Chapter 244

In the office of the FBI Los Angeles office boss, the Assistant Director in Charge, stood three FBI agents led by James, reporting the failed mission to arrest the Fixman.

This Assistant Director in Charge looked at them with an expression like he was looking at idiots and said coldly, "So the Fixman didn't return to his clinic at all, and you dispatched a large number of people without confirming it. The result? You only caught a bunch of brats, right?"

"If they were just ordinary brats, that would be one thing. Police officers' children, city council members' children... Do you know how many complaint calls have come directly to my office? Guess why I haven't strangled you all right now."

The speaker became angrier as he talked, and in the end, he almost slammed the table.

Agent James, who had led the arrest of the Fixman, had an ugly expression and said, "Sir, we have confirmed that the Fixman abandoned that illegal clinic, but we haven't lost all our leads."

The Assistant Director in Charge suppressed his voice, as if the sound was coming from deep in his throat, and said, "Oh, what other leads do we have to find?"

"The Continental Hotel; he is a servant of the Continental Hotel. We can get more information from there about his true identity and other hideouts. It's not impossible to even demand that the Continental Hotel hand him over."

Hearing Agent James's answer made the Assistant Director in Charge's mood cool down on the spot. He looked at the expression of the person in front of him who refused to give up with the eyes of someone looking at a dead man. Finally, he just blurted out, "Approved. Go."

"Um." The Assistant Director in Charge's prompt permission actually made Agent James feel a trace of disbelief. He looked at the person who was rummaging through files on the desk and asked tentatively, "Then, sir, when are you going to the Continental Hotel?"

"Me? I'm not going."

"Then who is going to ask the questions?"

"Whoever came up with the idea goes. What do you need? A court order? An arrest warrant? An investigative order? I can give you whatever you want; you figure out how to solve it yourself later."

Ignoring the old agent's fallen face, the Assistant Director in Charge found a file, threw it in front of the other two, and said, "You two go investigate this case."

"Yes, sir." Among the remaining two, the agent who had been in the FBI longer saw that the situation was wrong and that his boss had given them a way out, so he snatched it up without delay, lest the old agent assign that impossible task to them.

It would have been fine if they hadn't looked at the file, but once they saw the content, their faces changed drastically. The younger one complained, "Sir, this is the Zodiac Killer case. Isn't this a cold case? Is there new evidence?"

"You go out and look for it; maybe you'll find some."

"But sir..."

"Get out!"

The two young men fled in a panic, leaving only James, the old agent, looking at people with a dark face. The head of this FBI local office didn't indulge the other party either, pointing at the door and saying, "You get out too."

Hearing such an uncompromising reprimand, James also wanted to lash out on the spot.

But the other party was his superior; secondly, although this mission failed without substantial loss, a note would inevitably be made on his record.

Plus, with the Continental Hotel matter, everyone in the know knew what kind of pit this was. So this had crossed the red line. He could only leave in a huff.

After those unreliable subordinates were all gone, the supervisor, who had been bowing his head and pretending to be busy, slumped in his chair and let out a long breath.

At this moment, a Black man with a crew cut walked out of the small conference room attached to the office. He was about the same age as the Assistant Director in Charge, both in their prime in their thirties or forties. Unlike most agents who were dressed in crisp suits, he was dressed quite casually.

He said, "Owen, is this the fun of being in the FBI? Watching subordinates who want to replace you or harm you all day long. Leading that bunch of guys with questionable IQs makes me wonder if you've been assimilated by them."

"At least we dress like decent people, Fury. Unlike you, you look like a Black man who couldn't find a proper job after retiring from the military and can only get by on a pension. When the pension runs out, you'll either be collecting aid from the Veterans Association or hanging out with gangs."

"Ha, at least I'm a secret agent for an official agency. The things I do are no less than yours, and the importance is not something that mere federal affairs can compare to. Although, in some ways, it's several times worse than hanging out with gangs."

"Then have you been promoted to a management position? Or can you only be a soldier, managed by others? You were a man who was promoted to Colonel in the Army, after all. If you had come to the FBI with me, we could have returned to headquarters to be promoted to real management by now, right?"

"And then everything has to be done by the book, and I'd have to lead a bunch of troublesome subordinates. I'd rather go back to the Army and lead that bunch of moronic soldiers than lead these people with ulterior motives." Nick Fury (Black) mocked, and while he was at it, poured himself a glass of whiskey from the liquor cabinet.

"Hey, you're really proactive. Do you know that one sip might be worth a month of your salary?" the FBI Assistant Director in Charge said.

Nick Fury (Black), who had taken a sip, widened his eyes, revealing a rather amusing expression. He looked at his glass and said, "I didn't feel it before, but now that you mention it, I suddenly feel this whiskey tastes good."

"Right. Hey, hey, hey, put the bottle down." Director Owen watched his old comrade pour another large glass, saying it with a heart full of reluctance.

"Do you know why it tastes good? Because I know it makes your heart ache. Otherwise, this stuff that tastes like urine is only something a redneck like you could drink."

"Damn it, you should go drink your cheap Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. That corn-brewed stuff is only something you Black people love to drink."

"Hehehe, watch your mouth. Last year's racial discrimination uproar, Los Angeles was a disaster area. I don't need to remind you what will happen. And Pappy bourbon isn't cheap; a bottle also costs me a month's salary."

Snatching the bottle back from Nick Fury (Black), Director Owen grumbled, "One sip of mine is worth a bottle of yours; what are you going to compare with me?"

"Ha." Sitting in the guest seat opposite the supervisor's desk, Nick Fury (Black) put both legs on someone else's desk, beautifully drinking the expensive liquid gold in his glass.

Director Owen didn't care about those eyesore legs, but said, "Since you've drunk my wine, tell me. What do you know about the Fixman?"

"Are you asking me for intelligence?"

"Unless his intelligence classification is so high that even I can't hear it, tell me whatever you have. I won't care about you guys always using my FBI credentials to do things."

"What I know is the same as what you know. No more, no less." Nick Fury (Black) said evasively.

"So, there's still a part you can't say, then." Owen said with a realization.

Nick Fury (Black) smiled and said nothing.