Chapter 40: Now This Is Really Striking It Rich

Two six-inch Colt Python revolvers, their barrel engravings and royal blue finish resembling works of fine art, were carefully maintained.

They were worth at least $4,000.

However, what truly shocked Milton was not these ornate revolv​ers, but four unassuming black walkie-talkies and a military lunchbox-sized black case. It looked like a miniature laptop, featuring an old-fashioned calculator-style LCD screen on its raised front panel, with a simple keyboard situated below.

Brandon eagerly leaned in, reaching out to touch the device. "Boss, what kind of fancy gadget is this?"

Milton slapped his outstretched hand away, his voice trembling. "What the hell—are you out of your mind? Do you even know what this is?! You're just going to touch it?"

Brandon flinched in surprise. "What is it? Is it a bomb?!"

"This is a tactical programming terminal! It generates frequency-hopping seed keys for the walkie-talkies. This is a whole damn set of military-grade frequency-hopping radios!" Milton's hands trembled with excitement. "There is no way in hell you can buy this legally. What kind of shady business were they mixed up in to be this excessively cautious?"

As far as he recalled, lightweight frequency-hopping radios of this type would take quite a while to reach the market. They were currently in the developmental and experimental stages, not even issued to active-duty US forces yet!

It looked somewhat like a Vertex Standard VX-168, but bulkier, with potential battery life issues. It was likely a prototype system.

Still, this was more than enough! These were frequency-hopping radios!

In future conflicts against stronger enemies, there would no longer be any need to worry about communications being intercepted!

Just in terms of utility, compared to this piece of equipment, those two Colt Python revolvers could be straight-up relegated to the trash heap.

Having this system meant that, in terms of tactical communication, Milton would permanently maintain an information advantage... or at least remain invincible!

What an immense advantage.

Although Veronica didn't quite understand the details, she knew that any system involving frequency-hopping radios must be high-end communication equipment with top-tier encryption, obtainable only by those with deep pockets and powerful connections.

She paused for a moment and said, "I'm suddenly kind of glad Walker and his guys destroyed that batch of evidence... because that's definitely not something we should be meddling in."

"It's fine. Important information wasn't leaked anyway. The police department will just quietly sweep it under the rug and cover it up to keep higher-ups from finding out, lest they go down with it."

Brandon sneered. "No wonder Pedro was in such a hurry to take over the scrap yard. Turns out he was hiding something this good."

Milton swallowed hard. "Load this equipment into the car and take it back. Be extremely careful—don't bump it or drop it! I'm not exaggerating at all; this little box is ten times more valuable than its weight in gold."

This time, they had truly struck gold.

Not only had they wiped out the remaining forces of the Fanco Gang in town, severed one of their funding sources, hauled in a massive stack of cash, and gained 70,000 red points, but they had also secured cutting-edge tactical equipment!

Just imagine how catastrophic it would have been if an enemy possessed radio interception equipment, listening in crystal-clear detail to Milton's tactical orders during a firefight.

After today, that would never happen again.

The four of them gathered their spoils and loaded them into the battered Chevrolet Caprice.

Looking at the nearly totaled sedan, Milton said to Brandon, "Your car got wrecked while carrying out a mission. The repair costs will be covered from the team's funds."

When people are in a great mood, they naturally become generous.

Brandon, who had just pocketed over $20,000 in cash from the pharmacy and the scrap yard, immediately hunched his shoulders and shook his head. "No, Boss, I really can't do that. I've taken more than enough already. I can't take any more, or my conscience won't let me sleep."

Milton frowned. "Official business is official business; personal matters are personal."

This time, however, Brandon refused the money adamantly, offering a reasonable excuse: "Look, Boss, my car is legally registered and insured. We don't need to pay for the repairs out of our own pockets."

As for whether the insurance company might deny the claim, Brandon trusted that anyone who had heard the moniker "Hell's Taxman" wouldn't have the guts to try.

"Fine." Since someone else was paying, Milton saw no reason to stand on ceremony. "Then the increased insurance premium next year will be reimbursed by the team."

The group climbed into the vehicle and set off for home.

Victorious, they finally allowed themselves to relax.

"Ah! I feel so relieved all of a sudden!"

"Must say, the boss is seriously generous."

"Feels like life is suddenly looking up..."

Veronica shook her head, sighing, "I've never seen that much money in my life. Good grief, $20,000! I worked at the checkpoint for four years and didn't even make $20,000 total."

"Colt Pythons... Those badass mob bosses all seem to love this gun. I'm telling you, Boss, you've got the makings of a mob boss. Even Jesus is dropping hints for you."

Veins bulged on Milton's forehead. "I'm just collecting taxes! I'm not a gangster, and I'm certainly not a mob boss!"

"Boss, what's our next move? I'm sticking with you—following you is the only way to make real money!"

Milton immediately threw cold water on his teammate's enthusiasm. "Next, we need to figure out how to convert this cash into combat power and prepare to fend off the open and covert vendettas from the Fanco Gang and other factions."

"The war between the Fanco Gang and the other faction is coming to an end. Once they free up their hands, they're definitely coming back for revenge. As for the police department and the checkpoint—needless to say, after today, Chief Pedro and us are sworn enemies."

Luz's expression fell. "Boss, can you just let us be happy for a little while..."

"Suddenly I've lost my appetite."

Brandon quickly recovered from the joy of striking it rich—to spend money, you had to stay alive first.

"I remember 'The Boss' has a decent relationship with an underground arms dealer. Once we're back, maybe we can try our luck with him and see how we can upgrade our gear?"

"Alright," Milton nodded. "Let's head back and rest first, then source some equipment from the arms dealer."

Soon, the group returned to the old street and prepared to park the car in the garage.

Along the way, Milton overheard quite a few people discussing the "Hell's Taxman."

It grated on his nerves.

He couldn't let Brandon keep spreading rumors like this; he had to find a way to ditch this awful nickname!

Right before parking, Milton caught sight of a familiar figure lingering nearby.

Horn? The informant he had planted at the checkpoint? What was he doing here?

"You guys go get some rest. I'm going to see someone."

Milton stepped out of the car, looking puzzled.

Brandon hurriedly tossed the car keys to a teammate in the back seat and followed him. "Boss, I'm coming with you!"

Moments later, the two approached Horn.

Milton nodded at him and asked, "Looking for me? What is it?"

Horn looked at this colleague who was both familiar and strange, his expression complex and tinged with fear. "Uh... well, the information you asked me to gather earlier—I've put together a report for you. Take a look and see if it's any use."

"Also, here's an appointment letter from the Station Chief. He's promoting you to Inspector Supervisor. Meaning... theoretically, all tax collection affairs and personnel in Marakan Town fall under your jurisdiction. But you know how our checkpoint's rank structure works—it's all for show. You still don't have real authority; the Chief just had to promote you because this incident blew up too much, purely to save face."

"Oh, and one more thing: there's an awards ceremony at the police department tomorrow, and Officer Brandon has to attend."

"Maynard seems to want to negotiate with you."

"And the Fanco Gang..."

Connected to everyone—this guy was a natural-born broker.

Milton raised a hand, took all the intelligence reports from Horn's grasp, and said, "Wait here."

With that, he turned, entered the black pharmacy, stored the documents safely, and picked up the keys to his Toyota SR5 pickup truck.

Returning outside, Milton tossed the truck keys to Horn and nodded. "Continue. What about the Fanco Gang?"

Catching the keys, Horn looked momentarily dazed. "Wait... this is?"

"Your payment."

He still felt a bit bad about blowing up someone else's brand-new car last time. Since Milton was planning to upgrade anyway, he figured he might as well give his old truck to Horn as payment.

A flash of shock and bewilderment crossed Horn's eyes. Reflexively, he started to shake his head. "No, I can't..."

He had gone around building good relationships with everyone solely to survive, and had never asked for any compensation—nor did he ever dare ask the "Hell's Taxman" for a reward.

Milton pressed a hand down to cut him off. "Tell me, what's going on with the Fanco Gang?"

Horn stared blankly at the keys in his hand, suddenly struck by a profoundly strange and complicated emotion.

An impulse rose within him to tell Milton everything he knew, down to the very last word.

"The Fanco Gang won a landslide victory in the gang war down in Mexico! Station Chief Varta has already taken men over there to finalize the cooperation agreement with Raul! They're going to turn around and come after you any minute now!"