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In the Los Angeles field office of the FBI, inside the assistant director's office, three agents — led by James — stood stiffly, reporting the disastrous results of their failed raid on The Tinkerer .
The assistant director stared at them with the look one reserves for idiots. His tone was cold, his words sharper still.
"So, the Tinkerer never even returned to his clinic, and you sent in an entire task force without confirming anything. You stormed the place… and arrested a bunch of kids. That about right?"
His voice rose with every sentence, his patience evaporating.
"And if they were just ordinary kids, that might've been fine. But no — you raided a place full of police officers' children and a city councilman's son! Do you have any idea how many complaint calls hit my office this morning? Do you want to guess the only reason I haven't strangled you where you stand?"
By the end, he was practically pounding the desk.
Agent James, the man who'd pushed hardest for the arrest, looked grim but refused to wilt. "Sir, we've confirmed that the Tinkerer abandoned his illegal clinic. But we haven't lost all leads."
"Oh?" The assistant director's voice dropped to a dangerous calm. "And what miraculous lead do we still have?"
"The Continental Hotel," James said. "He's one of their service contractors. We can get information through them — his real identity, his safe houses. Maybe even request the hotel hand him over voluntarily."
That name made the temperature in the room drop. The assistant director stared at James as though the man had just signed his own death warrant. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat as stone:
"Approved. Go ahead."
James blinked. The sudden approval was too easy. "Uh… thank you, sir. When will you be joining us at the Continental?"
"Me?" The assistant director looked up from his paperwork. "I'm not going."
"Then who's handling the contact?"
"Whoever suggested it," the man said coolly. "You. You need a court order? A warrant? An investigative mandate? I'll sign whatever you want. After that, it's your problem."
Before James could protest, the director plucked a file from a drawer and tossed it to the other two agents. "As for you two — new assignment. Investigate this case."
"Yes, sir."
The older of the two younger agents immediately snatched the file, sensing the danger of lingering near James's disaster. Better to take any case than get dragged into that mess.
But the moment they opened the folder, both of them froze. The younger one blurted, "Sir, this is the Zodiac Killer file! That's a cold case — do we even have new evidence?"
"Go find some," the assistant director said dryly.
"But sir—"
"OUT!"
They bolted from the office like men fleeing a crime scene.
That left James alone, glowering at his superior. The assistant director didn't flinch — just pointed at the door.
"You too. Out."
James clenched his jaw. Every instinct told him to argue, to shout, to demand fairness. But the facts were clear: the raid had failed spectacularly, the blowback was real, and the "Continental Hotel" was radioactive territory.
He'd crossed the line — and he knew it. So he turned on his heel and left, seething.
When the door finally clicked shut behind them, the assistant director slumped back in his chair and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
From the small conference room adjoining the office, a bald Black man in his forties stepped out — built like a soldier, dressed in casual clothes rather than Bureau blues.
"Is this what passes for fun in the FBI, Owen?" he asked dryly. "Watching your own agents try to replace you, stab you, or screw up in ways that drag you down with them? Surrounded by people whose IQs make me question yours?"
"At least we look respectable, Fury," said Assistant Director Owen, rolling his eyes. "Unlike you — you look like a vet who ran out of benefits and spends his days begging the VA for rent money or running errands for gangs."
Nick Fury chuckled and sauntered to the liquor cabinet. "Please. I'm still an active agent of a classified government division. My work's way dirtier than yours — and way more important. Though I'll admit, sometimes being a gangster would be cleaner."
"Then why aren't you running your own unit yet?" Owen shot back. "You made it to colonel in the Army. If you'd joined the Bureau with me, we'd both be in D.C. by now — running a department instead of babysitting idiots."
Fury poured himself a generous glass of whiskey and grinned. "And deal with Bureau bureaucracy? No thanks. I'd rather command soldiers than manage schemers. At least dumb grunts don't stab you in the back."
"Hey, easy with that," Owen said, watching the pour with pained eyes. "That single mouthful costs more than your monthly pension."
Fury took a sip, eyes widening in mock surprise. "Really? Funny, it suddenly tastes better knowing that."
"Yeah, yeah. Hey! Put that down — that's the good stuff!" Owen barked as Fury poured himself another.
"You know why it's good?" Fury said with a grin. "Because I can see how much it hurts you. Otherwise, this stuff tastes like something you rednecks make in your bathtubs."
"Damn it, go drink your cheap Pappy Van Winkle bourbon — that corn mash garbage you people like so much."
Fury raised an eyebrow. "Watch your mouth. You remember last year's little racial sensitivity riots? L.A. was the epicenter. Want me to remind you how that ended? And FYI, Pappy Van Winkle ain't cheap — costs me a month's salary."
Owen grumbled but couldn't resist a jab: "One sip of mine is worth your whole bottle, and you know it."
"Ha!" Fury flopped down in the guest chair, feet up on the desk, sipping contentedly.
Owen ignored the boots on his paperwork and said, "Since you've helped yourself to my whiskey, you can at least give me something in return. What do you people know about the Tinkerer ?"
"Oh, asking for classified intel now, are we?" Fury smirked.
"Unless it's above my clearance level, you're going to tell me what you know," Owen replied evenly. "Do that, and I'll overlook your habit of flashing an FBI badge every time you want something done quietly."
Fury's grin widened. "What I know… is exactly what you know. No more, no less."
"In other words," Owen said slowly, "there is something you can't talk about."
Fury just smiled and said nothing — the kind of silence that said everything.
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