Chapter 57: Retreat!

Carlos was chilled to the bone by Milton's gaze. He quickly cried out, "You just promised me! You said you wouldn't kill me!"

Having handed over the vast majority of his possessions just moments ago, Carlos had bought back his own life.

After this incident, the station commander would surely never trust him again; he had lost all value—and no one cares about the life of a worthless man, just as no one would care about his death.

Carlos believed his life or death was no longer of any consequence to Milton.

Besides, after this ordeal, he and Milton were no longer enemies in practice. They could cooperate to scheme for greater profits, even helping Milton plot to take over the checkpoint.

Before today, Carlos had only ever viewed Milton as an ant that could be crushed at will, but after today, he suddenly felt that Milton might very well seize the checkpoint and become the new commander.

Being Milton's subordinate wouldn't be bad either... He only cared about being a subordinate to whoever held power, and didn't care who the commander actually was.

Milton drew his M29 revolver, swung out the cylinder, and removed four bullets, speaking at the same time: "I am a man of my word. I promised not to kill you, so I won't kill you."

Hearing this guarantee, Carlos's tone finally eased a little. He let out a long sigh, gave a bitter, helpless smile, and said, "Then... can you bandage me up?"

"Or send me to a medi—"

Mid-sentence, Carlos suddenly felt something was amiss.

For Milton did not reply to him, but instead walked over to the two Falcon Gang members and tossed the M29—now with only two bullets left inside—onto the ground.

"I'm giving all of you a chance."

One gun, two bullets, three people.

The atmosphere in the room completely froze.

The meaning was painfully obvious—whoever could get their hands on the gun would survive.

As for picking up the gun to fight back... none of them dared to try. Didn't they see the three assault rifles currently aimed straight at them?

One of the Falcon Gang members finally couldn't help himself and asked with a trembling voice, "C-can you be a bit more specific?"

Milton asked with a mocking amusement, "When your boss Raul gave you the order to assassinate me, was he very specific about it?"

While the gang member was still hesitating, Carlos, dragging his crippled legs, lunged toward the handgun first!

He didn't want to die!

However, a man with sound limbs was obviously much faster.

One of the gang members grabbed the pistol first and leveled it at his companion.

The targeted man cried out in terror, "Wait, we're brothers! Have you forgotten, I even brought you—"

Bang!

The muzzle swung around, pointing straight at Carlos.

Carlos felt the true footsteps of death closing in. He dragged his body, crawling desperately across the floor in a frantic loss of composure, then looked up and glared at Milton with bloodshot eyes: "You can't kill me, Milton, you promised—"

Bang!

The final bullet fired, silencing Carlos's chatter forever.

After disposing of the two men who had just been eating and drinking together so cordially, the surviving gang member turned in terror, looking toward Milton, terrified that this terrifying "Taxman of Hell" would go back on his word.

Ignoring the three men whose unsightly ugliness was now fully exposed, Milton walked to the back of the truck, pulled open the tailgate, and quickly scanned the cargo inside with his interface.

The most crucial X-ray machine and its accompanying equipment were all there, along with a blood analyzer, a desktop centrifuge, a defibrillator...

And various pharmaceuticals in quantities large enough to supply a pharmacy for a long time.

They looked like medical supplies, but a moment's thought revealed that these items were entirely intended for the drug trade and laboratory use.

What kind of profit could one make from smuggling a pitifully small amount of medicine, compared to plugging into the Sinaloa Cartel's supply chain?

Soviet medical technology was highly developed, and after the dissolution, various assets were sold off at rock-bottom prices. The paper value of these goods wasn't high, but acquiring the necessary channels to move them was no simple feat.

The Falcon Gang valued these so-called medical supplies so deeply precisely because the shipment was tied to their new venture—cargo that wasn't even typically used by such a small-time gang, likely involving other figures in the supply chain, such as hospitals.

Milton loaded the confiscated RPG-7 and several high-explosive anti-tank rounds into the truck bed, climbed into the passenger seat, and asked, "Are all the photos taken?"

"All taken."

"No problem. Get in the car, we're pulling out. 'Poison', get in the back; 'Bottle', drive."

Of course, Milton didn't forget to retrieve his M29 from the surviving gang member.

Flora slid into the driver's seat, turned the ignition, and casually asked, "Did you really let that guy go? Doesn't sound like your style."

Milton chuckled and countered, "Who am I?"

"Uh..." Flora scratched her head, "You're Milton? You're the 'Taxman of Hell'?"

"Wrong. Tonight, I am a Falcon Gang member," Milton laughed lightly. "A Falcon Gang member who attacked the checkpoint."

Flora was stunned for a moment, then gasped, "Wait, you mean—"

From the back of the truck, the sound of fierce gunfire suddenly erupted!

Accompanied by somewhat exaggerated, heavily performative shouting:

"Oh god, it's the Falcon Gang! They're attacking the checkpoint!"

"Brothers, fight back! Show these gangsters what we're made of!"

"Oh no, Mr. Carlos has made the ultimate sacrifice... Avenge him!"

"..."

Milton wasn't the only one who wanted to sabotage the collaboration between the station commander and the Falcon Gang; Maynard, who had just been double-crossed, was right in on it too!

The truck barreled out of the checkpoint, picked up "Anvil" and his gear, and sped on toward the town of Malacan.

Flora shook her head. "Impressive! Honestly, when we first met, I thought you were the kind of guy who strictly followed the rules and would hand Carlos over to a court of law."

"The courts are full of their people. Sending him to court is just a shortcut to sending him to God."

Flora's train of thought leaped quickly, and she asked with some surprise, "You actually believe in God?"

<span>"Yes. Not only do I believe in God, but I also have proof that God is Black."</span>

Flora was even more astonished. "What kind of proof?!"

Milton replied deadpan, "Because everyone calls God 'Father,' but God's children have never actually seen Him."

"...Damn it."

Flora wore an expression caught between wanting to laugh and having to hold it back. "Holy shit... I really think you're going straight to hell, Taxman."

"Hahahaha!"

The atmosphere inside the vehicle instantly turned light and cheerful.

After chatting for a bit, they arrived at their previous parking spot.

Milton hopped out, got into his Land Rover Defender, and continued to lead the convoy at high speed, soon returning to the black market on the old street and pulling up in front of the underground clinic.

By this time, just over two hours had passed since they first set out from here.

Milton leaped from the vehicle, waved Luz and the others over to unload the equipment, and walked straight into the clinic, tapping on the operating room door.

The doctor stepped out, looking at him in puzzlement: "What's wrong... Uh, why are you covered in blood?"

Weren't they supposed to be acquiring equipment? How were they back so soon?

"The equipment you wanted. I brought it for you."