Chapter 41 – Shadows of a Mole

Chapter 41 – Shadows of a Mole

"I've already been suspended…" Hank said glumly.

Ron's eyes lit up with delight. Suspended? That meant Hank was now a free agent—and if he played his cards right, recruitment was very much on the table.

Unfortunately, just like in every clichéd movie, the distant wail of sirens cut into the moment. The police had finally arrived—fashionably late.

"Ron… why is it always you?" The lead detective stepping out of the cruiser turned out to be a familiar face—Detective Jack. His tone was exasperated. "Last time it was that high-speed chase. Before that, the warehouse bust with the smuggling ring. How much chaos are you planning to cause us?"

"Hey, I don't want this stuff to happen either," Ron said, throwing up his hands innocently. "Maybe you guys should be asking why the crime rate around here's gone completely off the rails. And, for the record, I've been the victim—twice now."

He wore the most believable victim expression he could muster.

Jack sighed. "Fine. What happened this time?"

Then he noticed the man standing awkwardly beside Ron—a pudgy guy in disheveled clothes, still catching his breath. "Wait… aren't you Hank? Weren't you DEA? What the hell are you doing hanging around with Ron?"

"Correction," Ron cut in quickly. "Mr. Hank here is merely a recently suspended DEA employee. So, it's perfectly reasonable that he's meeting his potential new employer, wouldn't you agree?"

Without waiting for a reply, Ron clapped Hank on the shoulder and continued in a cheery voice, "Hey, Hank, like I told you—you've already been accepted into the IRS. Don't forget to report in tomorrow. Here, this is your service weapon. Your ID will probably take a couple more days to process."

With a wink, Ron discreetly handed Hank the Glock he'd just emptied during the fight. It was already registered under Ron's agency (the IRS's special ops division), and all it needed was a quick paperwork update to transfer to Hank.

And just like that, Ron poached a skilled agent right under the FBI's nose. The thrill was palpable. Even though the agencies were technically cooperating right now, that didn't mean they wouldn't take the chance to screw each other over when they could—especially when Ron's team was desperately understaffed.

Jack gave a helpless laugh. He didn't know all the internal drama at the DEA, but he did know Hank—and by all accounts, the guy was a solid shot. Still, the FBI had plenty of talent. It wasn't a huge loss from his perspective.

"Alright then… what exactly happened this time?"

Out of respect for his former superior, Hank gave a full and honest report. As he spoke, Jack's expression gradually darkened. Something about this incident didn't sit right.

He said nothing for now, though. With a wave of his hand, he ordered the two barely-breathing assassins to be taken away—priority one was getting them to a hospital.

The real questions would come later.

Hank's car was completely wrecked in the back, so he had no choice but to ride with Ron. Though Bumblebee's front bumper was a crumpled mess, it could still run—barely.

"I don't recall ever agreeing to join your so-called Special Operations Division," Hank grumbled as he climbed into the passenger seat.

"But you didn't say no either, did you?" Ron replied casually, eyes on the road.

Hank sighed. "I just don't get it. You poached me right in front of Jack, and he didn't even bat an eye. Was I really that bad at the DEA? Not even worth trying to keep?"

He looked down, questioning himself and his worth.

"I swear to God, don't tell me I just recruited a complete idiot," Ron shot back, offering zero comfort. "Jack was protecting you, you glorious little anti-narcotics hero."

"Protecting me?" Hank repeated, confused.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Think, genius. How far is this place from your office? Not even three kilometers. The nearest other police station is at least eight. And yet, Jack shows up, but not a single soul from the DEA. Don't you think that's a little suspicious?"

His tone sharpened, and his gaze turned cold.

Hank had been suspended, turned in his weapon, and immediately got ambushed. The timing was far too perfect. And the DEA, located the closest, didn't even send backup? The whole thing reeked of something deeper.

Unless you believed the absurd idea that every agent at the DEA had suddenly gone deaf, there was only one explanation: there's a mole inside the DEA—and not just any mole, but someone with influence.

That was why Jack let Ron take Hank—because, under the circumstances, being with Ron was the safest option.

A chill ran down Hank's spine as the implications hit him. "I don't get it… Who the hell wants me dead? And that phone call—who made it? What were they trying to do?"

"As a narcotics officer, who wouldn't want you dead? Drug dealers, of course," Ron said matter-of-factly. "But they usually don't have this kind of patience or precision. So I'd look into anyone you pissed off recently—any gangs you busted, or convicts you helped send away who might've just gotten out."

He paused for a beat.

"As for the mystery caller… my guess? Internal conflict among the dealers. Someone on the inside didn't like what was happening and reached out. Just a hunch though. You'll have to dig into that yourself."

Ron gave a lazy shrug. "With me, your investigation won't be restricted. You're free to go wherever and follow whatever lead you want. Honestly, I prefer not to micromanage. Just call me when things go boom. Sound good? Happy now?"

Hank wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Less red tape was nice. More freedom to act was even better. But Ron… well, aside from being a solid fighter with a sharp mind, he seemed wildly unprofessional in every other way.

By now, they'd arrived at Hank's house. Hank opened the door to get out. "Fine. I'll join you. But I want to keep digging into the blue powder case. What kind of manpower do I get?"

"Ah, about that…" Ron grinned, flashing a row of perfect white teeth without a trace of shame. "Our Special Operations Division currently consists of… you, me, and an accountant who can't hold a gun. We also do some tax investigations on the side, so it's not all glamor."

Hank's eyes widened. "No one else? Then what kind of resources do I get?"

"Well… a fully stocked armory? A budget so big it's impossible to spend it all?" Ron tilted his head in mock thought. "And a boss with insanely high combat ability. Still thinking of backing out?"

"…Forget it. I wasn't planning on going back to the DEA anyway." Hank sighed and stepped out of the car—only to be called back once more.

"Oh, and remember—no matter what, we're still a law enforcement unit under the IRS," Ron said, his tone turning oddly serious. "Know what that means?"

He didn't wait for Hank to respond.

"If we track down drug dealers, don't rush in guns blazing. First, we talk. See if they're willing to pay taxes."

"Wait, what?! They're drug dealers! That's illegal!" Hank shouted, shocked.

"I know," Ron replied with a smirk. "But if they pay taxes, they're taxpayers. And until we've drained every last dollar from their accounts, we treat them with the same respect we show any other citizen."

He licked his lips hungrily. "Where do you think all that funding comes from, huh?"

(End of Chapter)