Chapter 46: What Kind of Gun Is This?!

Applicant Number One had the face of a South American, with a somewhat dark complexion that, at first glance, seemed healthy enough.

Milton gave a slight nod. "Introduce yourself. I believe you already know my requirements."

"Formerly served in the Guatemalan Army's Second Infantry Brigade, sergeant. Just discharged, served on the front lines, plenty of actual combat experience. Proficient with rifles, including Soviet-made and NATO weapons. If given instructions, I can also try learning to use other types of weapons."

You lot treat the front lines like it's child's play...

Don't think I don't know that your so-called civil war is actually just slaughtering civilians in the resistance zones, carrying out massacres.

Still, one cannot expect too much... Milton sighed, nodding as he motioned, "Go on."

Applicant Number One thought for a moment and said, "I want a base salary of $400 a month, or 3,500 Quetzales. For every battle I participate in, I also need at least $100 in combat allowance. If it's an obviously suicidal mission, I have the right to refuse."

"Also, I require you to advance my first month's... no, my first week's salary. Is that acceptable?"

The demands were quite reasonable, but the price felt suspiciously cheap?

Milton possessed a natural vigilance toward the word "cheap." Instead of agreeing hastily, he took another careful look at Applicant Number One.

This time, he noticed something amiss.

The man's fingers were twitching uncontrollably, and while there was an obvious heavily treated, fragrant scent in his mouth, his gums displayed an unnatural color.

A suspicion immediately surfaced in Milton's mind.

Contrary to what many people imagined, those emaciated, collapsing, zombie-like drug addicts were actually at the very end of their lives.

In the early or even middle stages, as long as the craving hadn't hit, many addicts' external appearances were barely distinguishable from normal people.

No wonder he was asking for an advance on his salary—he was in desperate need of money!

Milton blurted out, "You're a drug addict?!"

The expression of Applicant Number One shifted dramatically. He instantly became flustered, his speech even turning stuttering: "I, I..."

Milton immediately confirmed his guess and turned serious. "I'm sorry, my team does not accept addicts."

The man's face instantly went ashen. He sighed, got up dejectedly, and left.

Before leaving, he still couldn't help turning his head to say, "I... I actually didn't want to use those drugs. It was the army... they used them to keep our energy up, and by the time I realized, it was already too late. There was nothing I could do."

Milton paused the action of eating his noodles and said earnestly, "I believe you. But I believe even more that when a drug craving strikes, all of human nature ceases to exist."

Applicant Number One left in disappointment.

Five or six minutes later, Applicant Number Two arrived—they were a mercenary contingent consisting of a total of five people.

The leader of the five approached and shook hands with Milton. "Hello, I am the commander of the Mantis Mercenary Group."

The T-shirt he wore was faded and even had a patch... and the smell of blood on him was very heavy.

He couldn't think of any obvious problems for the moment.

Milton's questions remained the same, and this commander answered them quite well... such as the division of labor among the team members, their weapons and equipment, and so on.

Furthermore, they didn't require an advance on their salary; they only needed to be paid weekly.

Sounds not bad at all?

Milton pondered for a moment, and just like the previous time, he began to examine the commander's clothing and appearance to see if he could find any minor details.

A relatively delicate portrait sculpture pendant hung on his chest...

Judging by their clothing, their economic situation wasn't very good. Why would they buy such a decorative item?

Milton glanced out the window and noticed that the other four members also wore pendants around their necks. Although he couldn't see them clearly, he guessed they were probably the same style as the commander's.

Applicant Number Two kept on chattering endlessly: "Our mercenary group is experienced. Our most veteran member once participated in the 1982 offensive against El Quiché province and achieved major results..."

"Hold on, please excuse me for asking." Milton interrupted Number Two, who was still introducing himself. "Do you have any religious beliefs? Catholic? Orthodox?"

The commander instantly turned serious and corrected him, "No, our faith is traditional Voodoo."

Damn it, they actually worshipped an evil cult! And judging by the look of it, a deeply modified, far more malefic version of Voodoo at that!

Milton naturally kept a wide berth from religious fanatics, let alone cultists.

His upper limit for acceptance extended only as far as secularized churches.

Anything else was strictly forbidden from joining his team.

Moreover, the so-called 1982 El Quiché campaign was in fact an atrocity against civilians that resulted in tens of thousands of deaths... Cultists plus massacres, were these people actually terrorists?

You'd have to be insane to recruit a bunch of terrorists into your team.

Milton immediately rejected them using a seemingly reasonable excuse: "I'm sorry, I believe in God; I cannot work with you directly."

Anyway, most people here believed in Catholicism to varying degrees, making Milton's excuse for rejection entirely plausible.

Especially people whose brains were addled by a cult would harbor no suspicions whatsoever.

A trace of anger flickered across the commander's face. He let out a cold snort, stood up, spat fiercely onto the ground, waved his hand, and led his subordinates back to their vehicle and drove away.

Watching them leave, Milton took a bite of his noodles and sighed, "What is all this nonsense? I literally said something like 'anyone who believes in God is an idiot' just a few days ago, and this boomerang came back really fast... Sigh, only the last applicant left. I hope things go a bit more smoothly."

Another ten minutes or so passed, and some movement came from outside the door.

Milton naturally looked over.

A Jeep Wrangler YJ parked at the entrance. Two men and a woman jumped out of the vehicle, and their tactical gear could only be described by one word: luxurious.

Even the simplest tactical canteen looked like a major brand name!

Milton's eyes lit up.

A Wrangler, fine vehicle. This must be the person who called herself Flora, right? True to form, a team composed of NATO veterans—if nothing else, at least they looked expensive.

The two brawny men seemed to be complaining to Flora about something.

"It seems we got our contract terminated precisely because of this 'Hell Tax Collector,' right? And now we actually have to work for him?"

"You can't blame the 'Hell Tax Collector.' Those idiots actually said the money to hire us could hire thirty gang members, and then they fired us. Is there any comparison?"

"Sigh, fine... I think we should probably just leave this place, boss. We're practically dying of poverty, and we didn't make much money from their civil war anyway."

"Quiet... Stop talking nonsense. Trust me, we'll definitely make big money this time. You guys wait here."

After settling her subordinates, Flora unclipped her sidearm, placed it on the back seat of the car, and walked toward the Chinese restaurant.

Milton took the opportunity to glance at their sidearms—two M16s, one M4A1, all outfitted with high-end electronic tactical accessories. Their equipment was indeed impressive... Um, wait!

Hold on a second!

What on earth is an M4A1?!

That's not right. This rifle only just came out, it was just designated, and it hasn't even been officially issued yet, right?

Where on earth did this M4A1 come from?