Chapter 80: Bored Ron
At the IRS Special Operations Unit headquarters in Los Angeles, Ron sat in his office chair, lost in thought.
Three days had passed since Paige's visit. He woke up the next morning in an unfamiliar hotel room, his memory completely wiped out except for a vague recollection of a dream.
In his dream, he saw Princess Elsa from Frozen, Princess Jasmine from Aladdin, and Belle from Beauty and the Beast. Without exception, they all bore Paige's face, as if Paige were cosplaying.
When he awoke, Paige had vanished. Only a seemingly ordinary, unremarkable phone lay on the nightstand. It was Paige's.
A single message confirmed Paige's presence: "If you miss me in the future, use this phone to contact me đź’‹"
Even after using his privileged access to surveillance cameras at Paige's home, the Caltech lab, and the hotel, Ron couldn't find any trace of Paige.
She was like a ghost. Aside from Ron's new phone and his already hazy memories, there was no proof she'd ever been there. Even during the time he was unconscious, footage of Paige shopping at the grocery store near his house had been captured.
But Ron, a federal agent, still spotted a flaw in the surveillance footage: it was clearly pre-recorded video playing on a loop!
This girl was being way too cautious, wasn't she?
However, considering that the NSA surveillance scandals were still fresh in everyone's minds, Ron felt that Paige's paranoid approach was understandable. A hacker of her caliber, if exposed, would surely face all kinds of federal heat.
It was better to stay under the radar.
Before he knew it, the afternoon sun was blazing through his office window. Ron finally lazily slid his chair to the side to avoid the glare, but even after adjusting his position, he couldn't focus on anything.
"Alright, I'm seriously bored, Andy. Got any interesting cases to liven things up around here?"
Ron sat up helplessly in his spacious office. Andy had used department funds to buy a complete set of the most expensive espresso equipment and was reading the Wall Street Journal while brewing coffee.
If it weren't for Hank still maintaining their weapons, Ron's special operations team would look no different from a country club.
Andy put down the newspaper and adjusted his reading glasses. "Boss, we've collected a total of $21.1 million in back taxes this month from Operation 'Colonel Sanders.' After deducting operational costs and annual salaries, bonuses, and other expenses, we still have over $5 million in surplus.
We've already exceeded our annual performance targets. Shouldn't we be taking some well-deserved R&R? I remember you promised us a six-month vacation if we could nail this drug kingpin."
Ron was speechless. He'd said that during their mission briefing. Not only had they collected massive back taxes from the fried chicken drug operation, they'd also far exceeded Director Francis's first-year target of $10 million.
"But even if we've hit our annual goals, we can't get complacent. Look at yourselves! I can't even remember when my special operations team turned into a retirement home!"
This isn't my elite unit!
"Well, if you're really looking for action, there might be something interesting in that intel stack." Andy picked up the pile of papers next to the coffee machine and handed them to Ron, speaking in a coaxing tone.
"These are shared intelligence files that recently came in from the FBI. Mostly current case files. I read them like detective novels when I'm bored."
Ron couldn't help but feel frustrated, but as someone who believed in respecting his elders, he couldn't lose his temper with the old man. Andy was even older than his father, George Sr.
Moreover, since Andy's arrival with his extensive financial expertise, he'd taken over much of the number-crunching work, which made Ron's job easier—hence why he had time to be bored.
"Let me see if there's anything interesting lately." Ron had no choice but to wave at Hank and kill time with the FBI's shared intelligence, reading and commenting as he went.
"Shootout at Venice Beach? No doubt another turf war between car thieves and gang members over territory. Let those thugs shoot each other. They blow all their money on drugs anyway and won't pay a dime in taxes."
"Notorious gang leader found dead in his own swimming pool? Pass. Is the FBI so desperate for work they're investigating accidents now? Not everyone knows how to swim these days."
Ron crumpled up each piece of intelligence he'd read and dismissed, tossing them toward the waste basket like he was shooting hoops. But suddenly, Hank went crazy and dove for the crumpled paper Ron had just thrown away.
Hank looked at the photo in the intelligence report and muttered, "That's Harry! I know this guy!"
"What? What's wrong?" Ron leaned over. It appeared to be an ordinary carjacking homicide. The deceased was a private security company owner, an older man with a limp.
The cause of death, according to the report, was a gunshot wound during a carjacking. Ron didn't notice anything unusual.
Hank nodded emphatically. "That old guy was my dad's battle buddy. They served together in 'Nam. He's a real hardass. But even with his bad legs, trust me, he wouldn't go down easy to some junkie carjacker!"
"Maybe his reflexes were slow?" Ron shrugged dismissively, still not taking it seriously. This kind of case was all too common in LA, with several happening every day.
"No way! My old man went to the shooting range with this guy just last week. At twenty yards, this old-timer could put every round in the bullseye with a pistol. You think some street punk could take out a operator like that?"
Hank shouted while clutching the crumpled intelligence report. Ron immediately realized there must be something seriously wrong with this case: "Andy, contact the FBI immediately and have them send us the complete case file."
"You got it, Boss."
Ron turned to Hank with sharp eyes. The capable IRS agent was finally back in action: "You think this was a premeditated hit?"
"Obviously." Hank pointed to the bullet holes in the crime scene photos. "Look, ballistics said these holes in the car door came from .45 caliber pistol rounds. Harry always carried a collector's edition M1911 on him, but there was no sign of that gun at the scene."
"Maybe the attackers took his gun and then shot him with it?" Andy interrupted, joining the discussion.
"Impossible," Hank shot back. "Harry was a master marksman. You think you'd have a chance of taking Ron's gun away and killing him with it?"
Andy rolled his eyes and shut up. "Take Ron's gun and kill him? I think you're overestimating my life expectancy."
(End of chapter)
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