Chapter 48: We're Just Collecting Taxes
"Boss, let's raid that meth lab right now!" Hank blurted out the moment Ron ended the call.
Ron looked at him curiously. "Why raid it?"
"So we'll have evidence to prosecute him for manufacturing and distributing controlled substances," Hank said matter-of-factly. That's how he'd always handled things at the DEA, and he didn't see any problem with the approach.
"Excuse me, Mr. Hank, but I need to remind you that you're no longer with the DEA. You're with the IRS now, and we don't have narcotics enforcement authority," Ron said with a completely serious expression.
"So what do we do? Just let him keep operating?" Hank sputtered, having thought that joining Ron's unit would let him pursue his ambitions, but reality was proving bitterly disappointing.
Ron's face broke into a devious grin. "Of course not, Mr. Hank. Do you know what our most important function is here at the IRS?"
"Collecting taxes?" Hank ventured, and Ron rewarded him with an approving smile.
"Exactly right."
"But what does tax collection have to do with drugs?" Hank asked, confused.
"Do you think Fring is just a drug dealer?" Ron leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "How wonderfully naive!"
"Isn't he?"
"Not at all. Or rather, not entirely. He's a drug dealer and a disgraceful tax cheat. To date, the IRS hasn't collected a single penny from him on his narcotics enterprise."
"Not one red cent!" Ron slammed his fist on the desk for emphasis. "Therefore, we have every right to collect from him, using whatever force is necessary."
With a knowing wink, Hank immediately caught on.
Right - the IRS didn't have authority to investigate drugs, but they absolutely could go after Fring for tax collection. And Hank seriously doubted the guy was actually paying taxes on his meth profits.
"So what's our play? I've never done tax collection before. Do we just walk up and have a conversation with him?" Hank was genuinely curious to learn his boss's methods and see what kind of approach he used.
"No problem. I'll walk you through it. You'll get the hang of it after one operation. Besides, your brother-in-law the chemistry teacher is small-time, but do you really think a drug kingpin like Gustavo Fring pays his taxes?"
"Probably not," Hank agreed. Hell, even Walter was only cooking to pay for cancer treatment or leave money for his kids.
Ron turned to Andy. "Andy, did that guy who looks like Nicolas Cage drop off our delivery yesterday?"
"If you mean that heavily modified pickup truck, it's parked in the garage downstairs." Andy pulled a key from his desk drawer and tossed it over.
Ron caught it and pressed a hidden button under his desk. The bookshelf, which had been lined with various legal volumes, immediately split apart, revealing a concealed room.
"Holy shit..." Hank's jaw dropped.
The hidden armory was packed with an intimidating array of weaponry, from M4 carbines to anti-tank rockets. It looked like a small military depot. Hank conservatively estimated the equipment inside could outfit at least a full company of soldiers.
"Welcome to the IRS Criminal Investigation Division armory. Help yourself to whatever you need," Ron said generously. He stripped off his business suit, revealing his muscular physique, and strapped on a tactical vest, then covered it with a loose flannel shirt that completely concealed the armor.
He holstered his Sig Sauer P226 and slung a Mossberg 590 across his back. Before leaving, he grabbed a worn baseball cap from a hook and pulled it on, looking like a weekend warrior heading to the gun range.
"Boss, isn't this overkill? Are we going to war?" Hank asked nervously as he climbed into Ron's truck, clutching an M4.
He noticed this pickup was definitely not your average Ford F-150. Not only did the exterior appear armored, but the cargo in the back made his blood run cold, bringing back some unpleasant memories from his Army deployment.
Ron fired up the engine and pulled out of the garage. "War? What makes you think that? We're just collecting taxes!"
"Do we need that thing for tax collection?" Hank pointed at the large, tarp-covered object in the truck bed.
It was a twelve-tube steel monster welded to the rear platform. If his memory served, it was a M270 Multiple Launch Rocket System. When he'd served in Afghanistan, insurgents had frequently used similar weapons.
Zero recoil, quick setup, capable of firing a full salvo simultaneously. The firepower was not only devastating but surprisingly mobile, weighing only about 1,400 pounds fully loaded. After firing, it could be immediately relocated and easily towed by any decent truck.
That made it one of the most feared weapons in asymmetric warfare, right alongside AK-47s and RPGs.
Hank's unit had been hit by one of these systems, leaving him with lasting psychological scars.
"Absolutely!" Ron replied with obvious irritation. "It's just the two of us going up against a crew of heavily armed cartel soldiers. This is the only thing that gives me adequate confidence in our tactical superiority."
"But it's massively overpowered. Are you planning to level the entire laundry? Then what evidence will we have to nail him for drug dealing... I mean, tax evasion?"
Hank felt like Ron didn't look anything like a tax collector. He looked more like the insurgent fighters who still haunted his nightmares. Using this monstrosity for tax collection? What wouldn't get obliterated? What would be left to collect?
"Relax!" Ron waved dismissively. "I didn't load all high-explosive warheads. Only four are actual lethal rounds. The rest are tear gas and flashbangs. I know my operational parameters."
"Well, that's somewhat better..." Hank felt relieved for about two seconds before reality hit. "Wait, what the hell! Even if it's tear gas, that volume is completely excessive!"
"What choice do I have? You know I'm understaffed. I can only compensate with superior firepower. Or are you planning to channel your inner John Rambo and single-handedly take on an entire cartel crew?"
That comment immediately made Hank shut up and buckle his seatbelt. He was still young, had a gorgeous wife, and had no intention of dying in some insane government operation.
Soon, the pickup reached an open field less than three miles from Fring's laundromat. No buildings obstructed the line of sight, making it an ideal firing position.
Smoke from the industrial facility's smokestacks had a distinctly yellowish tint, probably from the initial methylamine reactions. If Ron was correct, active production was happening inside.
Which meant, by sheer coincidence, Hank's chemistry teacher brother-in-law was probably in there too.
Ron yanked off the tarp, exposing the menacing steel beast underneath: "Alright, time to get to work~"
End of Chapter
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