"Gabriel Singer is a pilot for a private air transport company. Tomorrow morning, his plane will land at a cargo airport in Mobile, Alabama."
Jack discussed their itinerary, his eyes never leaving the rearview mirror. He was glad he hadn't made any pretentious remarks earlier.
The blow came too quickly. He had just thought about saying the CIA wouldn't dare act too recklessly within the country, but before they could leave Florida and enter Alabama, a black GMC Yukon with government plates pulled up.
"Lend me your gun," Frank said before Jack tossed him his sidearm and spare magazine.
The guy in the Yukon was dressed similarly to Jack, in a black suit, white shirt, and dark tie, like a federal agent. Judging by CIA practices, Jack was almost certain he had a fake FBI ID in his pocket. After all, it
was a well-known practice for the CIA to impersonate FBI agents when conducting domestic operations.
"Wait until we're out of town," Jack warned.
They had just entered Robertsdale, a small town on the border of two states. Traffic was bustling along the road, and there were still many pedestrians on the sidewalks.
However, the pursuer was clearly a rather arrogant individual. Seeing Jack turn onto the road leading out of town as soon as he entered, he evidently sensed his pursuit had been discovered and simply charged straight after him.
"Damn it!"
Jack sped up slightly, but even his driving skills weren't enough to keep him from going too fast in the city. Running a red light wasn't a big deal for the FBI, but hitting an innocent bystander was a bit excessive.
However, the Yukon behind them, seemingly wary of further complications, slammed on the accelerator and rushed in, ready to close in on the Suburban.
Jack snorted coldly and continued to accelerate, putting some distance between them and the Yukon.
However, both the Suburban and the Yukon were large SUVs, with comparable performance. On city roads, it was impossible to tell which was better.
Seeing the Yukon, still in hot pursuit, closing in on the rear of his car, seemingly poised to pounce, Jack suddenly slammed on the brakes, then shifted gears, steered, pulled the parking brake, and hit the accelerator, all in one seamless motion.
Caught off guard, the Yukon slammed headfirst into the rear of the Suburban. While the other car instinctively braked to distance itself, Jack, using the impact force, manipulated the Suburban's massive body into a drift.
The entire Suburban began to spin around the center of the front and rear seats. When the car reached a 90-degree angle, Frank, already unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the passenger door.
When the car twisted 180 degrees, Frank stepped out, gripping the Sig Sauer P320-XTen gun Jack had given him, and fired at the Yukon's driver's seat as he walked.
The Suburban spun 360 degrees, its rear barely brushing Frank's heel. At the same moment, the Yukon's windshield was riddled with bullet holes, a spiderweb of holes.
The man in the suit reacted quickly, slumping over the seat the moment he sensed something was wrong.
But the gunfire continued unabated. Frank, like Jack that day in the cemetery, kept his shoulders steady, his feet steady, maintaining his grip at a rate of one round per second while closing in on the enemy.
His 15-round magazine was quickly emptied, and as Frank swapped for a spare, he was within 10 meters of the Yukon River.
In the less than two seconds between the gunfire pause, the man in the suit, sensing something was amiss, immediately engaged reverse gear and, recklessly, stepped on the accelerator, reversing the car at high speed.
Gunfire rang out again, and the Yukon, its front end riddled with holes, vanished around the corner at a speed comparable to its arrival. The Suburban pulled up beside Frank, and Jack helped him reopen the passenger door.
"Frank, there's something wrong with the FBI. How did they track us down?" Marvin, who had remained silent the entire time in the backseat clutching his pink pig, began to report to Jack.
"It's clear someone's been watching you."
Jack pulled out his phone and called Dana Moger, briefly recounting his experience.
Of course, he didn't reveal that two retired CIA agents were sitting beside him. Instead, he twisted the Beckett case, claiming he was investigating and had been intercepted by suspected federal agents.
After giving the Yukon's license plate number and hanging up, Jack said to Frank with some regret, "I'm sorry, I can't go to Mobile with you."
This was perhaps the downside of being in the system: when internal conflict arises, even if he's the victim, he must immediately report it to his superiors and submit to an investigation.
Even though his female boss was considered "family," the proper procedures still had to be followed, and Jack had to return to New York first.
That evening, flying back alone, Jack entered Dana Moger's office and was met with a familiar face he hadn't seen in ages: CIA agent Michael Weston, sporting a sly grin.
It had been almost two years since he'd last seen him (Chapter 591), also in this very office, in a similar setting, the only difference being that it was during normal working hours, while now it was late at night, considered overtime.
"Ah, so good to see you're alright, Jack," Michael Weston, his voice still hoarse, said, warmly, rising from the sofa and giving him a hug. He
felt a gentle nudge in his pocket, as if something had been tucked into it, but Jack resisted the discomfort of being embraced by someone of his own sex and didn't immediately push him away.
"Now that the misunderstanding has been cleared up, I'll take my leave. It's getting late, and there's a pretty girl waiting for me."
Jack pushed Michael back onto the couch, trying to get away. "You're leaving right after I arrived? Is this the CIA's way of saying sorry to a victim?"
As Jack stared at him in surprise, he pulled out the small slip of paper he'd just slipped into his pocket, unfolded it, and read out the two names on it. "William Cooper, Cynthia Wilkes. Who are they?"
"Hey, man, that's not following the rules."
Michael, exasperated, reached for the slip, but his skills were so poor that Jack pushed him back onto the couch after just two or three moves. Dana Moger, sitting behind the desk, watched the whole thing with a smile.
"So it was that bitch Cynthia. No wonder she's so unruly."
Dana, always maintaining her elegant, superior image in front of him, shrugged nonchalantly at Jack's surprised look.
"She's an operations director for the National Covert Services (NCS), part of the CIA's Directorate of Operations (DO). She's a notorious bitch, a bitch who only cares about whoever gets the milk."
Hearing the vulgarity spewing from his female boss's rosy lips made Jack want to cover his ears. He could tell there was a deep-seated grudge between the two.
(End of Chapter)