Farming Life Starting in Africa

The woman had a slightly protruding belly, a deathly pale face, and trembling lips. It was Pan Wenjia. It seemed that the unlucky old Ma was not in this car.

Rosen's eyes turned cold.

Aside from the robber, there were no other armed personnel in the car for the time being. However, with so many hostages in the car, he couldn't just open fire with his machine gun; he didn't want to be branded a psychopathic killer.

He stood by the car door, pistol hanging at his side, and shouted in Arabic, "Put down your gun, and I'll let you go. Otherwise, you'll be feeding the wild dogs here."

The thug screamed hysterically, "Get out of my way! Or I'll kill this woman! I mean it!"

"If you dare to shoot, I guarantee you'll live to see yourself being eaten alive by wild dogs, and you'll even hear the sound of your bones being chewed."

The bandit's eyes turned red, his gun trembled, and his voice grew louder: "Get out of the way! Get out of the way!"

Rosen glanced at the bandit's position—the guy was almost entirely hidden behind Pan Wenjia, with only half his head and one eye showing. The shooting angle wasn't good enough, and it was easy to accidentally hit her.

He pretended to turn to the side, as if looking for the entrance to board the vehicle from the front, and said, "Fine, I'll leave. But you have to release some of the hostages. I can't let you take everyone with you."

After saying that, he slowly took two steps back, disappearing from the bandits' sight.

Then he quickly took off his shoes and stepped barefoot on the gravel without making a sound. He crouched low, close to the side of the bus, and moved back quietly.

He walked around to the rear wheel area of ​​the bus and found that the windows in the last row were all open. Rosen took out a small mirror from his capsule space, slowly extended it out of the corner of the window, adjusted the angle, and observed the situation inside the carriage through the mirror.

He was positioned to the side and slightly behind the bandits, who were still holding Pan Wenjia in their hands, but were turning their heads left and right, nervously looking around for Rosen's whereabouts.

His gun barrel unconsciously moved slightly away from Pan Wenjia's temple and pointed towards the car door, but his other hand was still wrapped around Pan Wenjia's collar.

"Come out! Where have you been hiding!" the bandit shouted, his voice echoing through the carriage.

Rosen held his breath and waited.

The moment the bandit turned his head to the other side, the back of his head was exposed to Rosen's view.

Without hesitation, Rosen stood up, held his M1911 horizontally, aimed it at the bandit's head, and pulled the trigger.

"Snapped!"

The bullet precisely pierced a small hole in the back of the bandit's head. The bandit's hand loosened, the gun fell to the ground, and he collapsed limply to the ground.

The screams inside the car grew louder, and several women huddled together and cried in fear.

Without a second thought, Rosen holstered his M1911 and climbed inside through the car window. "Quiet! Quiet! Don't scream! I'm here to rescue you!"

He looked at Pan Wenjia. Pan Wenjia was still standing, her legs trembling, her face as white as paper. She bit her lip, forcing herself to calm down.

"Dr. Pan," Rosen walked over and took her arm, "Are there still robbers in the car? Where's Old Ma?"

Pan Wenjia took a deep breath, her voice still trembling, "The car... the car is gone, Lao Ma is in another car! Xiao Luo, please, save Lao Ma!" Her tears finally fell and streamed down her face.

Rosen glanced around the car; there were about twenty young women inside. "Does anyone know how to drive?"

The two Asian nurses in white coats exchanged glances. One of them raised her hand and said in a low voice, "I have a driver's license and I can drive a little."

Rosen grabbed her arm, pulled her up from her seat, and led her towards the driver's seat: "You drive, you know the way back to Uller, right?"

The nurse nodded, indicating that she knew the way.

Reaching the driver's seat, Rosen leaned over, pulled open the car door, dragged the driver's body, which had been lying on the steering wheel, out, and threw it to the ground with a thud.

The steering wheel was covered in blood, sticky and messy. Rosen pulled a large rag from the glove box; it was dirty, but at least dry. He handed the rag to the nurse: "Wipe the steering wheel."

The nurse took the rag, gritted her teeth, vigorously wiped the blood off the steering wheel, then tossed the rag aside and got into the driver's seat. Her legs were still trembling, but she placed her hands on the steering wheel, took a deep breath, and seemed to be doing alright.

Rosen jumped out of the car, putting on his shoes as he asked, "Is everything alright?"

"No...no problem!" The nurse's voice was a little louder, as if she was encouraging herself.

She turned the key, and the engine sputtered twice before starting. She shifted into gear, released the clutch, and the bus slowly began to move; it seemed she really knew how to drive.

Luo Senchong gave her a thumbs up, ran back to his BJ40, and started the car.

He glanced in the direction the other bus had disappeared; it was heading west, and he could no longer see it.

He floored the accelerator, and the BJ40 roared off, heading west in pursuit.

Rosen didn't know if he could catch up, but he had to try.

Ma Xiao, that guy, is actually a decent person. His wife is pregnant, he can't just go abroad and die like that.

Within the Republic of Ivia, the headquarters of the Dane Corporation is located in an unassuming two-story building.

Several antennas and satellite dishes were mounted on the roof, swaying slightly in the wind. A barbed wire fence surrounded the building, and two Black security guards with rifles leaned lazily against the guard post, chatting idly.

In his office, Martin Schmidt had his legs crossed, his feet propped up on his desk, flipping through a Playboy magazine.

Suddenly, with a loud "bang," the door was violently pushed open from the outside. The doorknob slammed against the wall, leaving a small dent, and white plaster crumbled down the wall.

Schmidt's hand trembled, and the magazine nearly fell to the ground. He frowned, looked up, and gazed at the doorway.

A middle-aged white man in a sharp suit stood in the doorway, his hair neatly combed and his shoes gleaming. He held a white handkerchief in his hand and was slowly wiping his clean hands.

"Lynch," Schmidt said, closing the magazine and tossing it on the table, his tone laced with sarcasm, "Are all CIA people this rude? Don't you know how to knock before entering? Or is that not part of your training courses?"

The man called Lynch ignored Schmidt's sarcasm, folded his handkerchief, stuffed it into his suit pocket, and smiled with narrowed eyes. "Schmidt, you did a very good job on the last mission. The higher-ups are very satisfied."

Martin Schmidt smiled dismissively at this. He picked up a pack of cigarettes from the table, took one out, put it in his mouth, flicked the lighter, lit it, and exhaled a smoke ring: "And then? You came here just to praise me?"