Several black SUVs crawled forward at an excruciatingly slow pace, like a bizarre funeral procession. At the very front, two burly Secret Service operatives clad in black tactical gear strained to push a creaking, wobbling supermarket cart.
The cart was packed with flattened cans, crumpled cardboard, and plastic bottles, releasing a complex, accelerating stench under Florida's scorching sun. With every push, the misaligned wheels groaned as if they might collapse entirely at any moment.
The surreal scene drew the few daring homeless on the roadside out of hiding, mouths agape, forgetting even to be afraid. Jimmy lagged behind, eyes as wide as saucers, muttering, "Holy shit… Amo… this guy… seriously…"
Amo himself walked alongside the cart, hands empty, hood pulled low over most of his face. He seemed utterly unconcerned by the agents' struggle or the stares around him, occasionally issuing a terse direction.
"Left a bit—wheel caught on a stone."
"Slow down, don't jostle the caps."
The two agents wished they could bury their faces in their tactical vests. Every screech of metal against metal felt like public execution of their professional careers. Kyle, the special envoy, sat in the front passenger seat of the lead SUV, watching through the windshield, headache threatening to explode. He dabbed sweat from his brow; his expensive suit armpits had darkened with sweat.
The few hundred meters to the abandoned crossroads felt endless.
Finally, they reached a weed-choked intersection littered with old tires and a faded billboard. This was where Old Joe usually parked his smoke-belching van for his "trades."
"This is it," Amo said.
The two agents, relieved as if granted a pardon, immediately let go, nearly tipping the cart. They stepped back, gasping—not from exhaustion, but embarrassment.
Kyle hurriedly got out, striding over to Amo, forcing an awkward smile. "Sir, we've arrived. Regarding… cooperation…"
Amo ignored him, scanning the empty crossroads. He barely frowned. Old Joe's familiar beaten-up van was gone. He should have been here by now.
Amo walked to the rusted billboard where Old Joe normally rested. The ground was littered with a few crushed cigarette butts and some scattered bird droppings. No sign of the old wooden crate where Old Joe usually sat.
"Strange…" Amo muttered.
"Sir?" Kyle leaned in, unsure.
Amo turned, looking Kyle directly in the eyes. "Where's Old Joe? Where did you put him?"
"Old Joe? You mean the… recycling guy?" Kyle stammered, completely lost. "We don't know anything! We absolutely haven't interfered with any civilians!" He rushed to reassure him, terrified of angering this man.
Amo studied him for a few seconds. The eyes beneath his hood seemed to see straight through him. Kyle felt a chill run down his spine.
"He didn't come," Amo finally said, his voice carrying a trace of displeasure. "He comes every day. Always on time."
Kyle cursed silently. A scrap-collecting old man didn't show up—there could be countless reasons, but it looked like the blame would land on them. He hastily explained, "Sir, it could be an accident! Maybe he's sick? Or his van broke down? I assure you, this has nothing to do with us! We can locate him immediately!"
Amo was silent for a moment, seemingly judging the truth of his words. Then he went to the rickety cart, patted the bulging snake-skin bag of cans, visibly annoyed. Today's "earnings" couldn't be cashed in.
Seizing the opportunity, Kyle signaled an aide. The aide pulled a heavy, obviously expensive military-grade tablet from the SUV, typed quickly, and handed it to Kyle.
"Sir," Kyle turned the screen toward Amo. Satellite maps and data streams glimmered. "Here. We have the resources to locate your Old Joe immediately and ensure his safety. We can monitor threats anywhere in the world—but we need your help to address them."
On the screen, red symbols representing global alliance forces gathered across oceans and borders. They were temporarily still but still radiated an ominous presence.
Amo glanced at the flashing screen like it was some complex trash he didn't know how to sort. His attention clearly wasn't here.
"Find Old Joe," he repeated, tone absolute, as if this were the world's highest priority.
"Of… of course!" Kyle stammered, signaling an aide. The aide immediately began typing, mobilizing resources to locate a Florida elderly man named "Old Joe," driving a broken van and collecting recyclables.
At that moment, Kyle's encrypted earpiece crackled with an urgent voice from the command center.
"Sir! Emergency! The global alliance… they… they haven't attacked again, but… their top leadership just issued a worldwide announcement! Through… through all channels! The content… is… extremely… bizarre!"
Kyle's heart skipped a beat. Are they panicking? "What did they say?"
The voice trembled with disbelief: "They… announced… an immediate lifting of all blockade