Chapter 38: Transcending

The five men who had raised their hands in surrender were momentarily bewildered. What kind of madman was this prosecutor? Speeding, killing, and even gunning down police officers, all just to issue them a traffic ticket?

One of them immediately realized something was wrong and reflexively opened his mouth to object: "We didn't murder any officers, we didn't bomb—"

Bang!

Before he could finish his sentence, Milton raised his FN FAL and blew his head apart with a single shot.

He turned to the second man and asked in a tone that sounded like he was seeking an opinion, "Do you have any objections?"

The man was silent for a moment, then shook his head. "...No, I admit it. I murdered the officers and bombed the police cruiser."

If Milton had asked, he would have even confessed to starting the Second World War and causing the collapse of the Soviet Union.

"Very good..."

Milton was just about to interrogate the remaining four when the sound of an engine reached the doorway. A car was coming. Who could it be? Could the police arrive this quickly?

His two teammates immediately scattered, occupying relatively safe positions, ready for combat. Brandon, who had been setting up the caution tape, also retreated immediately, taking up a position to cover Milton.

Milton, however, simply stood still at the door, frowning slightly. He recognized the sound of a small-displacement vintage sedan; the engine capacity couldn't be more than 2.0 liters. It probably wasn't a police car.

After glancing at the "suspects" lying on the ground to ensure they posed no threat, Milton looked toward the gate to see who had arrived.

Soon, a low, boxy, pale beige Renault 12 sped up and screeched to a halt at the entrance. A blonde woman dressed in simple attire but carrying an array of expensive photography equipment jumped out of the car in a hurry, not even bothering to turn off the headlights.

*Huh?* This woman looked somewhat familiar.

Brandon immediately raised his Type 81 rifle and barked a command: "Stay there! Outside the perimeter! Don't move! Identify yourself!"

A beautiful woman was not enough to make them lower their guard. In war, anything could be weaponized, especially when the opposition was backed into a corner.

The blonde woman looked at the heavily armed men and stopped instantly, holding up the Nikon camera in her hands. "I'm a reporter! This is my legally imported camera! I heard some commotion here and wanted to follow up on the story! Can I reach for my credentials?"

Her pronunciation had an occasional, subtle trill.

No contraband on her... and she didn't seem to be carrying weapons. Milton used his interface to scan her for threats. After ruling them out, he searched his memory for where he had seen her before and said, "Take out your credentials, slowly."

The blonde woman reluctantly reached into her bulging chest pocket and slowly withdrew a press pass, handing it to Milton. Milton checked the ID, intending to ask questions out of order—a simple way to gauge the authenticity of the document.

"Date of birth?"

"December 6, 1971."

"Nationality?"

"Sov—" The blonde woman blurted out, then paused, her expression dimming as she corrected herself, "Russian."

"Name?"

"Dasha Ivanovna Sharapova Anastasia Olya."

Seeing Olya recite such a long string of names so fluently, Milton believed the document was genuine. He nodded, returned it, and asked, "A reporter for *Novaya Gazeta*? Never heard of that paper... Why come to Guatemala? This isn't a good place."

Olya took back her press pass and shrugged helplessly. "The paper is going under, and salaries haven't been paid in ages. But I need to make money, and the only way is to earn fees from reports... You know, places with lots of news and high danger have fewer competitors, so I can scrape together a living."

"That volunteer from the Green Vine Foundation you caught earlier even threatened me not long ago. Any other reporter would have run away by now."

*Green Vine Foundation? A volunteer?*

Milton’s gaze sharpened at the mention. He turned his head immediately to look at one of the men lying on the ground. Memories flooded back—this was the "volunteer" he had seen distributing contraband drugs to pregnant women and children near the central church. A blonde woman had been arguing with him then; so that blonde woman had been Olya.

Not only that, but at the scene of the shootout at the black-market pharmacy, as Milton crawled out of the rubble, he had seen Olya reporting on the site.

Daring to charge onto the battlefield, arriving on the front lines faster than the police... A fearless war correspondent—that was Milton's first impression of this beautiful woman.

Milton nodded. "You can take photos, but don't cross the perimeter."

Brandon looked puzzled and asked in a low voice, "Boss, are you sure about letting her film?"

Milton turned and walked away, chuckling. "She clearly isn't an enemy, so why not let her report? You need to understand one thing: unite all forces that can be united."

Besides, never underestimate the power of public opinion. Regardless, one must always have a window to voice that opinion.

Brandon thought for a moment, beginning to understand. "Boss, do you think she has the value to join our team?"

"Not yet." Milton shook his head. "First, she has to prove she isn't an idiot. In other words, she has to survive first."

If she were one of those 'bleeding-heart liberals' who went around causing trouble, moved herself to tears while disgusting others, and remained oblivious to it, bringing her into the team would only lead to endless internal friction and danger. Until then, Milton and Olya were merely people with a common enemy.

After saying this, Milton turned and approached the "volunteer."

"How do you intend to pay the fine?" Milton tossed the signed ticket onto him. "Based on the value of the drugs at the scene, you owe a fine of $832,000."

Milton could write whatever number he wanted on the ticket without regard for the law, but the system wouldn't convert the excess fine into points. Furthermore, even for the legal portion, he had to actually collect the money for it to count as points. $830,000 was a staggering sum anywhere, and Milton didn't believe he could collect the full amount, so he didn't bother inflating the price—if he couldn't collect it, even a hundred million was useless.

Milton asked this question primarily to find out where the "volunteer" had hidden his valuables, saving them the trouble of a slow search. But to his absolute surprise, the volunteer nodded and readily agreed to the fine: "Fine, let's do this... I'll round it up to $1 million, provided that once you take the money, you let me go. How about that?"

His voice carried a hint of arrogance and condescension, as if he didn't take a million dollars seriously.

Milton's finger tightened on the trigger. He glanced at his teammates' expressions before speaking coldly, "I am not responsible for the trial."

To his surprise, the "volunteer" laughed even more easily upon hearing this. "Are you going to send me to court? That works too. Look, pal, I took the fall this time, but I think we could be friends... Work with me, and I can help you make many millions. How about it?"

He raised his voice intentionally, ensuring everyone could hear.

Milton scanned his teammates' faces again—thankfully, none of them wavered. They either pretended not to hear or let out cold laughs. Reassured, Milton decided to stop wasting words on the "volunteer."

At this stage, Milton couldn't accept untraceable bank transfers. He would just have to strip the waste treatment plant bare and confiscate everything as a fine later; the "volunteer's" promise of an extra million was useless.

Most unsettling to Milton was that this "volunteer," who had directly caused the deaths of countless people, didn't seem afraid of court at all. He clearly had powerful backing and resources, and he was even trying to sow discord within his team!

This man was dangerous and absolutely could not be left alive. Since the law couldn't resolve him, he would resolve him physically.

Sirens were already wailing outside; the police would be here any second. Milton didn't hesitate, reaching for the TEC-9 at his waist.

"Wait!" Seeming to realize Milton intended to kill him, the volunteer panicked. "You can't kill me!"

Milton ignored him, raising the TEC-9 to fire. This man surely held many secrets, but Milton didn't want to know them.

The volunteer finally lost his arrogant facade, screaming in warning: "I'm an American! You have no right to execute me! No one here dares to kill me! You have to let me go, do you hear me, you hick from this shithole country?!"

"I could kill a hundred of you, and you still couldn't do anything to me, because I'm an American! American, do you understand?!"

Just then, a police cruiser surged through the gate. A middle-aged man with a potbelly and gilded police superintendent insignia on his shoulders stepped out. Without even glancing at Milton, he declared, "The police are taking over from here. Everyone else, leave! Brandon, get your people out of here. That's an order!"

Pedro, the chief of the Malacan Town Police Department, had come personally... Milton confirmed in his heart that the situation at the hospital and the waste treatment plant was far more complex than just the issue of troglitazone.

Pedro gave his order with an air of haughty arrogance, then turned to the "volunteer" with a submissive posture: "Mr. Walker, my sincerest apologies. This must be a misunderstanding."

But before he could even finish his sentence, he saw a pair of blood-stained boots step directly onto Walker's head.

Chief Pedro looked up in shock, realizing that Brandon had not followed his orders, and Milton hadn't taken the "police takeover" seriously at all. The chief, who was accustomed to having his word treated as law, had never imagined that one day his commands would be ignored.

"You..."

*Rat-tat-tat...*

Milton pulled the trigger without a flicker of emotion, shattering Walker's skull. Then, he applied a slight, steady pressure with his foot, pushing down bit by bit.

Walker's skull, already fractured by dozens of bullets, could no longer withstand the force. With a sickening crunch, it shattered into pieces, ground into debris under Milton's boot.

Milton stepped on the exploded remains of Walker's head, lifted his gaze to meet the shock and fury in Pedro's eyes, and asked calmly, "What was that you just said?"