Working as a police officer in Mexico

"So, do we still support Victor in fighting the drug traffickers?" Ralf Feld, with his hooked nose, looked like no good man.

"Is there a conflict?"

Richard James Curl spread his hands with a smile, "Fighting drug traffickers is an explanation to the American people; the President is doing it for votes, but he doesn't want a powerful neighbor to emerge during his term. The pain is for the people, while politicians need reality."

It's funny when you think about it; among all the past American policymakers, only two were grassroots candidates who made a surprise rise: Lincoln, the backwoodsman woodcutter from the north, and Jimmy Carter, the peanut farmer from the south. And the others?

Just nepotism.

Old Bush's descendants were bound to take over the White House, and of course, they didn't want a strong "tenant" next door.

In the United States, the elite has always held the right to rule.

The people?

They will turn on each other sooner or later!

"Is that what you think too, sir?" asked Ralf Feld.

But faced with such a question, seemingly easy to answer, Richard James Curl paused.

Looking at Ralf Feld, he uttered three words that were shocking enough.

"Does it matter?"

Ralf Feld stared wide-eyed at his interlocutor, murmuring.

Right, does the President knowing or not knowing matter to the CIA?

It's true that Old Bush was once in charge of the CIA, naturally fostering a closeness that made many people think the CIA were like royal relatives, but little did they know...

The CIA wants to be the Emperor Emeritus!

Many things are beyond the President's decision-making, but the CIA can decide, such as, certain disobedient "dogs."

If the dirty secrets of this organization were ever dug up, the whole world would have to take notice.

Then...

How did Kennedy die?

Such a high-ranking official, killed by a retired serviceman named Lee Harvey Oswald? And yet two days later, the nightclub owner took him down.

Would the CIA not know?

Of course, they knew!

Even!

The CIA assassinated Kennedy!

Rumble~

Suddenly, a thunderclap boomed in the sky, a lightning strike tearing through the calm, exploding just outside Richard James Curl's glass window.

He picked up his coffee, took a sip, enjoying the sensation.

Power!

"Provide some more help to Juarez and the Gulf Group, and..." Richard James Curl looked at his confidant, "find Guzman as soon as possible. His being alive irks me!"

That little cousin Shorty taking up arms for a coup? It was the CIA stirring up trouble from within.

"Understood."

Richard James Curl looked out of the floor-to-ceiling window to see people scurrying indoors to escape the rain, scuttling like ants.

If the CIA wants to get rid of someone, they've never failed to do so!

Of course... except for the FBI.

The unfortunate demise of the previous boss, Webster, was a big blow to their reputation, one they needed to recover.

Both personally and professionally...

Victor was a thorn in the side!

...

Latvia.

At that time, it was still part of the Soviet Union.

In the capital, Riga.

In an abandoned, derelict stone house in the wilderness.

Best, the "Hope" company president, was a pitiable sight, curled up in a corner shivering from the cold.

Desperately muttering to himself.

"Victor... bless! Victor bless!"

He had struggled to make it here from the Soviet Union, his bodyguards were dead!

Damn!

The KGB bastards fishing for breaches, the Uranium-235 purchase order was legitimate, that Soviet general was surprised to see a switch in the person but validated the order and agreed to the deal. Right after the transaction completed, the KGB stormed in.

What a guy!

That Soviet general, somewhat tipsy, was headstrong.

He and his guards opened fire on the KGB at the drop of a hat!

Best took the chance to run, and such a warrior, naturally, was done for.

His bodyguards were killed on the escape route.

Best was no better off; although uninjured, starving was a terrible ordeal.

He ran all the way to the Baltic Sea.

Damn it was cold.

Bang, bang, bang...

The sudden knocking startled Best, tensing his entire body as his pupils shrank, holding his breath.

It was so remote here, who could it be?

He panicked inwardly, fear evident in his eyes; of course, who wouldn't be? Getting caught by the KGB, was it surrender or surrender?

Click~

A crisp unlocking sound to Best felt like an explosion, a beam of light shone directly on his face.

Just as he was about to surrender, a gruff voice spoke near his ear, "Mr. Best?"

He looked up to see a man with a full beard and sinister eyes staring at him, wearing a bulletproof vest and loose combat pants.

Behind him stood five or six men, aptly positioned at the door, alert to the outside.

"I'm from the Mexico News Department's Omega A Team, ordered to bring you home. My name is Khalid Baskabilu, nickname: Ghost Face!" The man tried to squeeze out a smile, but it was truly ugly.

There are mistakes in names, but nicknames are unmistakable. Find adventures on empire

Mexicans?

Best couldn't help but clutch the man's arm, "You've finally come, finally!"

"Governor Victor doesn't abandon anyone. Let's get out of the Soviet Union first," Khalid Baskabilu helped him up.

Best's legs were rigid from the cold, he looked clumsy.

Khalid frowned and hoisted him up.

"Hey, hey, hey! Put me down!" Best's face turned red as he protested.

"You're too slow, sir," grumbled Khalid Baskabilu as he carried Best towards the door.