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Chapter 41: Suspicion of a Mole
"I've been suspended," Hank said dejectedly.
Ron was thrilled. With Hank out of the DEA, recruiting him right now seemed like a golden opportunity. Unfortunately, just like in every cop movie, sirens wailed in the distance as law enforcement finally arrived fashionably late.
"Ron, why is it always you!" The lead detective stepping out of the squad car happened to be Ron's old acquaintance. Detective Jack threw his hands up in exasperation. "First you were chasing perps through downtown, then you ended up in that smuggling ring's warehouse shootout. How much paperwork are you planning to dump on my desk?"
"Hey, I didn't ask for any of this. Maybe you should be asking why we're seeing so many high-profile incidents lately. I'm the victim here, twice over."
Ron's tone was pure innocence, like a choir boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Alright, what's the situation this time?" Detective Jack finally noticed the stocky guy standing next to Ron, looking completely shell-shocked. "You're Hank, right? Thought you were DEA. What are you doing hanging around with this troublemaker?"
"Actually, let me clarify that," Ron interrupted smoothly. "Mr. Hank here is a recently suspended DEA agent who's about to start fresh with new employment opportunities. Makes perfect sense he'd be meeting with his potential new boss, don't you think?"
"Hank, buddy, welcome to the IRS Criminal Investigation Division. Report to me tomorrow morning, 8 AM sharp. Here's your service weapon - your credentials should be ready by Wednesday."
Ron winked at Hank and pressed his recently emptied Glock into the bewildered agent's hands. The firearm was already registered with the Treasury Department under Ron's authority. A simple paperwork transfer would make it official.
Just like that, Ron had poached a seasoned federal agent right under everyone's noses, and he couldn't have been happier. Sure, the agencies were supposed to be playing nice these days, but nobody passed up a chance for a little professional one-upmanship. Besides, Ron's unit was desperately understaffed.
Jack just shook his head with a rueful grin. He didn't know much about DEA politics, but he knew Hank's reputation. Solid operator, decent shot, but the feds had plenty of those. Not his problem.
"So what exactly went down here?"
Out of respect for his former colleagues, Hank walked Jack through the whole incident. The detective's frown deepened as he listened - this wasn't some random street crime - but he kept his thoughts to himself. He waved over the paramedics to get the two wounded shooters to the ER.
Hank's sedan was totaled, the rear end completely pancaked, so he climbed into Ron's car. The Camaro's front bumper was dented but still roadworthy.
"I don't recall ever agreeing to join your little task force."
"But you didn't object when I announced it, did you?" Ron said, pulling out into traffic.
"I just don't get why you recruited me right in front of Jack and he didn't even blink. Was my performance at the DEA really that terrible? Wouldn't he at least try to keep me around?"
Hank slumped in his seat, second-guessing his entire career.
"Look, I wouldn't recruit a total washout, would I?" Ron offered zero sympathy. "Jack's looking out for you, my narcotics-fighting friend."
"Looking out for me?" Hank was still lost.
Ron rolled his eyes. "Think about it - how far are we from your field office? Maybe two miles. The closest precinct is five miles out. And even though Jack responded, your DEA buddies are nowhere to be seen. Does that seem normal to you?"
Ron's expression grew serious as he spoke.
Hank had just been suspended and turned in his badge and gun when the shooters made their move. The timing was surgical, and despite being practically next door, no DEA backup had materialized. The whole sequence felt off.
Short of believing every DEA agent in the building had suddenly gone deaf, there was only one explanation: someone inside the agency was dirty. Someone with enough rank to control the response.
That's why Jack had let Ron's recruitment theater play out. Getting Hank away from the DEA was the safest move right now.
The realization hit Hank like a freight train. "I don't understand any of this. Who wants me dead? Who made that phone call? What's their angle?"
"As a narcotics agent, take a wild guess who might want you six feet under. Drug dealers, obviously, though they usually prefer more direct methods. I'd start by checking who you've crossed recently, or maybe see if any of your old arrests have gotten out on parole."
Ron drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking.
"As for that mystery caller, my gut says there's some kind of power struggle in whatever organization we're dealing with. Maybe someone on the inside doesn't like the current management. But that's just speculation. You'll have to dig into the details yourself."
"Working with me, you'll have complete operational freedom. Investigate however you want, follow whatever leads you find. You might not know this about me, but I believe in a hands-off management style. Just give me a heads-up before you kick down any doors. Pretty sweet deal, right?"
Hank didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Fewer bureaucratic restrictions meant more freedom to actually do police work, which was appealing. But Ron, despite his combat skills and sharp analytical mind, didn't exactly inspire confidence in the supervision department.
They'd arrived at Hank's suburban split-level, and he reached for the door handle. "Okay, I'm in. I want to keep working the blue crystal case. How many agents can you assign to me?"
"Well, let's see... my task force currently consists of you, me, and one accountant who couldn't intimidate a parking meter. Oh, and we've still got some tax investigations to handle on the side."
Ron flashed a perfect smile, showing absolutely zero embarrassment about the pathetic staffing situation.
Hank's eyes went wide. "Nobody else? What kind of resources am I working with here?"
"Full armory access? Unlimited operational budget?" Ron tilted his head thoughtfully. "How about a boss with exceptional combat capabilities? Still having second thoughts?"
"Forget it. I didn't want to go back to the DEA anyway." Hank sighed and started to get out, but Ron stopped him.
"Remember, whatever happens, we're a law enforcement division under the Treasury Department. You understand what that means, right?" Seeing Hank's blank look, Ron elaborated. "When we find drug dealers, we don't just bust down the door guns blazing. We have a conversation first. See if there's any... tax compliance opportunities."
"Hold on! They're selling drugs - that's a federal crime!" Hank's sense of justice was clearly offended.
"Sure it is, but if they pay their taxes, they're still taxpayers. At least until we've extracted every possible dollar from them." Ron's grin turned predatory. "Where do you think our unlimited budget comes from?"
End of Chapter
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