Working as a police officer in Mexico

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"Where's the killer?"

"He suddenly died of a severe illness last night at the Vienna Police Department, before doctors could save him."

A sudden severe illness?

Do you think I look like a fucking idiot?

You might as well say he died jerking off...

That's really the old CIA trick, at least this time they didn't say he was shot eight times."

Victor's gaze fell on him, and then he suddenly smiled, "Well thank you, I trust that the CIA definitely won't mess this up."

Both men knew what was going on, but... they were both hypocritically dealing with each other.

"A portion of the 2.5 billion US dollars in military aid has already been delivered, and the rest will be settled within the next couple of days."

"Much appreciated."

Asmir Ward glanced at his watch before taking his leave, and Victor personally saw him out, even opening the car door for him.

The moment the other man stepped into the car, he hesitated, looked at Victor, and said, "Right now, the most important thing is the Iraq war, you understand?"

Victor nodded with a smile, then forcefully closed the car door after Asmir got in, waved goodbye, and watched as the car drove away.

Once the car was far enough away, Victor's facial expression tightened slightly, he snapped his fingers, extended two fingers, and naturally someone from behind provided him with a cigarette and lit it for him.

Taking a deep drag, Victor tilted his head back at a 45-degree angle and exhaled.

Everyone behind him dared not make a sound.

They could all feel that the boss was really angry!

"We're not kids anymore, are we? Jason."

Jason Bourne nodded from behind.

Victor looked at him and said, "That's right."

While nodding, he threw the half-smoked cigarette on the ground, "I have no parents to tell on you, but my chest really feels fucking awful, feel it."

As he spoke, he grabbed the hand of his lieutenant and placed it on his chest.

"Hear that? My heart is angry."

"I hear it."

"I am an adult, but sometimes I'm as childish as a kid, Jason." Victor took a deep breath and walked towards the house, raising his hand. "Tell the brothers, I'm feeling pissed off."

Jason Bourne's eyes lit up immediately.

He stood behind, swinging his hand forcefully.

"Hey!"

You fucking think I'll let go just because you say so?

CIA your fucking favorite, you biased without restraint?

Foster son not a real son?

I have to provide for your old age too, damn it, I'll kick away your wheelchair right now!

Victor can be forbearing in many situations.

But if you think my life is cheap, then let's see whose life is cheaper!

Go kill the CIA!

Let them understand what it means to provoke a common man's rage!

My life may be cheap, coming up from being a Jail Guard, but do you think your fucking American mutt lives are more valuable?

Damn it!

I'm going to tell you, the United States is too close to the Mexican madman!

...

United States. New York.

The famous Times Square.

This is a bustling district in Manhattan, known as the "Crossroads of the World."

Here you can see people of all skin colors and various unconventional attire.

An artist playing the violin upside down, a street performer sitting suspended in midair, and the like.

But in reality, most families aren't very wealthy; standing here is like being at the center of the world to them.

Their eyes show a mix of envy, greed, and unease, watching those wealthy people exiting the luxury stores, followed by a dozen employees carrying their bags.
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"Bang!"

Suddenly, a gunshot breaks the peace of the bustling scene, and everyone looks in the direction of the sound.

They see a young woman lying on the ground beside a Porsche, wearing stockings.

The gunman is a black man who, after killing her, fires three more shots at another older woman in the passenger seat!

The surrounding people finally react, screaming and scrambling to flee!

The black man, trembling, turns the gun on himself and pulls the trigger!

He commits suicide!

The police arrive quickly, but all they find are three dead bodies and bullet casings on the ground.

"Have the identities of the killer and victims been confirmed?" A police chief frowns with a sausage in his mouth, $4 ain't cheap.

"Chief, there's been a problem," a black officer with a beard comes over, frowning. "Can't track down the killer's ID, but we got IDs on the shot women."

"They were both off-duty CIA agents."

"???" The chief nearly chokes on his sausage, eyes bulging, banging his chest, his face turning red. "The FBI's doing?"

His subordinate looks embarrassed—was that an appropriate comment?

But clearly, everyone in the United States knows the animosity between the two intelligence agencies.

Ordinary police officers wouldn't have any special views about the other side's special status. In the United States, what can't happen?

Presidents have been killed a few times, what's the big deal if it's the CIA?

Just as the chief finishes giving instructions according to the protocol, the radio in the car beeps, and he stands by the window, reaching out to grab the radio, the other hand on his hip. "This is Smith."

"Shots fired at the entrance of Broadway on 23rd Street, resulting in the death of a family of seven, requesting backup!"

Officer Smith is shocked, "Understood, I'm on my way."

He's about to hurry off when the radio chimes in again, "Violent attack on Wall Street, gunman with an AK, OMG!"

Crisp gunshots can be heard over the line along with the "zzzz" noise of electrical interference.

Even a dumbass like Smith can tell something's off—aren't these shootings happening a little too close together? Could there be a connection between the victims? Could they all be CIA agents?

"Boss! Boss! Boss!"

The black officer runs over, looking at Smith with one eye wide open and the other barely awake, tripping over his feet, nearly falling over.

"What's with the panic?"

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