A Small Problem

Snakehead failed to notice anything unusual in the coffee cup. He came over, draped an arm around Apocalypse's shoulders, and said, "Hahahahaha, Eastern man, smile a little."

"You're doing pretty well for yourself now, aren't you? Didn't I help smuggle you in back then? You should be thanking me."

"You're still thinking about those twenty thousand dollars? In this business, everyone relies on their own skills. Let it go. I recently got a batch of girls—white, black, and Eastern. Want to pick one? Buy one, get one free. You can even have a threesome."

As he spoke, he winked at Apocalypse.

At the mention of Eastern women, the droplets in Apocalypse's cup stopped moving. He asked, "Where did the Eastern women come from?"

"The United States is full of opportunities to get rich. Countless people want to come here every year. People in our line of work always come across some good merchandise. You know how it is..."

Snakehead was not a passenger transport company. There was no such thing as service or rules.

Back when Apocalypse had been robbed of twenty thousand dollars, Snakehead had not considered it a big deal at all.

Among the many illegal immigrants, young women with even a little beauty, if they had no one to protect them, would be singled out and sold all over the world as slaves or prostitutes.

And that was not even the worst of it. Illegal immigration was not about riding in sleeper cars with air conditioning while enjoying the world. More often, people were crammed into sealed containers and sent across the ocean.

Stories of people starving, overheating, or dying of thirst inside those containers surfaced almost every year.

That was only what had been discovered in the open. No one could possibly count how many had