Chapter 244: Failed Mission

In the office of the Assistant Director, head of the FBI Los Angeles field office, stood three FBI agents led by James, reporting on the failed mission to arrest the Tinkerer.

The Assistant Director wore an expression of looking at an idiot and said coldly, "So the Tinkerer never returned to his clinic. You deployed a large force without confirming anything. As a result, you only caught a bunch of little bastards, right?"

"If they were just ordinary little bastards, it would be one thing. Children of police officers, children of city council members... do you know how many complaint calls came directly to my office? Guess why I haven't strangled you yet."

The speaker grew angrier with every word, coming close to slamming the table.

James, the agent who had spearheaded the arrest of the Tinkerer, spoke with a grim face, "Sir, we confirmed the Tinkerer abandoned that illegal clinic, but we haven't lost all leads."

The Assistant Director suppressed his voice, as if speaking from the depths of his throat, and said, "Oh? What leads do we have left 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 safe houses. Even demanding the Continental Hotel hand him over voluntarily is not impossible."

Hearing Agent James's reply, the Assistant Director's emotions instantly cooled. He looked at the man's unwilling-to-give-up expression with the gaze one gives a dead person. Finally, he blurted out one sentence: "Approved. Go."

"Hmm." The Assistant Director's so readily granting permission made Agent James slightly incredulous. Watching the man rummaging through files on the desk, he asked tentatively, "Then, Sir, when will you go to the Continental Hotel?"

"Me? I'm not going."

"Then who will go to ask questions?"

"Whoever came up with the idea goes. What do you need? A court order? An arrest warrant? An investigation order? I can give you whatever you need; figure out the rest yourself."

Ignoring the sagging old face of the veteran agent before him, the Assistant Director found a file and tossed it in front of the other two, saying, "You two investigate this case."

"Yes, Sir." Of the remaining two, an agent who had been with the FBI longer, seeing the situation was turning sour and that his superior was offering a way out, hurriedly snatched it up to prevent the old agent from assigning them that impossible task.

But not looking at the file was one thing; once they saw the contents, both men's faces changed drastically. The younger one complained, "Sir, this is the Zodiac Killer case. Isn't that a cold case? Is there new evidence?"

"Go out and look. Maybe you'll find it."

"But Sir..."

"Get out!"

The two young men fled in panic, leaving only James, the old agent, staring with a dark face. The head of this FBI field office was not used to indulging him either; he pointed at the door and said, "You get out too."

Hearing such an uncompromising rebuke, James wanted to explode on the spot.

But the other was his superior; secondly, this mission failed. Although there were no substantial losses, it would undoubtedly be recorded against him on his resume.

Add to that the matter of the Continental Hotel; anyone in the know knew what kind of pit that was. So he had stepped over a red line. He could only leave resentfully.

After those unreliable subordinates had left completely, the Assistant Director, who had been pretending to be busy with his head down, slumped into his chair and exhaled a long breath.

At this moment, a black man with a buzz cut walked out of the small conference room attached to the office. About the same age as the Assistant Director, both were in their prime, around thirty or forty. Unlike most agents who wore sharp suits, he was dressed quite casually.

He said, "Owen, is this the fun of working for the FBI? Spending all day watching subordinates who want to replace you or harm you. Leading a group of guys with questionable intelligence makes me wonder if you've been assimilated by them."

"At least we look the part, Fury. Unlike you, looking like a black man who couldn't find a proper job after retiring and is just killing time on a pension. When the pension runs out, you'll either be taking aid from the Veterans Association or mixing with gangs."

"Ha, at least I'm a secret agent for an official agency. I do no less than you, and the importance is incomparable to mere federal affairs. Although in some ways, it's several times worse than mixing with gangs."

"So did you get promoted to management? Or can you only be a soldier, taking orders from others? You were at least a Colonel in the Army. If you had joined the FBI with me, we could be back at headquarters in true management now."

"Then I'd have to follow every rule and lead a group of troublesome subordinates. I'd rather return to the Army and lead those idiot soldiers than lead these crooked guys." Nick Fury mocked, pouring himself a glass of whiskey from the liquor cabinet.

"Hey, you're really proactive. Do you know that one sip might cost you a month's salary?" the FBI Assistant Director said.

Nick Fury, having taken a sip, widened his eyes and showed a comical expression. Looking at his glass, he said, "I didn't feel it before, but after you said that, I suddenly think this whiskey tastes good."

"Right? Hey, hey, hey, put the wine down." Director Owen said, reluctant as he watched his old comrade pour another large glass.

"Do you know why it tastes good? Because I know it will hurt your heart. Otherwise, this stuff like urine is only drinkable by rednecks like you."

"Damn it, you should go drink your cheap Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. That corn-brewed stuff is only loved by people like you black folks."

"Hehehe, watch your mouth. Last year's big racial discrimination scandal, Los Angeles was the hardest hit. I don't need to remind you what would happen. Besides, Pappy Bourbon isn't cheap; a bottle costs me a month's salary."

Snatching the wine back from Nick Fury's hand, Director Owen grumbled, "My one sip equals your one bottle; what do you have to compare with me?"

"Ha." Sitting in the guest chair opposite the director's desk, Nick Fury put both legs up on someone else's table and happily drank the expensive liquid gold in his glass.

Director Owen ignored the eyesore of those legs and said, "Since you drank my wine, tell me about it. What do you know about the Tinkerer?"

"Are you asking me for intelligence?"

"Unless his intelligence is classified 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 badge to get things done."

"What I know is the same as what you know. No more, no less." Nick Fury said slyly.

"That means there are still parts you can't say." Owen said, as if realizing something.

Nick Fury smiled and said nothing.

(End of Chapter)