Chapter 24: The Vanishing Colleague

The pickup truck rattled along the uneven road, the occasional jolt pulling Milton back from the brink of sleep. His mind, however, felt sharper than ever.

"You were in contact with Maynard, right?" Milton had not forgotten this colleague with whom he had so many grievances.

"Yes..." Brandon did not deny it. "Or rather, Maynard was the umbrella for the black-market pharmacy at the checkpoint. Now, though... that's all blown to pieces."

"Last time, it was Maynard who told me to check on what you were doing at the fruit shop. But I didn't have much contact with him; I was mainly responsible for smoothing things over with the police for the pharmacy."

Milton had realized long ago that the relationship between Brandon and Maynard was, at best, that of mutual informants. Now that Maynard's network had been dismantled by Station Chief Valta and the black-market pharmacy had completely severed ties with the Vankang Gang, that fragile connection had vanished into thin air. He likely wouldn't get much more useful information about Maynard from Brandon.

Milton wanted to understand Maynard not to reconcile, but to see if he could further fuel the conflict between him and Station Chief Valta, helping to divert some of the pressure from the checkpoint away from himself. Right now, he needed every ounce of his energy to deal with the tidal wave of retaliation the Vankang Gang was sure to unleash.

As Milton pondered his strategy, he felt the vehicle lurch slightly, the Toyota's shock absorbers emitting their signature squeak.

Brandon hit the brakes and said, "We’re at Green Leaf Street... Man, 'Boss,' I never knew he had a secret base in a dump like this."

Milton glanced at the so-called "Green Leaf Street." It was a slum, a collection of low, hovel-like shacks constructed from shoddy scrap metal. Utility poles and walls were plastered with all sorts of flyers, including advertisements for armed security and mercenaries. With the Zapatista uprising recently erupting in Mexico and the civil war in Guatemala nearing its end, an influx of such armed personnel had indeed arrived in the vicinity.

Milton didn't linger on the ads and stepped further into the alleyways. Everyone coming and going was ragged, foul-smelling, and severely malnourished. Seeing a police officer, their eyes flashed with deep resentment and fear.

"I imagine this place only gets power and water for two hours a day," Milton frowned. "You black-market peddlers make so little that you can't afford a better place?"

Brandon donned his captured PASGT helmet, gripped his service pistol, and shrugged. "The upstream guys take the lion's share of the profit. How much could we, the sales team, possibly make?"

"Actually, the 'Boss' was betrayed once before, and it nearly finished us all... It was after that betrayal that he stopped doing charity and raised the prices. The downside was that more people couldn't afford medicine; the upside was that I could finally support my family more comfortably with the extra income. Sigh."

"I'm also surprised he bought a place here. I guess he must have poured a lot of money into maintaining the underground pharmacy. He bought diesel generators and water purifiers so the shop could have water and electricity 24/7."

24/7 water and electricity... Milton’s resolve to hold the pharmacy stronghold solidified. He truly couldn't stand a life without water, power, or air conditioning.

"Number 4 Green Leaf Street, just ahead..." Milton began, but suddenly frowned. "Wait, it sounds like someone is inside. Would the 'Boss' have a roommate, or did he lease the place out?"

Brandon shook his head immediately. "Impossible. The 'Boss' was a very cautious man."

As they spoke, they instinctively drew their sidearms. Whatever was happening, assume the worst!

*Bang!* Brandon stepped forward and kicked the door open.

The room was thick with smoke and a pungent, spicy, rotting odor. Three men lay scattered on the floor like drunks, covered by old Madonna posters used as blankets.

The three men were startled and sat up abruptly, cursing, "Which son of a bitch... damn, cops?!"

The people here clearly had no love for the police. Upon seeing Brandon, they scrambled up, retreated a few steps, and asked warily, "What do you want? We haven't done anything illegal these past few days!"

Milton used his interface to scan the room for contraband. Unless he was inside the checkpoint, his scanning ability only worked at close range; he couldn't scan indiscriminately on the street.

[Found Class-I contraband: Illicit tobacco (fine paid).]

Hmm... the fine had already been paid. It meant a fellow inspector on field duty had likely come by recently and collected the money.

Seeing that Milton remained silent, Brandon raised his muzzle and continued coldly, "Get out. This isn't your house! If you aren't gone in three minutes, I’ll arrest you for trespassing and illegal possession of hallucinogens."

The three men raised their hands but argued defiantly, "Nobody lives here, so why chase us off?"

Brandon couldn't be bothered to explain to these bottom-feeders. He raised his voice in a sharp warning: "Leave!"

The vagrants had no choice but to pack their things, still cursing under their breath.

"Yesterday an inspector came to grab money, today a cop comes to kick us out, damn it! What rotten luck!" the tall, thin vagrant spat. "Let me tell you, watch your step. I heard a cop went missing around here recently! Hmph, let's go, move out!"

With that, the three limped toward the door. The man in the faded baseball jersey tripped over the threshold, causing a dirty syringe to fall out and roll into the muddy sewage. He reached down indifferently with a festering arm to retrieve it.

"Wait." Milton stepped on the syringe. "Are you threatening me?"

The man looked at the M29 revolver in Milton's hand and sneered. "Who would dare? A cop did go missing here, but it wasn't us. Now, can you give me back my stuff?"

Milton was highly sensitive to anything involving "medical" matters, as it was 100% tied to the Vankang Gang. He cocked the hammer of his revolver but kept it pointed down, asking coldly, "What's the syringe for?"

"Selling blood when I'm broke," the vagrant replied with self-mockery. "Mine's dirty, but if you boil it, it's still usable. Beats those AIDS-ridden needles at the blood donation center."

"Where did you get it?"

"Over at the church. The Green Ivy Charity Foundation said they were giving out free malaria vaccines. After getting the shot, I had a fever for three days and my arm rotted. I took the syringe after the vaccination." The man shook his festering arm. "What, are you going to bust me for stealing a little thing like this?"

He spoke with total apathy; clearly, most people on Green Leaf Street lived this way.

Milton was silent for a moment, then lifted his foot and said flatly, "You can go."

He had keenly grasped two key elements: selling blood and clinical trials. The so-called malaria vaccine from the charity was likely an unapproved drug... they were tricking these people into receiving injections to secretly conduct human experiments. The smuggling profits involved must be massive, the stakes high, but the direct danger was relatively contained. Such an industry faced resistance primarily from various interest groups who used legal channels to build a defensive moat, discouraging any investigators, rather than using the overt violence of a street gang.

Milton didn't even need to think hard to guess that the checkpoint, the hospital, the charity, and the Vankang Gang were all involved. The first three provided the channels and legal backing, while the gang thugs handled the dirty work.

"Vankang Gang... it's you again."

Milton was short on money. Very short. He needed points—red points. Perhaps... he could find a way to investigate this. If he could solve this case, or even partially solve it, he would be breaking one of the Vankang Gang's legs while easing his own financial crisis.

Strengthen himself, weaken the enemy, and the immediate threat wasn't too great—he was in. As for the indirect threats, or how many local officials and interest groups he would offend, Milton couldn't afford to care about that anymore.

Solve the immediate threat first, then worry about the rest. Next target: The Green Ivy Charity Foundation. Others might be afraid to investigate, but Milton was not.

After reaching his decision, Brandon's voice came from inside the room.

"Boss, come take a look... this stuff of the 'Boss' was hidden so well. Not only was it buried under the wardrobe tiles, but there was also a layer of thin concrete over it. No wonder those vagrants didn't find it."

Milton collected his thoughts and turned to look inside. Brandon was using the butt of his rifle to hammer the floor until a crack appeared. After clearing away the debris, a wooden box was revealed. Prying the iron lock open, Brandon carefully opened the box. Inside was a large gold bar and an unassuming small booklet labeled "Procurement Ledger."

Gold... The "Boss" always muttered about running away to the United States once he had enough money.

Brandon stared at the gold bar for a long time, then stammered, "He... he had enough money to go to the U.S. a long time ago. He just couldn't let go of the pharmacy..."

*Of course,* Milton thought, *I regret losing such a teammate too.*

Milton sighed, quickly calculated the value of the gold—roughly 30,000 dollars—and nodded slightly. "That should be it. Let's go."

"Yeah..."

The two men did a quick job of tidying up the room, closed the wooden door of the house they would never return to, and headed toward their parked car at the end of the street.

Just then, Milton noticed a Yamaha XT350 motorcycle parked next to his pickup. Standing beside it was an anxious-looking man wearing a checkpoint uniform.

He was an inspector!