Working as a police officer in Mexico

November 17th!

The United States and Mexico signed the "Tijuana Treaty" in front of the world's journalists in Tijuana.

Click clack~

The sound of camera shutters continually resounded as Donald Rumsfeld and Victor's hands were tightly clasped together.

But suddenly, Victor felt the pressure on his hand increase, and from the corner of his eye, he saw the dissatisfaction in the other's gaze.

Old geezer!@@novelbin@@

A sixty-year-old still acting tough?

Do you think I'm a pushover?

No, even monks would have to admit their shortcomings before me.

Victor squeezed back hard, and Donald Rumsfeld's face visibly stiffened.

But he still had to smile for the cameras.

The matters that followed would naturally be handled by the spokesperson; the two big shots didn't need to stay in the spotlight. As they came down from the stage, Donald suddenly remarked, "Young man, being too arrogant isn't good sometimes."

"Isn't arrogance part of being young?" Victor laughed and glanced over, "Or should I wait until I'm old and lying on a sickbed to start acting up?"

He paused, "This era belongs to the young. What right do the failures have to preach to others?"

His words obviously irked the old defense minister who was considered well-composed; he almost couldn't restrain himself from attacking Victor.

Taking a deep breath, "What about my two arrested colleagues?"

"They're suspected of insulting a leader and will enter the judicial process. To a great extent, they will be sent to mine coal," Casare said sternly from beside.

"He's American."

"He's a criminal!"

The two glared at each other until Victor waved his hand, "Let's step back a bit, 20 million US dollars and you take them both."

Donald Rumsfeld relaxed at the initial statement but nearly lost control at the latter half of it.

"20 million US dollars, are you trying to rob us?" another official spat in anger.

"What else do you expect?" Casare retorted, holding up a finger, "But robbery has no risks, unlike prostitution. If you hurry up the transfer, you might even catch Director Richard's funeral."

Northern Army members smirked and surrounded Victor as they left.

"Shameless, truly shameless, Mr. Donald, Victor shows no respect at all for the United States!"

Donald Rumsfeld looked at him, but his expression grew calmer, squinting towards Victor's retreating back, "Verbal protests are useless, Americans have never liked to fight with words..."

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"Do you think, the death of CIA Director Richard could be related to him?" Nicholas, the deputy commander, suddenly asked in a low voice.

"The CIA initiated no less than ten operations in Mexico against Victor, all of which failed, and moreover..."

The deputy commander looked around, and other accompanying officials, knowing the bosses needed to talk, quickly moved to create space.

"This decapitation attempt failed and the CIA thinks it's because someone leaked internal insights. Shortly after Richard grew suspicious, he died. There's too much coincidence here, and I don't believe in coincidences."

"You mean, silenced?!" Donald Rumsfeld furrowed his brow.

"I smell a conspiracy. In one year, three directors changed, two dead, CIA has lost its face completely in this moment."

The old defense minister, thus persuaded, also felt something amiss, "I'll speak to Old Bush about this; we must focus on this!"

Tricky...

White House.

"Are you suggesting he died of spontaneous cardiac arrest!" Old Bush clenched the report in his hand, staring at FBI Director Floyd I. Clarke, his voice stern.

The knuckles were visibly white from the grip.

"The forensic doctor said so."

Clarke sat back in his chair and paused, "Or maybe, that lover's XXX actually was poisoned."

Old Bush almost hurled the pencil holder next to him upon hearing this.

Can one speak such vulgar words in such a "sacred" place?

But then, it doesn't matter; the White House is dirty enough.

"Are you joking, Clarke? I don't like this kind of joke, you should know how embarrassed the U.S. Government is now, I'm branded in the pillar of historical shame!"

World intelligence agencies are mocking the CIA.

So freaking embarrassing.

If he had died in an assassination by anti-American forces, that would be one thing, but to die on a woman's belly...

My God.

Floyd I. Clarke had an indifferent expression; the FBI was already doing its best to live up to "American" standards.

But reportedly, many foreigners are sobbing heavily.

CIA really nurtures them too damn well.

The FBI is quite jealous.

"Did you find the mistress?"

Floyd I. Clarke shook his head, frowning, "I've mobilized the intelligence network and local police, but found nothing."

"A living person can't just vanish into thin air!" Old Bush slammed his hand on the table loudly.

Then, a knock on the door sounded, and the President's voice faltered as he sat down, "Come in."

His executive secretary, National Security Advisor Bahash Johnson, entered with a grave expression, "Sir, Richard's mistress has been found."

"Where is she?" Clarke hastily asked.

"In Austin, Texas, but she's already dead. She was sealed in a barrel and thrown into a river, eventually discovered by a scavenging old lady."

Bahash Johnson spoke solemnly.

Old Bush and Clarke were taken aback.

The atmosphere was eerie.

"A woman travels over a thousand kilometers to Texas in one day, amusing, really too amusing. It's not like she went to Austin just to hide herself in a barrel and commit suicide." Old Bush suddenly laughed, then his expression turned fierce, "What a poor provocation!"