Failed Mission

In the office of the FBI Los Angeles Office, Assistant Director James and three other FBI Agent stood reporting on the failed mission to Tinkerer.

The assistant director looked at him like he was an idiot and said coldly, "So the Tinkerer never went back to his clinic. You mobilized a large number of people without confirming anything. And all you caught were a bunch of little brats, right?"

"What If...? they were just ordinary brats, that would be one thing. But police officers' kids, city councilors' kids... do you know how many complaint calls I get made directly to my office? Guess why I wouldn't strangle you all right now?"

The speaker grew angrier and angrier, and in the end, he was just short of slamming his fist on the table.

Agent James, who had spearheaded the Tinkerer, said with a grim expression, "Sir, we've confirmed that the Tinkerer abandoned the illegal clinic, but we haven't lost all our leads."

The assistant director, suppressing his voice as if uttering a sound from deep within his throat, said, "Oh, what other clues can we find?"

"He works at the Continental Hotel Continental Hotel. We can get more information from them about his true identity and other whereabouts. We could even ask the Continental Hotel to hand him over voluntarily."

Hearing Agent James's reply, the assistant chief's emotions immediately turned cold. He looked at the man before him with the gaze of someone staring at Deadman, his expression one of unwillingness to give up. Finally, he uttered only one sentence. "Approved. Go."

"Hmm." The assistant director's quick approval surprised Agent James. He glanced at the man rummaging through files on the table and tentatively asked, "So, sir, when are you going to the Continental Hotel?"

"Me? I'm not going."

"Then who should ask the questions?"

"Whoever came up with the idea should do it. What do you need? Court order? An arrest warrant? An investigation order? I can give you anything you want, but you'll have to figure out the rest yourself."

Ignoring the old detective's droopy face, the assistant chief found a file, threw it in front of the other two, and said, "You two go and investigate this case."

"Yes, sir." Of the remaining two, one of the agents, a longer-serving FBI agent, seeing things were going wrong and with his superior offering a way out, quickly seized the opportunity to prevent the veteran agent from assigning them the impossible task.

It would have been better if they hadn't looked at the file; once they did, the two men's expressions changed drastically. The younger man complained, "Sir, this is the case of the Zodiac Killer. Isn't this a cold case? Is there new evidence?"

"Go out and look, you might just find it."

"But sir..."

"Roll!"

The two young men fled in disarray, leaving only James, the veteran agent, glaring at them. The FBI's local office director, not one to back down, pointed to the door and said, "You get out too."

Hearing such a blunt rebuke, James wanted to lash out on the spot.

However, the other party is my superior; secondly, although there was no substantial loss from this mission failure, it will inevitably be recorded on my resume.

Adding to the matter of the Continental Hotel, those in the know understand what a trap it was. So he had crossed a red line. He could only leave dejectedly.

Once all the unreliable subordinates had left, the manager, who had been pretending to be busy, slumped into his chair and let out a long sigh.

At that moment, a Black man with a buzz cut walked out of the small conference room attached to the office. He was about the same age as the assistant director, both in their thirties or forties. Unlike most of the detectives, he was dressed quite casually, not in a suit.

He said, "Owen, is this the fun of working for the FBI? All you do is watch people trying to replace you or harm your subordinates. Leading that bunch of dim-witted guys makes me wonder if you've been assimilated by them."

"At least we're dressed decently, Nick Fury. Unlike you, you look like some black veteran who can't find a proper job and just lives on his pension. When his pension runs out, he'll either be on veterans' aid or end up in a gang."

"Ha, I'm a secret agent for an official agency, after all. I've done just as much as you, and the importance of my work far surpasses that of mere federal affairs. Although in some ways, it's several times worse than being a gangster."

"Did you get promoted to a management position? Or are you still just a soldier, being managed by others? You're at least a colonel in the Army. If you had come with me to the FBI, we could be back at headquarters now, promoted to real management positions, right?"

"Then you have to do everything by the book and lead a bunch of troublesome subordinates. I'd rather go back to the Army and lead those dim-witted soldiers than lead these scheming guys." Black Nick Fury said sarcastically, pouring himself a glass of whiskey from the liquor cabinet.

"Hey, you're really proactive. Do you know that one bite might be worth a month's salary for you?" said the FBI's assistant director.

Nick Fury, after taking a sip, widened his eyes and made a rather comical expression. Looking at his glass, he said, "I didn't feel anything at first, but now that you mention it, I suddenly find this whiskey quite delicious."

"Right? Hey, hey, put the wine down for me." Director Owen watched as his old comrade poured himself another large glass, speaking with a heavy heart.

"Do you know why it tastes so good? Because I know it will break your heart. Otherwise, it would taste like pee, and only a redneck like you could drink it."

"Damn it, you should go drink your cheap Pappy_Van_Winkle bourbon. That corn-based stuff is only for black people like you."

"Hehehe, watch your mouth. Los Angeles was a major victim of last year's racial discrimination scandal. I don't need to remind you what's going to happen, do I? Besides, Papi Boban isn't cheap; one bottle costs me a month's salary."

Snatching the bottle back from Heinrich Nick Fury, Director Owen grumbled, "One sip of mine is worth a whole bottle of yours. What do you have to offer me?"

"Ha." After sitting down in the guest seat opposite the manager's desk, Black Nick Fury put both legs up on the other person's desk and sipped his expensive liquid gold with relish.

Ignoring the unsightly legs, Director Owen said, "Since you've drunk my wine, tell me. What do you know about the Tinkerer?"

"Is he trying to ask me for information?"

"Unless his intelligence is classified to such an extent that I can't even listen to it, just tell me what you have to say. I'm not going to care about you guys always using my FBI credentials."

"I know the same as you know. No more, no less," Heinrich Fury said slyly.

"So, there are still some things that can't be said," Owen said, seemingly enlightened.

Heinrich Nick Fury smiled but remained silent.