Chapter 52: Tax Collection Only Within Machine Gun Range

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Protagonist:

Milton

Mins

Because of the intense gunfire, the town's road conditions were surprisingly good; at most seven or eight minutes, and the convoy would reach the black market.

Milton had been monitoring Brandon's vital signs.

"Boss... hah, I, my leg has no feeling, am I going to have it amputated? If I get amputated, will you fire me?"

"That's because I used a tourniquet; with no blood supply, of course you have no feeling." Milton said, "First, your leg is still there; second, even if you're disabled, I'll transfer you to a desk job, I won't fire you."

"......"

While chatting, Milton also watched Brandon's lips and nail beds, counting his respiratory rate in his mind.

The more he counted Brandon's respiratory rate, the more alarmed Milton became.

Only eight breaths per minute...

No, only six!

This was extreme respiratory distress!

His lips and nail beds were obviously cyanotic, with severe arrhythmia...

The precursor to cardiopulmonary arrest!

"He's going into cardiopulmonary arrest!" Milton suddenly looked up and slapped Flora's seat hard, "'Medicine Bottle', give me the adrenaline from the glove compartment!"

The adrenaline injector redeemed from the panel earlier—unexpectedly it would actually come in handy today.

Adrenaline could stimulate two types of adrenaline receptors, enhancing myocardial contractility, increasing coronary perfusion pressure, and increasing the possibility of autonomous circulation recovery.

The side effect was that it would increase myocardial oxygen consumption and worsen systemic tissue hypoxia—in other words, it was equivalent to squeezing out the body's last bit of function, belonging to drinking poison to quench thirst.

But now he couldn't care about that much; on the car there was no way to perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation on Brandon!

If he went into cardiopulmonary arrest in the car, he'd truly be dead!

"Luz, drive the car steady." Milton took the adrenaline injector, lifted Brandon's clothes, "Intravenous injection, dosage 1mg, one dose every 3 minutes."

Adrenaline took effect in almost 5 seconds; Brandon, who originally only had exhalation without inhalation, stabilized quite a bit.

Brandon also felt his body beginning to burst with strength and vitality, and he was somewhat surprised: "Boss... I, I seem to be better?"

"This isn't your own strength." Milton glanced at his watch, "Lie still, don't move around."

"Oh, okay."

Three minutes later, two off-road vehicles sped to Old Street and stopped directly at the door of the Black Clinic.

The Black Clinic's doors and windows were tightly closed, but the people in the car noticed that the living area on the second floor of the clinic had some not very obvious movement coming from it.

Someone's there!

"'Medicine Bottle', block all routes the doctor might use to escape!"

"Received."

Milton injected another 1mg of adrenaline into Brandon, pushed the door open and got out, drew his M29, and fired several shots directly at the Black Clinic's door lock.

Then he kicked the door open with one foot, walked into the clinic, and called toward the second floor: "You have ten seconds to come down. The countdown starts now, ten."

"Nine..."

The doctor and assistant hiding upstairs first scanned their possible escape routes, and after discovering that even under the side windows there were people guarding, they could only helplessly come downstairs.

The doctor raised both hands, his tone extremely helpless: "Sigh, I knew it as soon as I heard the gunfire. In principle, I won't perform surgery for official personnel."

This would make many people worry that the clinic was colluding with the police, making them afraid to come for treatment.

Moreover, official personnel could completely go to the town's private hospital for treatment and didn't need to come to his place.

"Now the principle is in my hands." Milton couldn't be bothered to talk nonsense with him, "My companion suffered a gunshot wound, left femoral artery rupture, open pneumothorax—can you do it?"

The doctor didn't dare say he couldn't do it, but still carefully asked: "Um, uh, alright, you're 'Boss's' people, I'll make an exception just this once... the surgery can be done, but are you sure he's still alive?"

Any of these injuries could take a life in a short time... with slightly worse luck, he could be dead in 30 seconds.

Milton turned his head and ordered: "Carry Brandon in."

At the same time, Milton also quickly glanced into the operating room... the equipment was barely complete, the models were quite old, even the one-way valve was modified from a hand pump.

But fortunately, the operating room looked very hygienic.

The doctor had the two assistants make the corresponding preparations, and after completing his own sterilization, transferred Brandon onto the operating table.

"Very professional first aid; otherwise the injured person would already be dead. Hmm... should be savable, let's start with a blood transfusion. I happen to have a bit of O-negative blood in reserve here, very expensive, very expensive, I went to great trouble to buy it, want to use it? I'm afraid that by the time the blood type is tested, the injured person will already be dead."

Milton didn't consider the cost issue at all: "Is it hygienic?"

The doctor smiled: "Cleaner than a baby girl just born from her mother's belly. Hmm, you can come in to watch, but you must sterilize first."

"Try to save his leg."

"Okay."

After saying that, the doctor and the two assistants entered the surgical state—anesthesia, blood transfusion, fluid infusion, oxygen therapy... everything proceeded in an orderly manner.

The anesthesia equipment of this Black Clinic was also extremely primitive, appearing to use an Intermittent Valve from the British Oxford Company—this was a low-cost, mechanical anesthesia gas control valve that could only manually adjust the intermittent release of anesthesia gas, requiring extremely high skill from the doctor, otherwise respiratory suppression or the tragedy of waking up during surgery would occur.

After simply treating the pneumothorax, ensuring the airway was restored, confirming blood pressure and heart rate were stable, and determining Brandon could temporarily survive, the doctor looked at Brandon's left leg and examined it.

"Huh, the femoral artery is severed, I can't find the blood vessel... it should be secondary injury caused when you moved the injured person. I don't blame you, the situation was urgent then, I know."

The blood vessel completely severed?

Hearing this, Milton frowned... Could it be that Brandon's left leg really couldn't be saved?

The doctor pondered for a moment, then suddenly looked up and asked: "Um, 'Hell Tax Collector', can you roughly estimate when his femoral artery completely ruptured?"

It should have been when they were loading it onto the truck.

Milton had no mood to care about nicknames at this time, and answered without hesitation: "Seven minutes, or eight minutes ago."

"Mid-to-distal femoral artery, even if it's eight minutes, it may have retracted 5 centimeters, or 6 centimeters, toward the thigh root."

This doctor who had handled countless gunshot and blast wounds did not hesitate for a moment, picked up the scalpel, aimed at the position above the gunshot wound, and cut open a new wound.

"Found it!"

The doctor suddenly grabbed the vascular clamp, forcefully thrust it into the new wound, forcibly pulled out the contracted blood vessel, and began suturing.

The sound of tools and flesh intertwining was truly horrifying.

The operating table at this time was splattered with fresh blood, comparable to a slaughterhouse.

Milton watched the doctor use polypropylene suture to sew the blood vessel together, watched the assistant loosen the rotary tourniquet, watched the artery resume transporting blood, and finally let out a long breath.

After doing surgery for a while, the doctor's hand movements slowed down without warning.

Milton immediately asked: "Was the surgery successful? Was the leg saved?"

The doctor didn't even raise his head, his tone a bit heavy: "The leg was saved, life probably can be too, but the rest I cannot guarantee."

Milton sucked in a breath: "Why? Because of infection?"

The doctor smiled bitterly and shook his head: "Not infection, I have broad-spectrum antibiotics here... mainly because the shrapnel in the lungs is shattered too thoroughly, I don't have particularly professional equipment here, can only rely on a strong flashlight to illuminate the wound, judge shrapnel position by observing tissue reflection with the naked eye, debridement like this will likely have remnants."

"Even if he survives, the sequelae will be severe."

"Most situations I can actually handle, but the shrapnel in his lungs is really too shattered and too much, I cannot give you an absolute guarantee."

No professional medical equipment...

Medical equipment shortage...

Milton's mind was abnormally clear, he almost instantly thought of that Fan Kang Gang truck full of medical supplies that he had previously seized.

This truck was the source of the blood-deep hatred between him and the Fan Kang Gang!

Milton clearly remembered, inside the truck there was a portable X-ray imaging screen — produced by East Germany's VEB, originally a KGB tool for checking if prisoners hid things inside their bodies, after the Soviet Union disintegrated it was labeled "medical equipment" and smuggled everywhere.

This thing, estimated to be equipment the Fan Kang Gang would use when doing human smuggling, drugs, or even narcotics.

But as long as we have this X-ray imaging screen, the debridement work can be safe and thorough!

A bold, but highly feasible plan formed in Milton's mind.

Horn's intelligence previously mentioned, Station Chief Varta took most of his forces away, ran to Mexico to sign a contract with Fan Kang Gang Leader Raoul.

In other words, now the Checkpoint only has a small amount of Station Chief's manpower left, and Menard's faction!

Horn also said, Menard wants to negotiate with me, Menard probably would be extremely happy to see Varta's power suppressed, happy to see Varta and Fan Kang Gang's cooperation collapse, so he will most likely remain neutral.

And if the Fan Kang Gang cannot get back this truck they are desperate for, the fragile cooperation and trust between the Checkpoint Station Chief and the Fan Kang Gang Leader will collapse in an instant.

In other words, as long as we seize the truck, we can both seize a batch of medical supplies and sow discord between the Checkpoint and the Fan Kang Gang!

Let's do it!

"Do your best to keep him alive." Milton instructed the doctor, "I'll go get you equipment."

"Middle of the night where are you going to get... you can't be planning to rob a hospital right? I advise you still don't go, after you attacked last time, their security increased an estimated 10 times."

Milton ignored the doctor, turned and left the operating room, arrived at the hall.

Luz hurried forward: "Boss, how is Brandon?"

"Temporarily alive." Milton replied simply, "You guard the clinic, I'll go collect a tax first."

Luz was completely baffled: "Huh? Tax? What tax?"

"Hell Tax Collector" started again? This time he's taking a machine gun to whose house to collect tax? In just three days, how many battles has this been?

How come he has to squeeze in tax collection while doing surgery?

"Corrupt Checkpoint officials attempt to illegally sell smuggled medical supplies personally seized by me." Milton spoke blandly, "I'm going to write them a ticket."

Luz froze: "You, you wouldn't be... planning to rob that Fan Kang Gang truck?!"

Too crazy, but... also indeed too imaginative!

Milton stepped out the clinic door first, ordered: "'Medicine Bottle', bring your people, assemble at Black Pharmacy, go get equipment... there's work to do."

Flora scratched her head, sighed: "... this is only the first day signing the contract, this much trouble already? Okay, where's the easy money in earning big bucks. Anyway we can't afford the breach penalty either."

"Departure departure!"