Farming Life Starting in Africa

This move completely silenced the rookie Nick, leaving him extremely frustrated.

But despite his youth, he wasn't stupid. He didn't intend to directly refute his superiors, but his inherent competitive spirit was completely ignited.

Since the authorities won't reveal the truth, he'll investigate it himself.

He was the only one left in the huge office. Nick played the video of the shooting scene over and over again and went through Swagger's entire resume file.

The more I looked, the more alarmed I became; the more I investigated, the more suspicious I became; and the unease in my heart grew stronger and stronger.

Who is Swag?

That was a recently retired top-tier marksman in the military, an ace sniper with top-notch skills.

At a distance of 1000 meters, he can consistently hit the bullseye, which is the size of an egg, with five consecutive shots. His accuracy is top-notch. His mentality, technique and experience are all at the highest level, and there is absolutely no chance of him missing a shot.

However, the crime scene was only 600 meters away, much closer than his usual maximum firing range, and the environment, wind direction, and terrain were not particularly adverse.

The result was that what should have been a routine sniping attempt for him turned out to be a shot that missed by several meters, precisely avoiding the intended target and instead hitting the archbishop next to him.

This is equivalent to asking Hawking to solve a linear equation in one variable, and after thinking for a long time, he readily gave the wrong answer.

It's so idiotic it's as incongruous as if Stephen Hawking had Louis XVI's head on his neck.

What truly sent chills down Nick's spine and convinced him of the cover-up was the timeline of the intelligence source.

He traced the files back to their source and was horrified to discover that all the leads for conviction, ballistic data, and intelligence on suspects in the FBI's possession came from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Weapons and the National Reconnaissance Office, not from the FBI's logistics and intelligence support departments.

The most fatal flaw was that all the precise intelligence was packaged and pushed to the victim within just half an hour of the incident.

In normal major cases, on-site investigation, evidence collection, ballistic analysis, and personnel comparison can take at least several hours or even one or two days.

How can top-level intelligence be accurate, complete, and timely as soon as a case occurs?

There is only one explanation: someone prepared the entire script in advance, just waiting to throw it out and frame someone after the crime occurred.

The deeper the night, the deeper Nick's doubts grew.

As a newcomer to the industry, he experienced firsthand the darkness and coldness deep within the system.

He stared at Swagger's wanted poster on the screen, with only one thought in his mind.

This case was not a sniper failure at all; it was a meticulously planned, top-level trap with everyone working together. Stubborn as he was, he became more and more determined to find out the truth.

A thin mist lingered among the rolling mountains and forests, and a cool breeze blew through the cracks in the wooden houses, carrying the fresh scent of the mountains and fields.

But what could awaken the sleeping Swag at this moment was not the cold wind, but an enticing aroma of food.

Swag has had a terrible time these past two days, constantly on the run and hiding, without getting a proper hot meal. When he arrived at Sarah's place, he was busy with surgery, and his stomach was already completely empty.

His eyelids felt as heavy as if they were made of lead. He struggled to open them, only to find himself lying alone in the empty bedroom.

The next second, a piercing dull pain shot through his chest and abdomen, even more unbearable than before the wounds were treated.

It was obvious that the painkillers had completely lost their effectiveness, and all the pain came back at him nakedly, making his head feel dizzy and throbbing.

Swagger gritted his teeth and endured the pain, his muscles aching as if from a strain, as he struggled to sit up little by little.

He leaned against the wall, using the force to slowly move to the bedroom door. As soon as he peeked out, the scene in the living room instantly aroused his appetite.

On the simple wooden dining table, eight foil boxes were neatly arranged. Warm steam rose in wisps, and a rich aroma filled the entire room, making Swagger's stomach rumble.

Lawson and Sarah were sitting at the table, engrossed in their meal, eating with great relish. All the food on the table was self-heating pre-cooked food that Lawson always carried with him when he went out.

Hunger was overwhelming him, and Swagger swallowed hard. The wooden floor creaked slightly as he moved, making Rosen, who was eating with his head down, look up.

Upon seeing Swag leaning against the wall by the bedroom door, a hint of absurdity flashed in Rosen's eyes.

Goodness, this guy was seriously injured, and he only slept for two hours at most, yet he was able to get up and walk on his own?

How could Leng Feng, who only suffered a broken sternum at the time, bear this? He had spent some time in a wheelchair, just like Leng Feng.

You have to admit, some military units have truly abnormal physical qualities and recovery abilities, pushing the limits of the human body to several levels. Sometimes Rosen even wonders who is actually the one who has been enhanced.

Perhaps American soldiers have been taking too many boosters since childhood?

Sarah turned around at the sound and saw that Swagger was pale and unsteady. She immediately put down her cutlery and rushed forward.

She carefully took Swagger's arm and helped him to the table to sit down. She then went to the dining room to get him a clean set of cutlery, her actions gentle and considerate.

Sarah said gently to Swagger, "You haven't had enough rest, but since you're awake, have something to eat."

Once Swag was settled, his gaze was fixed on Rosen's hands. Watching the other man's smooth, effortless chopstick movements, his eyes were filled with utter bewilderment and disbelief.

"Are you Asians born knowing how to eat with these two little sticks?"

With his mouth stuffed full, Rosen chewed on the soft and flavorful braised pork with preserved mustard greens without even looking up, and casually replied, "Pretty much. If a child can't use chopsticks, they can't even sit at the table; they'll have to be fed."

Swaggered, but picked up a spoon and scooped up a large spoonful of minced meat and eggplant, putting it in his mouth. The fresh and flavorful taste exploded on his tongue, and the flavor was surprisingly to his liking.

"Were all these vegetables prepared and stored in advance?"

"Yeah, right." Rosen continued eating, his head still buried in his rice. "My cooking skills are so-so, so I always bring some pre-made meals with me when I go out."

Sarah ate her food in small bites, speaking softly with regret: "I know all the supermarkets around our town, and I've never seen ready-made vegetables like this before. If they did, I would definitely stock up; they taste much better than canned food from the supermarket."

Upon hearing Sarah's words, Rosen immediately thought of the typical storage practices in American households, which were truly beyond words.

Almost every household's pantry is filled with all sorts of bizarre canned goods. What's outrageous is that most of these strange-tasting canned goods are made in China and exported exclusively.

They produce whatever food looks disgusting, their main purpose is to make people feel disgusted, and most people without serious illnesses simply cannot accept it.

Surprisingly, Americans adapted quite well.