Farming Life Starting in Africa

After hanging up the phone, Rosen put the phone directly into the capsule space.

Two kilometers from the church entrance, Rosen parked his car on a side street without streetlights. He strolled leisurely along the sidewalk toward the church; there were very few pedestrians left on the road.

When he arrived at the church entrance, he did not stop to look around, but simply bent down naturally as he passed the entrance, as if he were tying his shoelaces.

He casually placed the small tin box on the steps by the door. The box wasn't big, and its matte black exterior made it inconspicuous at night.

After putting it away, he straightened up without looking back, continued walking along the street, then turned a corner at the next intersection and disappeared into the shadows of an alley.

Ten minutes later he was already sitting in the driver's seat of the Dodge Ram, driving off along a highway leading west.

He stopped beside an abandoned house ten kilometers away.

Then he launched a drone, with a two-meter-long thin rope attached to the bottom of the fuselage, the end of which was tied to a strong magnet for salvage.

The drone flew over the church in no time.

Less than an hour later, a dark-colored Chevrolet Tahoe pulled up in front of the church.

When the car door opened, the interior lights briefly illuminated two middle-aged white men in dark blue police uniforms.

As the two approached the church entrance, one of them shone a flashlight on the ground beside the steps and, as the beam of light moved, spotted the black metal box leaning against the corner of the wall.

His movements were not noticeably halted. He naturally bent down, reached out and picked up the tin box, took a small box from his coat pocket and put it inside, then closed the lid and put the tin box back in its original position.

The two didn't speak, turned around and got back into the car. The Chevrolet then drove away along the same road, its taillights flashing briefly as it turned the corner before disappearing into the night.

Rosen sat in the driver's seat of the Dodge Ram, watching the footage transmitted from the drone. He switched to thermal imaging mode as soon as the Chevrolet disappeared at the end of the street.

Along the streets surrounding the church, in cars parked on the roadside, in the canopy of trees, and in the shadows of the eaves of buildings across the street, there were seven faint red human figures that appeared to be crouching or leaning.

Rosen couldn't help but chuckle softly at the sight. He shook his head and slowly lowered the drone, allowing the magnet attached to the rope to descend gently, approaching the metal box.

As they descended, the CIA agents lying in ambush nearby discovered that a drone had been hovering overhead the whole time.

The strong magnet made a soft "clang" sound the moment it touched the surface of the metal box.

Then the drone steadily ascended to a higher altitude, and once it disappeared from everyone's sight, it flew away along the route it had taken.

The group of CIA agents could only stand there, looking at each other in bewilderment; they hadn't expected the cargo to simply fly away.

Fifteen minutes later, Rosen sat in the driver's seat of the Dodge Ram, with the opened metal box on the passenger seat.

Inside the box were two sets of small vials arranged in two rows. Rosen counted them; there were 30 blue and 30 green vials in the box. He put them away with satisfaction, then started the car and drove back.

On the way back, the Dodge Ram's engine was still running at low RPMs, the backlight of the instrument panel casting a soft orange halo in the cockpit, and the headlights sweeping across the sparse guardrails along the roadside.

As Lawson was driving around bored, he wondered when he would finally have smart features.

That way he can sleep in the back seat and let the car automatically return to Sunshine Farm.

At that moment, his own phone screen lit up on the passenger seat, showing that it was Guan Yuming calling.

"Little Luo, are you free the day after tomorrow? Come with me to Mexico."

Rosen glanced at the rearview mirror to make sure no headlights were approaching from behind before speaking, "Uncle Ming, didn't you say it would be a few more days?"

"Sigh, there's no other way." Guan Yuming's voice was a little lower than before. "Something has happened over there, and I need to go there ahead of time. You can come with me; we can go to Mexico together and see what it's like."

Rosen readily agreed, "Sure, where should I meet you tomorrow?"

It would be great if someone could take him to experience the Mexican culture first; he's really looking forward to playing in Mexico.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow. Eight o'clock in the morning, at the entrance of your space capsule." After saying that, Guan Yuming added, "Don't bring too much stuff, it's pretty much the same over there as here. Just bring a handy tool, the customs and culture there are a bit different from ours."

The next day at dawn, Rosen returned to Sunshine Farm. After catching up on sleep in the morning, he ate something simple and then drove his silver-gray G-Wagon toward downtown McAllen.

He was going to the gun shop to see what guns he was interested in.

This gun shop is located in the suburbs of McCarran, and it's considered one of the larger shops in the area. A wrought iron sign hangs at the entrance, featuring a faded bullseye pattern with peeling paint around the edges, but the letters at the bottom are still legible: First Shot.

When Lawson pushed open the door, a smell of engine oil and cleaning agents wafted towards him.

Various pistols and revolvers are displayed in glass cabinets against the wall, while long guns are mounted on the display wall, one after another, with their muzzles pointing in the same direction. The dark gray metal surfaces gleam with a warm luster under the light.

There is a closed door on the left behind the shop, with a sign that reads "Gun Room - No Unauthorized Entry" and on the other side it reads "Shooting Range". You can vaguely hear dense gunfire coming from there.

The shop owner was a middle-aged white man with a buzz cut, wearing a floral vest, and a tattoo of a curvy woman was visible on his arm. It's estimated that when he first got the tattoo, his figure was still in good shape.

He glanced at Rosen, looking dejected, and said, "Want to rent a gun or buy one?"

Rosen leaned against the counter, his gaze sweeping over the row of neatly arranged gun barrels: "Rent. I'd like to try out a few different models, mainly shotguns and rifles."

"Do you have a favorite model?"

"Just recommend one for me. I'll try them out one by one, each gun comes with two magazines of ammunition."

The shop owner nodded, went into the armory, took out several guns, and placed them one by one on the counter. The barrels gleamed mesmerizingly under the light.

When Rosen picked up a Remington 870, the gun was heavier than he had expected. The wood in the grip had been worn smooth, giving it a warm, smooth feel that comes from being held by many hands.

It does feel very good to hold. When he pulled the pump-action handle, he heard a crisp, metallic click as it clicked into place.