Working as a police officer in Mexico-Chapter 1635 - 749: You Won’t Take Kind Words? Then Take a Bullet!

Indiana, the eastern suburbs of Gree City, night.

A half-collapsed residential house's basement, the entrance half-covered by collapsed bricks and twisted steel bars.

The air in the basement was so foul that it seemed almost wringable.

The damp, earthy smell, the strong, sharp smell of gunpowder, the stench of sweat, the scent of blood, and the faint smell of urine from the corners.

A dozen U.S. Military soldiers huddled here, remnants who had luckily escaped to this place after the collapse of the 13th Infantry Division. Their uniforms were tattered, faces smeared with grease, eyes bloodshot, filled with a numbness stripped bare.

In the corner, a radio was working, its knob carefully tuned to a specific frequency.

What came out was not official war reports or morale-boosting music, but the voice of a woman, who now secretly spread among soldiers, called herself "Lily," from the "Voice of American Freedom."

Her voice was discordant with this hellish environment, exceptionally gentle, carrying a kind of magnetic compassion, like a lover's whisper at midnight or a mother's soothing murmur to a frightened child. In this silent night, it pierced through the thin walls and weary eardrums, reaching deep into the heart.

"Night has fallen again, are the American soldiers still in Indiana's muddy trenches, or huddled beneath the ruins of Gree City, doing well? I am Lily. Tonight, I don't want to talk about war or politics. I just want to chat with you, talk about your home..."

The soldiers either sat against the wall or collapsed onto the filthy straw, most with eyes closed, but their slightly twitching eyelids betrayed that they were not asleep, but listening intently. This voice was the only fragile link they could grasp at this moment, connecting them to the "normal" world, even knowing it came from the enemy.

"Perhaps some of you have already heard about the tragedy in Detroit. A soldier named Robert Connor, 'disappeared' at the front line for his country, possibly already sacrificed. And while he was fighting desperately, his home far away in Detroit was taken by the bank, his young son, just trying to protect his mother and brother, was killed by a police bullet... his grief-stricken wife, ultimately also fell in a pool of blood, carrying a wailing infant on her back..."

Lily's voice had the perfect choke and pause, each word like a hammer striking the soldiers' hearts.

In the darkness, someone let out a suppressed sob, immediately swallowed by an even heavier silence.

"Why? Why can't brave warriors protect their own families? Why can't the spilt blood exchange for a little of the meager wages that should belong to you, to pay the mortgage, to feed your children? Those sitting in Washington's luxurious offices, ordering you to die, have their families ever gone hungry or cold? Have their houses ever been taken by the bank?"

Her tone gradually rose but still maintained that restraint of a "confidant," as if voicing the long-suppressed questions for all soldiers.

"Soldiers, you have already proven with courage and loyalty that you are real men, qualified warriors. But I want to ask you, now, what are you fighting for? For the bankers who took your hard-earned money and drove your family to death? For the politicians who regard your life as worthless and do not offer even a sincere apology?"

"You have lost too much already... perhaps lost comrades, lost health, even about to lose your home and loved ones. What has this 'country' you are fighting for given you in return? Endless demands and bone-deep betrayal."

"Lay down your weapons, soldiers. Step out of the trenches, raise your hands... If... if you are already in despair with that decayed old world that has devoured everything from you... join us, join the 'Free America Legion,' and you will be liberators, heroes rebuilding this land..."

The voice in the radio continued, depicting the "beautiful" prospects after surrender or defection, but most of the soldiers in the basement seemed unable to listen anymore. Lily's previous words about "home" and "betrayal" had already seeped into their tattered souls like venom.

Dead silence.

Only the occasional crackling of the oil lamp's wick and the whistling outside, whether the wind or stray bullets passing by.

After a long time, from the corner came a voice with a heavy Southern accent, almost sobbing.

"I... I want to go home."

His name was Billy Ray, from rural Alabama, not yet nineteen when he enlisted, still bearing a trace of childishness on his face, now emaciated by fear and homesickness.

No one responded, but in the darkness, more heavy breathing could be heard, more soldiers instinctively curled up or tightly closed their eyes, as if doing so could shut out the gnawing homesickness and despair.

Just then—

"Bang!!"

A dull sound suddenly came from the small room next to them, separated by broken wooden boards!

This sound was too close! Too abrupt! Not a stray bullet or artillery!

Everyone in the basement, as if electrified, instantly sprang up from the ground, the numbness and fatigue swept away, replaced by extreme tension and fright triggered by battle instinct.

"What happened?!"

"Who fired?!"

"Is it an enemy attack?!"