I'm building Gundams in America

escape!

escape!

After escaping the underground alley, Steve stumbled out of the abandoned warehouse and onto the secluded street.

He almost cried after seeing the scene on the street.

It was as if they had escaped from hell and returned to the human world.

His car was parked on the side of the road.

Steve climbed into the car and started the engine; his foot almost never left the accelerator.

I can't stay in Seattle any longer.

The scene he witnessed today was completely beyond his comprehension.

Despite being an unlicensed doctor who also distributes enhancement agents, Steve still deeply believes in science.

But what happened today has completely shattered his understanding.

It could even be said that it shook his worldview.

Resurrected corpse... zombie... or some other name.

The things in the underground alleyways triggered his deepest fears.

All he wants now is to escape, to escape as far away as possible.

Fortunately, having always lived a life of constant danger, he had already made preparations for his escape.

They were all prepared to deal with gang feuds.

Once back in the secret clinic beneath the barbershop, open the safe behind the oil painting.

He prepared to pack up, grab his passport, and head north along a common escape route used within the Latin American fortifiers group.

Heading to Canada.

There, the marijuana business is practically semi-legal; if all else fails, he can simply buy a marijuana dispensary license and start anew...

Just then, Steve's car arrived outside his barbershop.

It was midnight when Steve suddenly braked and prepared to get out of the car.

After thinking for a moment, he opened the glove compartment, took out a pistol, and carefully glanced back to make sure the resurrected corpse wasn't chasing him. Then he quickly got out of the car, hurriedly walked into the barbershop, unlocked the fingerprint lock, and entered the underground clinic.

Steve moved the oil painting on the wall, opened the safe embedded in the wall, picked up a backpack, and hurriedly put several stacks of cash and two gold bars into the backpack.

He put the safe back in its original position, then grabbed his passport and car keys and ran uphill again.

Upon arriving on the first floor, Steve suddenly sensed that something was amiss.

It's too quiet outside.

The streetlights went out sometime ago.

He always felt as if something was watching him in the dark.

It's here?

Steve was trembling all over. His last shred of sanity made him crawl into the bathroom, open the narrow vent, and throw his backpack onto the street behind it.

If the resurrected corpse is really outside, he can't run fast at all while carrying the bag.

It's better to pick it up after you get on the bus.

Then, carrying his gun, he carefully opened the door of the barbershop, preparing to get his car.

Two figures suddenly emerged from the darkness beside them, their figures shrouded in darkness like ghosts.

The first person said:

"Mr. Steve?"

The resurrected corpse has arrived!

Steve trembled all over and, almost without thinking, raised his gun and fired at the dark figure.

Gunshots shattered the silence of the night.

"Damn it, he has a gun! Fire!" the shadowy figure roared, and seven or eight flashes of light suddenly appeared in the surrounding darkness.

Steve didn't even have time to react before he was riddled with bullets, his eyes wide open, and he collapsed to the ground in utter despair.

Blood pooled beneath him.

Several tactical flashlights lit up in the darkness, and a dozen figures in IRS uniforms surrounded them.

Steve's pupils dilated, blood gushed from his mouth, and he pointed at the approaching figure, muttering in terror:

"They're all dead...all dead...resurrected corpses...God..."

With that one sentence, all life was extinguished.

The man in the lead was looking down at the dents in his bulletproof vest, then at Steve's body lying on the ground, and couldn't help but curse:

"Fuck!"

They were the IRS tax police squad, who came tonight to investigate Steve's tax evasion. They were originally staking out the area.

After seeing the target appear, the team leader tried to communicate with him.

Unexpectedly, Steve reacted so violently that he violently resisted paying taxes on the spot.

It seems the situation is similar to what the whistleblower described.

"Call an ambulance, and backup! Jason, storm the room!"

Since the person is already dead, let's go inside and check...

He immediately made a gesture, and the tax police squad formed a tactical formation, with bulletproof shields in front, and smashed open the door of the barbershop in front of them, rushing inside.

The barbershop was completely empty.

They quickly found the hidden room inside, located the secret door in the floor, opened it, and went inside.

Upon seeing the well-equipped underground clinic, the group of tax police officers couldn't help but whistle.

However, in their daily official duties, they often engage in illegal tax evasion and cash concealment, and this is not the first time they have encountered such a situation.

Following the clues provided by the whistleblower, the oil painting on the wall was moved aside, revealing the safe behind it.

As for passwords or anything like that, they're not important.

The acetylene torch was already flashing in the darkness.

Soon, the safe was cut open, and it was found to be empty.

"FUCK!"

The team leader couldn't help but start cursing.

Judging from the actions of that tax-resistant criminal, the other party had already sensed something and had obviously transferred the money in advance.

However, this wasn't the first time they'd encountered this situation.

After all, the IRS's job is to find treasure.

Their specialty isn't actually collecting debts door-to-door, but rather uncovering the funds hidden by those cunning scoundrels.

Some people use anonymous accounts, some use blockchain Bitcoin, but most people still prefer traditional cash.

They've found hidden cash in old bicycle tires, in the armrests of old rocking chairs, in the prosthetics of disabled people, and even in the rotting coffins in his mother's cemetery.

Some colleagues even spent six months digging up a farm, eventually finding a suitcase where money was hidden.

Never underestimate the ability of these bastards to hide money.

"Begin the search," said Jeffrey, the team leader, gesturing.

He then took out a secure cell phone and dialed a number.

That's the whistleblower's number.

As one of the top secrets of this mission, only he, as the team leader, had this information.

Now is the golden time for the search; we must ask the informant as soon as possible if there is any other information.

First, we need to find the hidden tax money as soon as possible; second, we need to find the accomplices of this tax-evading criminal.

On the street behind the barbershop, the backpack that Steve had just thrown out lay quietly by the roadside.

A used Toyota sedan parked not far away slowly started, drove past the backpack, opened the rear door, and a hand reached out and pulled the backpack into the car.

"Buzz...buzz...buzz..." The buzzing sound of a vibrating cell phone echoed in the car.

He took two cell phones out of his pocket with the hand holding the bag, glanced at them, chose the more worn one, and pressed the answer button.

A voice came from the phone:

"Hello, are you Mr. Jordan?"

Wayne opened his backpack and counted the banknotes inside, saying casually:

"it's me."