Working as a police officer in Mexico

Washington.

Light rain is falling.

FBI Director Floyd I. Clarke is driving his old muscle car, a 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454 LS6...

It's been around for twenty years now, damn it.

The fact that it still runs shows it's well-maintained; clearly, he takes good care of it.

But now his expression is grim and serious, with an uncertain look in his eyes.

He drove to a buffet restaurant, parked the car in an alleyway, tossed the key to a young man who came out, and silently walked in through the back door.

The young man got in the car and started the "tour", which meant he was responsible for... wandering around the city.

And although the back door and front entrance of the restaurant are in the same building, there's a clear separation between them. So, people dining in the front have no idea there's a "secret base" in the back.

With a gloomy face, Floyd I. Clarke went upstairs to see a man already seated in a lavishly decorated private room. It was obvious he stood up politely when Clark entered, smiling.

"Reinhard Tristan Eugen, didn't I tell you not to contact me?" he said, nearly gritting his teeth.

"I've already helped you too much!"

Damn!

Listening to this, it was evident that he had been selling out United States interests in private for a while now.

But then again...

If he were truly that patriotic, the Mexican Intelligence Department would've assassinated him a long time ago.

"Heh heh, don't be anxious, my friend. Sit sit sit," Reinhardt said smilingly.

Director Ike Clark hesitated but sat down with a dark expression. He glanced at the food in front of him, feeling no appetite, and prompted, "Just say what you have to say, I don't have time to waste with you here."

Seeing the urgency in his demeanor, Reinhardt clicked his tongue twice and leaned forward, "Help us eliminate the Rumsfeld family member locked below the Pentagon."

"Impossible!"

"Absolutely impossible!"

Upon hearing this, Director Ike Clark jumped up abruptly, raising his voice involuntarily.

"Don't rush to refuse."

Reinhardt tossed a black bag from his feet over; the zipper wasn't fully zipped, making the stacks of greenbacks inside clearly visible.

"This contains 3 million US dollars cash, another 3 million if successful. Don't hastily refuse, Director Yide. I accidentally looked at your financial report, internal conflict caused Wall Street stocks to plummet, and you evaporated over 4 million at the least. Sizzle, sizzle, you still have to pay the mortgage each month, six mistresses outside, and your kids need to go to school. Don't you think..."

"If you go bankrupt, what will happen to you?"

"Of course, you're not lacking money. FBI funds are sufficient for you to think of ways, but your brother lost 2.2 million US dollars in Madagascar. If this debt isn't paid, those gamblers could very well chop his hands off."

Director Ike Clark looked grim.

Because everything his counterpart said was true.

Those underhanded people don't care who your brother is or who your father-in-law is. Haven't they entertained big shots before?

If you don't pay, they will come for real. There've been quite a few instances of United States officials being held against their will.

FBI Director?

Power can be said to be big, but not big; it's pretty much just that.

Director Ike Clark doesn't dare go hard against the capitalists.

Seeing the expression on his face, Reinhardt chuckled lightly, "It's easy for you, isn't it?"

"15 million!"

"And once it's done, help us get out of the United States." My Virtual Library Empire (M|V|LE1MPYR) thanks you for reading at the source.

Director Ike Clark wasn't sure if he was already suspected, but if he did this, he'd definitely be exposed.

Of course, he had to make a big score.

A run to Russia, a run to Asia, but staying in the United States was out.

"I don't trust you; transfer another 6 million to my anonymous card in Africa."

Reinhardt pondered briefly, "No problem, we are always generous to our own people."

"If you try to screw me over, we'll all go down together!!"

Director Ike Clark grabbed the wine glass on the table, drank it dry, then smashed it to the floor heavily. With red eyes, he struggled to carry the 3 million cash away.

Reinhard maintained his smile the whole time; he appeared honest but was actually extremely ruthless.

"Boss, are we really agreeing to his terms?" The underling who had been standing at the door for a long time came over to ask in a low voice.

"That fool doesn't know that the CIA chick has been investigating him for so long. Keeping him around will blow up sooner or later; learn to make use of waste."

"Terms?"

"Later, dump his entire family in the Pacific Ocean. Received our money and still wants to retire peacefully?"

"Clueless."

Reinhard chuckled and sipped the ginseng soup in front of him.

"It's really fresh—"

Director Ike Clarke just descended the stairs, and his old car came back. He threw the black bag onto the passenger seat and drove away.

He headed to a house he bought in the suburbs, managing to carry the money inside, opened the basement, and turned on the light.

He could see an iron door inside, complete with a password lock, and when he opened it, the scene unfolded before him.

Three shelves full of cash!

Plus some gold!

The air reeked of printing ink.

This was the wealth he had gathered after being in this position; if an official doesn't embezzle, then what kind of official is he?

Of course, this refers to a United States official.

He tossed the bag inside, sat heavily on the sofa, lit himself a cigarette, and, squinting, his mind began plotting how to eliminate the Rumsfeld family member.

Mmm...

Professional ethics are decent.