Chapter 23: The Tax Collector of Hell

On the border between Mexico and the dangerous frontier, within a secluded compound in a valley, sat the largest, most secure house at the center of the complex.

"Static... Recently, a large-scale armed conflict broke out in the Los Cocos community of Tapachula, Chiapas, Mexico, resulting in at least 120 deaths and 200 injuries. It is reported that this was a turf war between two local gangs. Local police are unable to control the situation."

"Russia's shock therapy faces a major failure..."

"U.S. President Clinton signs a new round of sanctions against Iraq..."

"The turmoil caused by the death of the great drug lord Pablo continues..."

"Missing persons cases in the border region remain frequent..."

"..."

"A violent explosion occurred on an old street in Malacatan, San Marcos Province, Guatemala. The casualty count remains unknown, and our reporters are still following the story."

Inside the room, Raul Montoya, the leader of the Vancan Gang, sipped his tea leisurely while smoking a high-end Cuban cigar, casting an occasional glance at the massive color television.

"Mr. Raul," a lackey walked in, his face lit with excitement, "we won against the odds! We wiped out those Coco Gang people! We can take over the business in this area completely, right now!"

"We just need to finish the final cleanup. Plenty of people are looking to join us; the gang's strength is surging!"

Raul took a puff of his cigar, flicked the ash into an ashtray, and nodded. "Good. This gives us more leverage when we deal with that old fox, Varta."

The lackey grinned smugly. "It just so happens that their people are outside."

As he spoke, there was a knock at the door, and Carlos, a trusted aide of Varta, walked in carrying a stack of files.

"Good morning, Mr. Raul."

Raul placed his cigar roughly on the table and asked, "You've heard about our victory, I presume?"

Carlos nodded. "Congratulations on your success. This will make our cooperation even smoother, won't it?"

Once the assets of the rival gang were integrated, the Vancan Gang’s strength would skyrocket within a week. Now, as they signed the contracts, the Vancan Gang demanded a larger share.

Raul chuckled, intending to lay his cards on the table. "Carlos, I say—"

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Suddenly, frantic knocking came from outside the door.

Raul, interrupted, darkened his face and reached for the gold-plated Browning M1935 at his waist, intending to teach this impolite subordinate a lesson. However, when the door opened, several lackeys stood outside with panicked expressions.

Raul was a cautious man; he realized immediately that something had gone wrong.

"Speak slowly. Don't panic in front of guests. Tell me, did the Coco Gang counterattack? How many of them came? What are our losses?"

"No, that's not it!" the leader of the group shook his head violently. "It's not about that!"

It wasn't a gang war issue... While relieved, Raul felt a strange unease. What else could have made them so terrified?

Raul set down the M1935 and took a drag of his cigar. "Speak. Tell me everything at once."

"Someone... someone sent you a ticket..."

"A ticket?!" Raul interrupted, laughing in fury. "How many cops have we killed? The local police brass has been on our payroll for years. You’re scared of a ticket? Did the CIA issue this? Bring it here. I want to see who’s tired of living."

The lackey, still trembling with fear, carefully handed over the box he was holding and shook his head. "No, it's not from the Mexican side."

Not from Mexico? Where could it be from?

Raul, even more baffled, took the box and glanced inside.

Silence filled the room for three seconds.

Then, his roar echoed throughout the valley.

Inside was a mangled human head, contorted in an expression of such intense pain, despair, and fear that it looked as though the man had suffered horrific torture before death.

How could Raul not recognize this man?

He was one of his most trusted confidants, a man who had saved Raul’s life in a past conflict. He had been sent to a "simple" area to pad his record before a promotion, just to appease the others!

To ensure his safety, the gear on his body alone had cost Raul over $60,000! The smuggled ABA Xtreme IV heavy ballistic armor, which met NIJ IV standards, had burned through more than $50,000, and Raul had owed a mountain of favors to acquire it. In the entire gang, fewer than four people had such equipment.

Yet he was dead. The enemy had even desecrated his corpse and insulted the entire Vancan Gang with a ticket.

No one could trample on them like this. Anyone who dared would pay with their lives—and not just one! The Vancan Gang would make this person, their family, their friends, and their neighbors pay in blood!

"Good. Very good." Raul gripped the blood-stained ticket tightly, nodding incessantly. "Five million dollars. Milton Mins. Very well, I have remembered that name."

The lackey beside him asked with a trembling voice, "Boss... should we send more men to take him out?"

"He killed 11 men who were equipped with FN FALs and heavy body armor. Where are we supposed to find a stronger team right now?" Raul said coldly. "Wait until we settle things in Mexico. Within five days—can you do it?"

By then, the Vancan Gang, having grown significantly stronger, would use force that Milton could never possibly resist to crush him completely.

"No problem!"

...

Malacatan, Police Station.

An officer stood up with a look of awe and shook hands with the man in front of him. "Mr. Milton, you are free to go. Have a wonderful weekend."

"We reiterate once more: this invitation was merely for questioning, not detention! We’ve washed your car; it’s parked outside."

The story of a crazed prosecutor slaughtering 11 heavily armed gang members had spread throughout their circles. The image of Milton crawling out of the ruins carrying a severed head had left everyone deeply shaken. The officer who had fought alongside him had even remarked to his colleagues, "Even Jesus would have to pay taxes if he met him."

Brandon had dubbed Milton "The Tax Collector of Hell."

This terrifying title only served to highlight Milton’s power and menace. However, while stunned, the vast majority of people had already labeled Milton a "dead man."

The prosecutor and the Vancan Gang were now locked in a blood feud; he couldn't possibly last long. Milton had offended the Vancan Gang before and had a chance to run, but now...

Of course, no one had any intention of moving against Milton. Before trying, one only had to consider: are you more dangerous than those 11 killers the Vancan Gang sent? These were people who would wipe out entire families without blinking. It was better to just watch the two sides fight and stay out of it.

...

At the entrance of the police station, Brandon stood by a pickup truck. Seeing Milton walk out, he hurried over. "Boss, you're out? My colleagues didn't give you any trouble, did they?"

"Damn, can you believe it? Those guys who usually look down on everyone were practically burying their heads in the ground when they saw you!"

"The guys from the Joint Operations Division said they've seen the most cold-blooded serial killers, but none of them had your calm expression after slaughtering 11 men!"

*That’s because I hadn't slept all night, my brain was mush, and I was too tired to make any expression,* Milton thought. *I am not a serial killer.*

Milton was too tired to explain. He sat in the passenger seat and said, "Get in. Quickly."

"Uh, where to?" Brandon climbed in, dazed, and started the engine. "They gave me a month of administrative leave; I have some freedom for a while."

Administrative leave didn't mean a total vacation; Brandon still had to report for questioning or psychological evaluation, but he had more free time than usual.

"To collect," Milton opened the glove box, pulled out a TEC-9 submachine gun, and rested it on his lap. "Let's see what the Vancan Gang and the 'Boss' have left for us."