Chapter 3: Taxes Only Within Machine Gun Range! Chapter 2: Already Honest, Please Let Me Go

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Protagonist:

Milton

Mins

The Station Chief has problems too!

No, should say, the Station Chief is very likely the problem itself.

After the initial shock, Milton calmed down and thought carefully, unexpectedly feeling it was quite reasonable...

Menard is just an ordinary Inspector, could he really form cliques, collude with criminal gangs, and engage in rampant corruption right under the Station Chief's nose without being discovered?

In a checkpoint where corruption is rampant, is it really possible to have a clean Station Chief?

Milton finally recognized his current situation.

No one to rely on, no one to trust.

Even worse than that... because Station Chief Varta wants to collude with the Fan Kang Gang, how could he not conveniently get rid of Milton to add another bargaining chip to his negotiating table?

Fortunately, fortunately he hadn't spoken his plan just now.

Otherwise... probably just as he said it here, Menard's side would receive intelligence within ten-plus minutes.

Milton felt a chill run through him.

Varta's tone was still very kind, seeming to truly care about "the future of young people," even willing to delay important meeting schedules for this: "We're all working for the checkpoint, serving people, transferring you two apart is a bit of a good thing, what do you say?"

Every word was concern.

Expression and gaze were both kind.

Who could imagine such a senior, just a few minutes ago possibly smiling maliciously, discussing how to chop off his own head!

"Really! That's great!" Milton forced himself to put on a very happy expression, "To be honest, about that previous matter, I also feel extremely regretful."

When still weak, better play the grandson for now.

Give the opposite side the illusion that he has already been honest and begs to be let go.

Varta slowly put away the things on the table, took out a form: "Come look, these are all positions currently short-staffed."

"You can go guard those detained smugglers, if lucky, maybe you can ask something out of them; back when I wasn't Station Chief yet, I had a colleague who made a fortune this way."

"And here... you can assist in handling these dangerous contraband items; if you're smart enough, you can earn a lot of money."

"......"

Milton quickly scanned the form... most positions, said to be far from Menard, upon closer look were still under the Station Chief's complete control.

No good!

None of these positions are good.

Just then, Milton noticed a position with extremely many vacancies.

"Sir, this Customs Pursuit Officer, what does it do?"

Because of the Guatemala Civil War, and being far from Central, this checkpoint has largely escaped government control, becoming a privately contracted station similar to a "Tax Farming System," most positions and ranks are unofficial, chaotic to the point of being completely incomprehensible.

In other words, whatever position the Station Chief needs, he arranges that position, not following official procedures.

Varta furrowed his brow: "That position... let me put it this way, we occasionally discover through various channels some people who passed the checkpoint but did not fully pay the taxes."

"And the Pursuit Officer is responsible for pursuing those taxes."

"Milton, I must remind you, this is a very boring and hard job; no one knows where those people hide, searching for them is a waste of time. Moreover, no one knows what dangers will be encountered when going door-to-door to collect supplementary taxes; many smugglers have weapons in their hands."

"In fact, no one at the checkpoint fully does this job; they're busy inside the station, only going to do it once every few days."

Poor and busy, and dangerous besides; this bitter assignment has always been thrown to those ostracized at the checkpoint.

But Milton saw a glimmer of hope in this position!

Being able to go out every few days means having space to completely escape the gazes inside the station.

Those ostracized are assigned here, meaning the colleagues here are at least not the Station Chief's spies, not Menard's accomplices.

What's more... normally collected Customs Duty yields System Points equal to 1 times the monetary value, while confiscating contraband of three different levels corresponds to 2, 3, 4 times.

And the Customs Duty and contraband pursued back yield 5 times the points.

High risk, but high returns!

The job they see as poor and busy still has promise in Milton's view.

With the System's help, the difficulty of pursuing these "smugglers" is much, much lower than normal, because Milton can exchange points for clues, weapons, bulletproof vests, Basic Attributes...

Once firepower comes up, there won't be danger.

If there is, it means firepower isn't fierce enough.

"Sounds like a job full of honor." Milton smiled, handing over the whole pack of cigarettes in his hand, "I'd like to try."

According to checkpoint rules, contraband like tobacco, alcohol, or similar second- and third-level contraband can mostly become the Inspectors' Spoils.

While weapons, anesthetic drugs, and such need to be turned over to the checkpoint.

Varta pushed the cigarette box back with a strong sense of justice, expression concerned and serious: "What kind of prank is this? Don't joke about work matters, and don't joke about your life."

This hypocritical expression is more disgusting than General Tso's Chicken in American-style Chinese Cuisine wrapped with concentrated Fanta...

"No, Sir." Milton imitated the Station Chief, shaking his head full of a sense of justice, "If we let these smugglers go, the deeds of them getting rich through crime will quickly spread throughout this Area."

"Even if most contraband is seized by us, the voices of these few will still make many people breed criminal thoughts... I once read in a book that scholars call this 'Survivor Bias'."

In this godforsaken place, junior high knowledge can baffle the vast majority of people.

Varta furrowed his brow, took a good while, before understanding the meaning of the word.

"I see." His brow relaxed, smiling as he stood up and patted Milton's shoulder, "Indeed, we cannot let the existence of 'Survivors' go unchecked; very good, very good, this is the spirit of young people."

"Then it's settled. From now on, you go out to inspect once every two days; on ordinary days you still do your original work at the station. I'll approve the search-and-seizure paperwork for you. A mission this dangerous — one pistol isn't enough. In a moment, go to the Equipment Depot and pick a new weapon; just say I authorized it."

Milton collected the pushed-over cigarette box without changing expression, straightened his waist, and saluted: "Yes, sir!"

Varta withdrew his gaze from that pack of cigarettes and smiled amiably: "Good. Go work."

After leaving the room, Milton walked to the Equipment Depot not far away where old weapons were placed.

The next things to do were simple — check customs duties, earn points, exchange for weapons, develop a faction, and then kill that son of a bitch Station Chief!

Milton glanced at the assortment of weapons in the rack — a true "ten-thousand-nations make" — sighed, took out a weapon he recognized fairly well, and, relying on the original body's memory, gave the firearm's mechanical parts a simple check.

Old, severely worn, but still usable.

Just then, Horn, who happened to be patrolling over to this side, came up from behind and nodded approvingly: "Haha! I knew you'd pick the AK-47, real man! That AR thing is only used by women."

Milton picked up three magazines, put them at his waist, signed in the register, and simultaneously replied with a sentence: "Fuck off, this is a Type 56 Assault Rifle."

In this shitty poor place, how could a genuine AK-47 ever fall to him to use?

Being able to get a Type 56 Assault Rifle made by Factory 386 or Peshawar would count as not bad.

At least they're tough and durable, with practicality in harsh environments superior to other American-made or European weapons.

Actually, the Swedish M45 Submachine Gun is also quite good, but unfortunately, Milton couldn't find that weapon in this pile of scrap copper and rotten iron.

Besides, what's wrong with the AR, or the M16 for that matter? It's a good gun too, okay.

Milton had just picked up the gun when an old Toyota Hilux SR5 Pickup Truck drove in from outside the Checkpoint and stopped at Milton's inspection position.

Horn turned to look at the vehicle, took a drag of his cigarette, and said with schadenfreude: "This piece of junk that's about to fall apart — I reckon there's no oil or water to be skimmed from it."

However, Milton's gaze merely paused slightly, and Weiwei shook his head: "Not necessarily."