A chill rushed in.

The Asian man smiled and handed over the hundred-yuan bill: "Can I go in?"

Milovan glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then quickly snatched the money and stepped aside to let others pass.

The man from the East walked in and, without any ceremony, plopped down on the living room sofa.

Milovan rubbed his hands awkwardly, but still tried to ease the tension for the sake of the money: "Tell me, which unit are you from? The intelligence agency? The security agency? Or..."

“No, I’m not a government official,” the other person interrupted him. “I’m here to find a few people.”

"Looking for someone? This isn't a police station."

“Of course I know you’re not a police officer.” The man’s tone remained gentle. “I’m looking for some guests from the United States.”

Milovan's expression changed: "I don't understand what you're talking about."

"No, of course you understand."

As he spoke, the man pulled two neatly bundled rolls of US dollars from his pocket and tossed them onto the table. “Tell me where those experts live.”

Milovan's eyes widened immediately, but after hesitating for a long time, he shook his head:

"Brother, you've got the wrong person. I really don't know anything about Americans. You've got the wrong person."

Zhou Yi sighed and said:
"Six months ago, the U.S. Congress passed the Nunn-Lugo Cooperation Threat Reduction Plan."

"This is an aid program designed to assist Ukraine, Russia, and other former Soviet republics in dismantling and disposing of their nuclear warheads, silos, and delivery systems."

“Sevastopol is one of the key areas of the project, and according to the agreement, American technical personnel must be stationed there long-term.”

"These experts arrived from Belbek Airport three months ago."

"And you are the one responsible for receiving and settling them in."

"Isn't it?"

There was a brief silence in the air.

Milovan licked his lips and said in a low voice, "Listen, man, I can tell you're no ordinary person, but I really can't say things like this casually."

"why?"

Milovan's gaze fell on the stack of US dollars, his fingertips trembled slightly, and he decided to lay his cards on the table:

"Because this little money isn't enough for me to keep quiet for the rest of my life." "What you're giving me can keep me drinking well for four or five years."

"But what about the sixth year? They come knocking on my door, and I have to sleep on the prison floor."

"How much do you need?" Zhou Yi asked with great interest.

Milovan stared at the other man's seemingly kind face, but his greed still overwhelmed his reason.

He hesitated for a few seconds, then gritted his teeth and said:
"Five hundred thousand, I'll tell you everything."

Upon hearing this number, Zhou Yi laughed: "You were exactly the same as Vadim—"

"what?"

Milovan suddenly realized something was wrong and froze.

Wadim, isn't that his old colleague from the airport?

He was murdered last night, and his head is still hanging on the flagpole in the Kherson Military District Square.

damn it.

Could this be the person who did it?

Milovan instinctively tried to run, but it was too late.

Zhou Yi had already pulled a small-caliber pistol from his pocket and pulled the slide.

With a crisp metallic click, he finished the sentence he hadn't completed earlier.

"—He told me that you are still more used to this kind of negotiation."

"Wait...wait, don't."

The instant Milovan saw the gun barrel, images from the newspaper flashed uncontrollably through his mind. He frantically raised his hands, his voice trembling:

"I'll talk, I'll talk, please don't hit me."

Zhou Yi nodded slightly, gesturing for him to sit down first, his finger still on the trigger.

"They...they were placed in the research area, at the intersection of Lenin Avenue and Victory Avenue."

Milovan sat back stiffly in his chair, his knees trembling.

"It was an old chemical research institute, left over from the war, and later converted into a dormitory building."

"It has been renovated inside. There are cameras, a separate power supply, and armed sentries. The security is specially approved. No one can go in alone under normal circumstances, not even us liaison personnel."

His voice grew softer and softer, as if he realized that revealing this information was tantamount to digging his own grave.

"Please, I really only know this much, and I have nothing else to give you."

"No! No! I'll do anything you want, just please don't shoot."

Milovan pleaded, cold sweat beading on his forehead.

His response was still silence.

After a few seconds, Milovan looked up shakily, trying to read a glimmer of forgiveness on the other person's face.

However, it does not.

Under Milovan's desperate gaze, Zhou Yi slowly stood up and forcefully shoved the gun butt into Milovan's trembling hands.

"Wait, wait a minute." Milovan realized what was happening and tried to struggle.

But the man's strength was unexpectedly great.

The gun was pressed against his jaw.

“We can still talk, listen to me—”

boom!
There was a muffled sound.

Miluo Bay suddenly went limp.

The gun slipped from his hand and fell to the ground with a clatter.

Blood dripped down, gradually forming a reddish-brown stain.

Zhou Yi stood there and sighed.

He then bent down, took the hundred-dollar bill from the corpse's pocket, and stuffed it, along with the two rolls of US dollars on the table, into his pocket.

Finally, he left without looking back.

These days, the police are more concerned with getting back wages than with solving cases.

As long as the scene is passable, it doesn't need to be too rigorous.

(End of this chapter)