Farming Life Starting in Africa

The BJ40's diesel V8 engine let out a low roar, and the vehicle's speed rapidly increased.

The doors had steel plates, the windows were bulletproof, the interior was covered in bulletproof fabric, and the chassis was armored. This vehicle was much heavier and safer than his monster truck.

But this means the speed isn't ideal. However, on these dirt roads, no one's crazy enough to drive over 100 km/h. That would just be asking for trouble.

Despite its powerful engine, this car can only reach a top speed of about 100 kilometers per hour.

Amidst the deafening roar, the convoy ahead spotted Rosen.

The two pickup trucks slowed down and separated from the convoy. Several thugs in the back of the trucks raised their rifles and opened fire on Rosen's vehicle without hesitation.

"Da da da da da—"

Bullets struck the car's steel panels, making a series of clanging sounds and sending sparks flying. Several shallow dents were left on the hood, and a row of small white dots appeared on the windows, as if they had been hit by hail.

Rosen didn't care at all. Unless it was a heavy weapon like a rocket launcher, these bullets were just a tickle to him. His car was a mobile fortress; ordinary rifle bullets couldn't even scratch it.

He maintained his speed and caught up with the pickup truck that had fallen behind. The driver of that pickup truck noticed him approaching and swerved to avoid him, but it was too late.

Rosen positioned the crash bar against the left rear side of the pickup truck and gently pulled it along—

"Bang!"

The pickup truck was grazed while traveling at high speed. The vehicle veered sharply to one side, and the driver panicked. He tried to steer to correct the situation, but the wheels slipped, and the entire truck overturned and slid into a ditch by the roadside, kicking up dust.

The driver of the other pickup truck clearly saw what happened and, startled, slammed on the gas, increasing the speed. But it was too late.

Rosen's speed was unaffected. He floored the accelerator, and the BJ40, like a raging bull, slammed into the rear of the pickup truck.

"Bang—!"

With a loud bang, the pickup truck lurched forward. The two thugs in the truck bed were so frightened that they dropped their rifles and clung tightly to the handrails. One of them lost his grip and rolled out of the truck bed, where he was run over by a BJ40. He was probably dead for sure.

The impact nearly caused the pickup truck to lose control, its rear end swaying to one side. The driver struggled to keep the steering wheel steady, and the truck swayed left and right for a while before finally regaining its balance, but its speed inevitably dropped.

Rosen seized the opportunity, turned the steering wheel, and the front bumper of his car precisely struck the right side of the pickup truck. The pickup truck instantly swerved sideways, blocking Rosen's path, its front facing the wasteland beside the road.

Before the pickup truck driver could react, Rosen slammed on the gas pedal. The BJ40's high-horsepower engine roared, pushing the pickup truck forward against its side.

The pickup truck's tires screeched on the road, and the smell of burning rubber filled the air. A few seconds later, the pickup truck was pushed off the main road, slid onto the gravel on the right, and came to a stop with a thud.

The two pickup trucks at the front suddenly pulled over and braked sharply, screeching to a stop. But the two buses accelerated, overtook the pickups, and continued driving straight ahead.

It seems the gang's plan was to have the pickup truck block Rosen while the bus escaped. But the pickup truck failed to stop him, so they changed their strategy—the bus would run first, with the pickup truck bringing up the rear.

The men in both pickup trucks jumped out, rifles in hand, and began firing directly at Rosen's vehicle. The firepower was intense; over a dozen AKs opened fire simultaneously, bullets raining down on the BJ40. Sparks flew from the hood like fireworks. Rows of small white dots appeared on the windows.

Rosen sat in the car, listening to the crackling sounds outside, and chuckled.

These poor bastards, do they really think they can shoot through his car with an AK? Dream on.

He floored the accelerator, turned the steering wheel, and the BJ40 sped through the gap between the two pickup trucks, running over an unfortunate man in the process.

The gang of thugs were still changing magazines. A few of them were stunned for a moment, seemingly not expecting the car to be so tough that even the glass couldn't be broken.

By the time they realized what was happening, the BJ40 had already sped far ahead, kicking up a cloud of dust that made them cough.

The two buses couldn't pick up speed because they were overloaded. Rosen's speed was also stuck at the maximum of about 100 miles per hour, and he couldn't go any faster.

Although Rosen's car wasn't going fast, it was still a bit faster than the two buses, and the distance between them was gradually closing.

Just as Rosen was about to catch up with the two buses, they suddenly separated to the left and right, heading in two different directions.

"Damn it, these bastards actually have some brains," Rosen cursed.

Without a second thought, he swerved the steering wheel to the left and followed the bus on the left. He prayed to himself, "I hope Mr. and Mrs. Ma are on this bus. If I chose the wrong one and had to chase after another one, that would be troublesome."

The bus left the main road and drove into a wasteland. The wasteland was full of gravel and potholes, and the bus, with its low chassis, slowed down even more, crawling like a tortoise.

Rosen's vehicle, equipped with all-terrain tires, moved effortlessly across the barren terrain, its speed largely unaffected. In less than two minutes, he gradually approached the bus.

The bus driver was an Arab man, wearing a headscarf and a long robe, intently watching the road, his forehead covered in sweat. The faint sound of a woman crying could be heard from inside the bus; it was a chaotic scene.

Rosen pulled his car to the left of the bus and drove alongside it. He rolled down the window, pulled the M1911 pistol from his thigh holster, gripped the steering wheel with one hand, and held the gun straight out with the other.

He slightly steadied the car and aimed at the driver's seat.

"Smack."

The driver on the other side seemed to have been gently pushed on the head, and then he slumped limply onto the steering wheel, his body pressing down on the horn.

"Beep—" The horn blared loudly and piercingly. The bus gradually slowed down, its wheels skidding on the gravel before finally coming to a stop.

Rosen parked his car a few meters in front of the bus, engaged the handbrake, and got out of the car with his pistol in hand.

He walked a few steps to the passenger seat of the bus, smashed the glass with the butt of his gun a few times, and reached in to open the door.

As soon as the car door opened, a scream erupted from inside.

"Ah—! Don't kill me!"

"Help!"

The cries and screams were all mixed together, creating utter chaos.

Rosen didn't rush to get in the car; he first peeked out.

The bus was packed with people, mostly women. They were mostly white and Asian. They were huddled together, some crying, some trembling.

A man was standing near the last row of seats inside the car.

It was a thug; he was grabbing a woman by the back of her collar with his left hand and holding a pistol in his right, the muzzle pressed against her temple.