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Casino City Avenue, No. 611.
Two SUVs pulled up, and David led Buckynison and his associates out of the vehicles and into a coffee shop.
The cafe was noticeably empty, with many seats conspicuously vacant, evidently cleared out in advance.
Sitting at a square table in the back was a man with his leg arrogantly crossed, and behind him stood a group of men in suits with tattoos.
[Name: Zimmerman Cruz.]
[Occupation: Head of the Mexico Gang drug cartel.]
[Income: 14.6 million US dollars.]
[Income details: On December 5th, completed a transaction with the Ditter Group, resulting in a profit of one million USD; on December 8th, reached a deal with the Brotherhood, yielding another one million USD profit; on December 13th, negotiated with the Los Angeles Mafia...]
[More details:...]
[Amount of tax due: 5,738,400.]
As David approached, he assessed the man's information, and was slightly taken aback upon seeing the monthly income amounting to over 14 million dollars.
But he quickly came to terms with it.
The Black Tax Act had been officially passed by Congress on December 3, 2021, and now it was January 31st, nearly two months later.
Drugs were always a highly profitable trade, so it seemed normal for the other party to have a turnover of 14.6 million dollars in just under two months!
But then again, if the other party had an income of 14.6 million, then he could collect more than 5.7 million in taxes.
But that was the point, the money was too little compared to the tax David wanted to collect. He replied expressionlessly, "That amount hardly seems sufficient!"
Zimmerman's expression darkened as he asked, "Then how much do you want?"
"On December 5th, you made one million USD from a deal with the Ditter Group. On December 8th, you earned another million from a transaction with the Brotherhood. On December 13th, you negotiated with the Los Angeles Mafia..."
"As of now, you've accumulated an income of 14.6 million. According to the tax rate, you owe us 5,738,400 US dollars!"
As all his recent dealings and earnings were accurately listed, Zimmerman's expression grew increasingly rigid.
After a long while, he retorted darkly, "You say it's 14.6 million because you say so?"
"Yes, if I say it's 14.6 million, then it is 14.6 million!"
"And what if I say there isn't?"
"There isn't?"
David chuckled coldly and replied, "No problem, then we'll just have to count it ourselves!"
Upon hearing this, Zimmerman's face twisted into a snarl, his teeth grinding with the sound of gritting.
He wasn't a fool; he understood what "count it ourselves" meant all too well.
This was a warning from the other side: if the Mexico Gang didn't pay, the tax authority would freeze all their accounts and seal up all their warehouses, just like they had with Ditter. That was their way of 'counting it themselves'!
As the negotiations grew tenser, both Nisen and his men behind David, and Zimmerman's suited men began to tense up, each subtly reaching for the guns they had holstered at their waists.
In the midst of this high-tension moment, David spoke up again, issuing a warning, "If the Mexico Gang wants to make a living on our soil, then you'll have to follow our rules. As for those who do not, like Ditter, our tax authority will certainly find a way to 'help' them out. Do you understand, Mr. Zimmerman?"
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