Working as a police officer in Mexico
Chapter 926 - 486: The United States Doesn't Welcome You, Come to Mexico Ah!_2

He wanted to run, but...

Surrounded on all sides—North, South, East, West—everywhere were FBI agents, each of them keeping their eyes locked on him.

His leg had been shattered by a gunman's shot, back when, if he hadn't been standing outside a police station, he'd surely be dead by now!

Now, he could only come here every day… play the clown. Even if it disgusted Clinton, at least he could stay alive.

The man was someone obsessed with saving face; how could he possibly allow himself to be killed right at the White House gates?

But...

This was no long-term solution.

He...

Slowly broke down amidst the sounds of public derision.

Through his blurred vision, he saw Clinton's secretary come out hastily, glance toward Angel Urenia, her expression conflicted with pity as she worked to suppress the piercing stench from her nose, crouched low, and whispered, "Sir does not wish to see you. These are the funds he's offering; he says… he hopes you'll stop doing things that betray the United States anymore."

Looking at the US dollars in the secretary's hand...

Franklin's smug face on those bills seemed to sneer at him.

He snatched the money and ripped it in half with force, yelling, "Fake! Fake! It's all fake! Clinton, fuck your mother!"

With anger and despair, he flung the torn bills into the air, glittering like the scattering flowers of the Heavenly Maiden.

The secretary stared with her mouth agape, shocked at the scene before her; that was thousands of dollars, more than enough for him to survive.

Words lingered on her lips but couldn't be spoken; eventually, she could only sigh deeply.

Behind her, in the crowd of tourists, the "guides" began snidely commenting.

"Look at that… look at that, that must be Clinton's personal sponsorship. Yet he goes and destroys currency; people like that should be immediately arrested!"

"Traitor!"

A banana flew through the air, thrown by someone in the crowd, followed by a barrage of fruits that came hurtling in succession.

Angel Urenia was covered in "scorn," "curse words," and "humiliation."

His whole frame slumped, his face hidden by his hair, but suddenly his emotions surged unbearably.

And he broke down sobbing outright.

The greatest regret of his life: being a dog for the Americans!

The sky gradually darkened...

Heavy clouds piled high.

The rainstorm came without warning, pounding mercilessly down, sending the tourists scrambling to open umbrellas or dash to the nearby shops.

The guards kept their distance, simply observing Angel Urenia quietly, as he desperately scraped the ground with his cart, urging it to move faster.

"Look at him..."

"Doesn't he look like a dog?"

A guard couldn't resist laughing, adding, "A drenched dog!"

The nearby FBI agents and other guards chuckled in unison.

Humans...

Inherently seek so-called superiority in others, ridiculing a man who was once a Chief of Staff. Don't you think that's pretty cool?

Even though the strong only bully the strong.

But in this world, there are few true "strong."

Even the United States is nothing more than a soft-bellied coward.

A nation that values petty gains over life, hesitates to take big risks for greater ends, full of schemes with no resolve—no heroism in sight!

"Aren't you FBI supposed to be tailing him?" a guard asked the agents smoking beside him.

The agent shrugged. "He's like a dog hauling itself back to its kennel. We all know where he'll go. On a rainy day like this, I'm not bothering to follow."

The other two FBI employees nearby nodded in agreement.

They decided to wait until the skies cleared before resuming surveillance.

Angel Urenia strained his whole body dragging the cart forward.

Now, he lived...

Not far from the White House, in a park where a kind benefactor left behind a… dog kennel. It was reasonably large, and he lived there.

Home?

Home had long since disappeared!

What home could there possibly be?

He painstakingly crawled into the kennel that had grown worn and tattered.

He wasn't without effort; he'd asked others for help before. But who would lend a hand?

The Vice President, Albert Gore, who had stood by him, resigned and went to settle quietly as a farmer.

But on one random day in April, while driving a tractor, he fell into a ravine, crushed by the several tons of machinery.

The irony of it!

Dead without ceremony, noted only by a few minor newspapers, like a sarcastic jab at the absurdity of dying like that.

As for the funds he had hidden before...

Long confiscated. Reason? Does anyone ever need a reason?

Now, nothing was left except to keep breathing!

Like a stray dog.

Angel Urenia curled himself into a ball, shivering in the cold wind, his stomach growling incessantly.

Rustle—Rustle—

Suddenly, footsteps caught his attention, and his body, tense and fearful by nature now, froze instantly. He sprang his eyes upward, only to see before him a man—suited, holding an umbrella, quietly watching him. "Interested in grabbing a drink, Mr. Urenia?"

!!!

"I don't know you people." He hurriedly moved to stand up, his instincts screaming that something was off. A worthless man like him—who would willingly invite him?

As he spoke, he began to rise.

"Do you want to remain a dog here forever?"

The suit-wearing man's soft voice sharply pierced through, sending Angel Urenia's entire body into a tremble.

"Why not try exacting revenge on Clinton?"

"Who the hell are you!"

Stepping forward, the suited man extended the umbrella to shield him too, the pounding torrent of rain hitting and sliding off its sides.

"Augustine Przybylski."

Angel Urenia muttered the name under his breath, his pupils shrinking instantly. "Mexico's News Bureau Director!"

"You dare come to the United States!"

The News Bureau was notorious; Victor had established it up north, naming this intelligence agency "News Bureau," now one of Mexico's three top intelligence organizations, alongside Internal Affairs Bureau (Thirteen Protectors) and the Mexico Counterintelligence Bureau.

And all contending fiercely for supremacy.

It was rumored...

The Mossad Director's private jet shot down over Afghanistan—was their doing.

Angel, as a former Chief of Staff, knew secrets aplenty.

"Why wouldn't I come? Does the United States have tigers or lions? If so, just pull out their teeth; turn them into dogs barking instead, wouldn't that suffice?"

Augustine Przybylski looked straight at him. "We've observed you for a long time. If you want revenge, join us. The General and tens of thousands of soldiers will protect you."

Like the umbrella shielding him from wind and rain.

"Can you let me kill him myself?" Angel Urenia hissed through gritted teeth. Treason?

"If this country doesn't love me, why should I love it back!"

"The bombing at the National Park was orchestrated through Hydra."

"Hydra belongs to Mexico."

Augustine Przybylski didn't provide a direct reply, only revealing this secret.

Angel's face twitched, his pupils dilating, stunned into silence for nearly ten seconds...

Then burst out laughing, uncontrollably, tears streaming as he let out hysterical laughter. "Hydra—Ha! Ha! I knew it, I knew it!!"

Of course, no sudden, inexplicable "organization" ever truly exists; always hidden masterminds jockeying from behind.

"Please, come in. Rest assured, Clinton won't last long; his life is ours to take."

Augustine Przybylski opened the door to a Bentley, gesturing invitingly.

Faced with the luxury interior, in contrast to years of dealing with humanity's darkness and societal contempt, Angel Urenia actually felt a little hesitant.

"Got clean clothes? Don't want to dirty the car... hard to clean."

Hearing this, Augustine squinted his eyes, smiled, and shook his head slightly. "Our General said it himself: The 21st century is approaching, and what matters most? Talent! Cars—they're just dead objects. Your value far exceeds this. In Mexico, you'll have more than you ever imagined here in America."

Surely, if those words don't move you, what will?

Like drowning and suddenly someone pulling you out.

Angel wiped away what might've been tears or rainwater from his face and climbed into the vehicle.

The Bentley—priceless in appearance—slowly left, disappearing amidst the downpour.

"I know why you've come for me."

Inside the car, Angel Urenia spoke gravely, inhaling deeply. "I know countless government secrets, as well as private scandals. Clinton made me a part of plenty."

"For example?"

Augustine Przybylski unscrewed a bottle of mineral water as he asked.

"Clinton has erectile dysfunction; he always needs medicine, and he's a voyeuristic pervert. His wife was violated by someone else..."

"Pfft..."

His companion couldn't help but spit out water, hacking in shock. "You're serious?"

"He enjoys being a submissive dog, kneeling on the ground and barking."

"He likes recording videos, keeping them hidden in his mistress's house. And, coincidentally, I know that mistress—she's greedy. Give me two hundred thousand dollars, and I'll help you get the footage."

Augustine Przybylski clapped his shoulder, exclaiming with delight, "No problem!"

There it is...

A so-called ally who sheds moral pretenses understands you better than your enemies ever will.

"With you joining Mexico, we'll be unstoppable!"

An hour and a half later...

The rain finally ceased.

The FBI agents responsible for monitoring him finally emerged, but when they arrived at the park—where the dog kennel lay—and found it empty, their previously indifferent expressions instantly turned panicked.

"This is bad!"

"Angel has vanished!!"

....

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