Farming Life Starting in Africa

Phoenix persisted: "Then give us your social security account number. We can directly check your real name information in our system."

Tang sighed inwardly, hesitated for a few seconds, and then gave out his number. He was actually panicking; he was a wanted criminal with a shady past.

What he feared most was that these people lacked sportsmanship and would report him to the police after getting the information. In that case, he would not only have worked for nothing tonight, but he would also be directly arrested here.

But then I thought, Brian is standing right next to me, so if something unexpected happens, someone will lend a hand, and there's no need to panic too much.

Luo Sen, who had been watching the whole thing from the sidelines, couldn't help but click his tongue as he watched the scene unfold, his mind racing with all sorts of imaginings.

He wondered if he should meddle in this mess.

Rosen wasn't some overly compassionate good Samaritan. He simply thought that Braga had a huge stockpile of drugs, and if he secretly got his hands on them and dumped them all into the lake on Braga's farm, wouldn't the crocodiles in the lake be poisoned to death?

The thought had barely crossed his mind when he immediately rejected it.

Forget it, better to avoid trouble. What if these crocodiles don't die from the poison but instead get high and their personalities change drastically? Next time, they might just climb ashore and look for human "suppliers," which would cause a lot of chaos.

The workers there now are all ordinary laborers; Rosen has no intention of having them feed the crocodiles.

At the same time, a blond-haired man ran over onto the track. It was none other than the unfortunate owner of the car that Ares had forcibly borrowed earlier.

He walked to his car with a pained expression, shakily took back the keys, and looked at his beloved car with a face that looked worse than if he had eaten shit.

What was once a perfectly good sports car was ruined by Ares's violent driving. A large section of the front end was dented, the paint was scratched, parts were loose, and the car was covered in signs of battle.

He had been watching from the finish line the whole time. Ares was driving his car, using nitrous oxide to accelerate for over ten seconds at a time, violently pushing the car to its limits without a care in the world.

As expected, since it wasn't his own car, he really didn't hold back when he started making things up. The golden retriever was so heartbroken that he almost burst into tears on the spot, and the three women next to him couldn't persuade him no matter what they did.

While the golden retriever was squatting by the car, secretly feeling sorry for his beloved vehicle, Brian had already been silently watching him.

Brian knew that this blond guy was one of the next batch of deliverymen to Braga, and he was short of a stable delivery spot, so he had his eye on him.

Just as Rosen was letting his imagination run wild, conjuring up all sorts of outrageous scenarios, a figure walked up to him, interrupting his thoughts.

"Hey, what are you daydreaming about? What are you thinking about?" Giselle's gentle voice rang out.

Looking at the stunningly beautiful woman before him, Rosen instantly suppressed his chaotic thoughts, narrowed his eyes slightly, and teased her with a playful tone: "I wasn't thinking about anything else, I was just debating whether it would be more appropriate to go to your place or mine tonight."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than a dark figure suddenly cut in from the side, squeezing between the two and ruining the ambiguous atmosphere.

It was Ares, who had been watching Rosen the whole time, filled with resentment.

She made a series of fancy hand gestures at Rosen, her movements were quick and her expression was serious, making her look particularly earnest.

Rosen was speechless, internally complaining: "Lady, we're not on the same wavelength at all. We have communication problems and no common topics. Can you please stop forcing a conversation?"

Gisele, watching the two's absurd interaction, smiled helplessly and acted as their translator: "Ares said you cheated tonight. Your car modifications are seriously excessive, so it's not a fair match. She wants to have a rematch with you to settle things fairly."

Rosen laughed after hearing this, but he was speechless.

This racing competition is all about driving skills, modifications, and experience. Why should having access to a better car be considered cheating? Does that mean that if someone has money to modify their car, they have to dismantle it back to its original condition for the sake of fairness?

This girl's competitive spirit is truly abnormal. No wonder she's so bold as to provoke John, that top-tier killer. She's inherently competitive and unwilling to admit defeat.

He glanced at the Walther P99 pistol tucked into Ares's waistband and immediately had an idea.

Rosen blinked and casually declined, "There's no need for racing. You've already lost to me twice in a row; another race would yield the same result. How about we find a faster, easier, and fairer way to play?"

Ares's eyes lit up, and he immediately raised his hand and made two gestures, his face full of dissatisfaction.

Gisele translates aptly: "Compare to what?"

Rosen pointed to the pistol at Ares's waist. "Let's compare marksmanship. I see you always carry a gun; you've been doing this for years, your marksmanship shouldn't be too bad, right?"

By this time, the spectators and casual observers around the track had gradually dispersed. The empty track was deserted, with not a single spectator in sight, which was just right for the two to compete privately without any outsiders disturbing them.

Upon hearing that it was a marksmanship contest, Ares' confidence surged instantly. He nodded firmly in agreement, his face radiating self-assurance.

She's a professional assassin; marksmanship is her livelihood. Anyone with poor marksmanship would have died in a mission long ago and wouldn't be alive now. She's at a disadvantage in a car race, but she can't possibly lose in a shooting contest.

She quickly gestured again to indicate that she was okay.

Rosen didn't bother to study her gestures and walked straight to a large tree not far away, about ten meters from the trunk.

He casually pulled out an Ontario MK3 military knife, flicked his wrist, and with a flash of cold light, the knife flew out steadily, accurately embedding itself in the center of the tree trunk and securing it firmly.

After finishing all this, Rosen slowly walked back to his original position, raised his hand and pointed to the end of the knife hilt, which was almost blending into the night and could barely be seen with the naked eye: "It's about thirty meters away here. The rules are simple: use your guns, three bullets each, and whoever hits the knife hilt the most times wins."

Ares saw the tiny target clearly, and given the dim light of the night and the ridiculously small hilt of the knife in the distance, his heart skipped a beat, and he felt a little guilty.

At this distance and with this line of sight, someone with poor eyesight wouldn't even be able to see the target clearly, let alone shoot accurately.

But having already spoken, she was too competitive to back down. She steeled herself, drew her Walter P99 from her waist, and casually handed it to Rosen, signaling him to fire first.

She simply couldn't believe that Rosen, a car enthusiast, could hit such a small target from such a distance.

Rosen took the pistol, skillfully pulled out the magazine, glanced at it, and saw it was fully loaded. He deftly put the magazine back in, pulled the slide, and released the safety—the whole process was smooth and efficient, without the slightest hesitation.

He didn't even aim deliberately; he simply raised his arm casually, pointed it at a distant tree, and decisively pulled the trigger.

"Bang!"

The crisp gunshot wasn't deafening, but it carried far and echoed throughout the empty, silent stadium.