Chapter 208: Another Job Offer

Henry was not handcuffed, nor was he told what this was about. Regardless, he was half-forced into an FBI vehicle and headed toward some destination.

The other party held no guns, and their words were reasonably polite, but their actions carried a decisive firmness that allowed no refusal. Under this mix of soft and hard tactics, the somewhat dazed Henry could not gauge their intentions, leaving him no choice but to comply.

This happened when he met genuine FBI agents at a fundraising banquet in New York while accompanying Lady He Ben; he had even seen their real credentials. Otherwise, Henry would have suspected these two were fakes.

Unfortunately, the credentials were real; this was not some rival hiring impostors to pose as the FBI. Then again, what rival could Henry possibly have? He, a self-proclaimed low-profile Kryptonian, fell into self-doubt.

As far as he recalled, when the CIA or SHIELD operated on American soil, they also liked to wear the FBI's mask. So could this be a covert operation by one of those two organizations?

The CIA's intelligence source might be Brian Mills, while SHIELD's could come from the X-Men. If either side had indeed leaked information, his abilities had been exposed under their noses for over a year already.

Information known since the beginning, yet only now coming to his door; the reaction time of this neural arc was not even dinosaur-level, it was corpse-level. No wonder they suddenly rose from the dead today.

Or was it something recent?

Was it because he had found the Phoenix to serve as a medium, allowing Lady He Ben's two children to converse with their mother in consciousness, thereby inadvertently waking Lady He Ben herself, which drew others' attention?

Or perhaps it was because he had not yet filed his taxes, so he had been targeted?

The personal income tax season is April; it has not arrived yet. Moreover, if it were truly a tax issue, the ones coming would be the IRS, not the FBI.

So regarding today's invitation, Henry was truly at a loss.

The people in the car said nothing. After asking three times with no response, Henry gave up further questioning. He did not possess Professor X's mind-reading ability, so he simply kept his head down, pondering how to proceed with his BB-series robots.

Some matters must wait until the other party reveals their purpose before a response is possible. If one speculates blindly at this stage of insufficient information, misinterprets the situation, and makes a wrong decision, it will only make things worse.

So Henry could only endure his patience and see what tricks these two FBI agents were playing. They would eventually reveal their cards; they could not keep them covered forever.

The car did not head toward the FBI Los Angeles office in the city center as expected, but drove north of Los Angeles County, entering Montecito in Santa Barbara County. One of the wealthiest areas in the United States, filled with estate-style mansions.

When Henry was looking for a house in Los Angeles back then, he had also made a general understanding of the conditions in various districts.

If the mansion cluster in Beverly Hills often saw Hollywood superstars coming and going, then those living in Montecito were the true wealthy of the West Coast.

For the residents here, the phrase "either rich or noble" was insufficient to describe them. Without wealth accumulated over several generations or considerable power, establishing oneself in this district was no easy feat.

So, what did these two FBI agents bring him here for?

Just passing through?

However, this sweet dream of not wanting to get involved with the powerful and wealthy was shattered once the car drove into the grounds of a mansion.

At the entrance of the large house, the two FBI agents dropped Henry off and then departed swiftly, leaving a lone Kryptonian standing in the empty courtyard, speechless and questioning the heavens.

A moment later, the mansion's main door opened. Another burly man in a black suit emerged; his demeanor suggested a military background, and he looked at everyone with a murderous aura.

"Henry Brown? Come in." It was a simple imperative sentence, with an arrogant, commanding attitude clearly displayed.

After a moment's thought, Henry stepped inside anyway. He needed to know what medicine was being sold in that gourd before deciding whether to smash the stall or pay up.

If he did not want to enter this door and instead turned to leave immediately, he would first have to consider who had sent him here.

For ordinary people, the first time the FBI appears is an invitation, but if it happens a second time, it will not be so friendly. This threat was almost blatantly placed in plain sight.

Inside the door was a grand hall with a palace-style staircase. The European noble atmosphere rushing toward the entrance made guests feel ashamed and inferior, exuding a dominant feeling.

Henry, upon entering, was not led elsewhere but simply stood in the hall waiting. He asked the black-suited burly man who had led him in, "Buddy, who is the owner of this place?"

Originally, the suited burly man intended to remain silent, but considering that a misunderstanding caused by not knowing might lead to unnecessary conflict, he spoke up: "The owner of this place is Mr. Mike Liddle Horton, a member of the California State Assembly."

"Assemblyman?"

As a federal system country, state governments and assemblies are not at the level of local governments or local councils as commonly understood. As long as federal matters are not involved, calling these people local emperors would not be an exaggeration.

What could such a person possibly want by having the FBI bring him here?

Henry, who paid little attention to the American political scene, especially having returned only two days ago, was truly in the dark.

Finally, a particularly large Black man descended the staircase directly opposite the hall. His bald head was exceptionally shiny, he wore a pair of square-framed glasses, and he exuded an air of a scholar.

Normally, such an appearance should attract many to draw near, at least making one feel this person could not be bad. Yet, inexplicably, Henry instinctively wanted to stay away.

This was not an allergy to power; rather, the man carried a scent of trouble. It came from gunpowder, not from the firearms carried by his entourage, but like someone who had just been shot.

"Henry Brown." The fat assemblyman stopped midway up the stairs, looking down at the white young man before him. Perhaps due to his large resonating cavity, his voice truly boomed like a great bell.

"Yes, Mr. Assemblyman," Henry replied politely.

"Come serve as my aide. I will give you an annual salary of eighty thousand dollars."

"Please allow me to decline, Mr. Assemblyman. Where is the exit? Oh, go out through the main door. I know, no need to see me off."

Henry's smooth combo move instantly stunned everyone else. But just as he tried to walk out, he was blocked by the black-suited man who had brought him in.

"Mr. Assemblyman, I believe this is merely a job offer; I should still have the right to refuse," Henry said while turning back.

The fat Black assemblyman stood there with his mouth agape, his expression quite comical. But he immediately changed his expression, speaking seriously: "No, you do not. Moreover, your attitude will only invite trouble."

"Does refusing a job mean I have broken the law? May I ask what law? The US Labor Law? Federal law? Or state law?" Henry asked with a smile.

"You refuse me, you insult me, and you bring great trouble upon yourself." After issuing this threat, the fat Black assemblyman ordered the others: "Take him to the lounge and keep him on standby. If necessary, pull him out to take the bullets."

(End of this chapter)