Chapter 123: The CIA's Conditions
"You son of a bitch! You're under arrest by the Central Intelligence Agency!" The woman, furious and humiliated, swung her weapon toward Ron, but he showed zero concern.
"CIA arresting me? Who the hell do you think you are? Even your boss, Director Smith, wouldn't have the balls to talk to me like that." Ron, completely unfazed by the woman's threat, took a step forward, treating her gun like it was a water pistol.
"What are you doing? Stay back!" The woman, intimidated by Ron's presence, stepped backward while keeping her weapon trained on him, shouting in a shaky voice, "Take another step and I'll drop you!"
"Drop me?" Ron flashed a predatory grin that made the federal agent's blood run cold. "Go ahead and try. Even with that piece pointed at me, I guarantee I'll put a round in you before you can blink. Want to see what your gray matter looks like?"
Ron kept advancing, completely ignoring the agent's firearm. She backpedaled in terror.
Because judging by the carnage around them, his threat was deadly serious!
"I..." The agent barely got a word out when her back hit the concrete wall. Without realizing it, she'd been cornered, and Ron, seizing the moment, quickly disarmed her.
"Is this really the caliber of CIA personnel these days?" Ron sighed, shaking his head. "Empty your pockets of any other hardware, and don't make me pat you down."
"Nothing else." The agent turned her pockets inside out for Ron's inspection. "Thanks for being a gentleman about it."
"Don't mention it - mainly because you're butt-ugly," Ron shrugged casually, nearly making her snap. "Just wait until I get backup! You'll see what enhanced interrogation really looks like!"
Suddenly, Ron handed her his encrypted phone: "Call Director Smith and tell him Ron Carpenter wants a word."
"How do you know the Director? Who the hell are you?" The agent realized this man actually knew her superior!
"You still don't know who you're dealing with, do you?" Ron smirked: "The CIA has really hit rock bottom this time.
Back in the day, you guys would be knocking down my door the minute my little brother ordered a few smoke detectors online. Look at you now - having to rely on freelancers to recover your own stolen intel. Pathetic."
"Smoke detectors?" The agent asked, confused while dialing: "Why would your brother ordering smoke detectors matter? Are you sure it wasn't a mix-up? The Agency doesn't sweat the small stuff like that."
"Maybe because the model he ordered contained americium-241?" Ron spread his hands: "Poor kid just wanted to build a small nuclear reactor to power the neighborhood. What's wrong with that?"
"Hello, who is this?" The Director's gravelly voice came through the speaker. The agent moved to hand Ron the phone, but he shook his head and hit speakerphone.
"I've got one of your people at gunpoint," Ron pressed his Magnum to the agent's temple. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Agent Harris."
"Right, Harris. I've got Agent Harris's life in my hands, plus that encryption key you've been hunting for. What's it worth to you, old man?" Ron's tone was ice-cold.
"Ron, let's not play games here. Thank you for your service to this country. Now, could you please return that key and release my agent?"
"Tsk, boring. But here's the deal, gramps - this isn't charity work. You need to compensate me. Whatever deal you cut with Hobbs, I want the same package!"
After backing Hobbs, negotiating directly with the Director without any middleman markup seemed like smart business.
"My arrangement with Hobbs includes a permanent CIA consultant position, which grants him limited access to military assets when needed. Interested in coming aboard as well?" the old man chuckled.
"So you were already hip to Hobbs's situation. I was wondering why he kept harping about minimizing casualties. You were running the whole show from the start, weren't you? Crafty old bastard."
"Less crafty, more strategic. I needed a reliable way to flush out our mole, and it worked perfectly." The Director's tone radiated confidence that everything had gone according to plan.
"I'm not interested in your spook games, and I sure as hell don't want to be on your payroll. How about we discuss cold hard cash for my services?" Ron shifted to more interesting territory.
"Actually, I've been thinking about upgrading my ride lately. How about requisitioning an M1A2 Abrams from the Army? And cover all my fuel costs going forward - it'll look badass rolling up to collect taxes."
"Absolutely not," the Director shot down immediately: "Even if I approved it, Secretary Francis would never allow you to drive a main battle tank through downtown D.C. You'd cause mass hysteria."
"Cheap bastard. How about straight cash then? I hear these things go for ten million on the black market. How about a five million bonus?" Ron swung for the fences.
"Impossible," the Director replied righteously, "Our funding comes from congressional appropriations. There's no way to justify a bonus of that magnitude."
"Tsk, don't act like I don't know you blew more than that shipping livestock to Afghanistan. I haven't even mentioned those 'safe houses' you built over there..."
"Ahem..." The Director coughed awkwardly, "Those weren't safe houses. They were enhanced diplomatic facilities designed to attract local investment. But let's get back to this five million figure.
That's way too steep. How about a one million bonus, tax-exempt, listed as equipment replacement for operational losses. Plus, when you need it, I'll provide military support for necessary operations."
"You realize that kind of access alone is worth more than the money." The Director added, "I can't give you tanks permanently, but I can loan them when operationally required. Not just armor - other hardware too."
"Tax-exempt?" Ron sneered, "Who do you think I am?!"
"One point five million."
Ron's expression turned menacing, "Are you trying to insult me with pocket change?"
"Two million."
"Thank you kindly, boss!" Ron instantly switched to a beaming smile, "What money? Talking about money damages our friendship. I'm helping purely out of patriotic duty... When does the check clear?"
"Tomorrow at noon, my assistant will deliver a certified check, but you'll need to sign off on a damage assessment report valuing the scene at ten million."
This old fox is slicker than I am!
Agent Harris looked around the garage where the firefight had just occurred. There were only a few bullet-riddled cars scattered about. How is this worth ten million?
She voiced her confusion.
"Paper and pen." Ron held out his hand, and the agent obediently complied. Ron scribbled something on the paper and slapped it over the original manufacturer's badge on one of the shot-up vehicles.
"Now it's worth it."
On the paper, Ron had written in terrible handwriting: Bugatti.
(End of chapter)
If you enjoyed this chapter, leave a Power Stone or Review!
P@atreon/Soulforger (45+ advanced chapters)
Buy me coffee - ko-fi*com/soulforger01