Story time...
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I let the package just sit there on my desk for over an hour; there was no need to open it.
The return address told me everything I could possibly need to know. The law offices of Reynolds and Bonig. Somebody out there was pretty proud of his sense of humor.
Eventually Tony leans over the partition between our little offices, and his curiousity got piqued.
"Hey Rick, what's with the mail?"
"Dunno. It says 'confidential documents enclosed', so I'm figuring I'll deal with it during lunch."
"Confidential? Somebody serving you a subpeona?"
God, don't let that be an omen. "Probably just some old customer's estate paperwork."
"Mrs. Merriweather did sort of have a crush on you."
I laugh. "Yeah, I can see it now. She leaves the house to her cats, and their favorite can opener to me."
Tony laughs too, more enthusiastically than I can muster today. "Yeah, but knowing your luck, it's a subpeona."
"Thanks, man. Really."
"I just call 'em like I see 'em."
"Hey, stupid question. Do you remember my favorite television show?"
"Current, or all time?"
"All time."
"Magnum, P.I. Everybody knows that one, Rick."
"Yeah. That's what I'm afraid of."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Forget about it. We should both probably get back to work, before Petersen gets bored and decides to take his daily tour of the offices."
Tony sighs, but he turns back towards his own desk. Along the way, I hear him mumble "spoilsport".
And once again, the package just sits on my desk. Reynolds and Bonig. Jeff McKay played two characters on Magnum, one who was killed by a car bomb a couple seasons in, then another one a year later who started out impersonating the first, but with a mustache. The latter role was Jim Bonig. And the first was Magnum's favorite military informant, Lieutenant MacReynolds.
What scares me about the package is the part they left off of that joke of a return address. Mac. The Metahuman Affairs Committee. Not the sort of government agency that an ordinary loan officer has any business hearing from. Especially these days.
I wait until lunch, then take the package out to my car in the underground garage across the street. Once far away from the security cameras, I bring up the eyebeams. A little present from the would-be bank robber who had a sudden crippling headache bad enough the paramedics thought he'd had an aneurism in the middle of his little heist. Nobody's ever that lucky. Hell, that's probably how they found me again.
The blue pulse of energy vaporizes the package, and whatever icebreaker it had inside to get me into a good mood before the hammer falls. I put the power back away again, and walk calmly back to the bank.
Once I'm seated at my desk, I grab the phone and select an outside line.
"Operator. How can I connect your call?"
"I need to speak to the local office of the F.B.I. Can you connect me directly?"
"Certainly."
First ring, another operator picks up. Professional.
"You've reached the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Who are you calling for?"
"I hope you're recording this; you'll want my exact words to play back for them. I need you to start tracing my call, to make sure they notice."
"Sir, what is the nature of your business with the Feder--"
"I'm not playing games here. I got a package today from some very scary people. They answer to... No, they don't really answer to anybody anymore, do they? But their letterhead says MAC across the top."
"Sir, are you trying to report a crime?"
"Nothing that simple, I'm afraid. When they contact you, when they ask about this call, tell them to send a car to pick me up at my house. I'll give them a chance to explain why they're so suddenly keen to bring me out of retirement. And maybe I'll even give them what they want, if they can resist the urge to screw around with me. Can you do that, agent?"
"Sir, I'm afraid you'll need to be a little more direct if you want--"
I know hanging up on any law enforcement agency is a bad idea, but I don't have the patience right now to sooth their bruised egos.
If the Metahuman Affairs Committee wants to bring the Avenging Angel out of retirement after all these years, it can only mean the whole damned world's about to go to hell in a handbasket.
And whoever they were counting on to save them just got himself killed. Or worse, he switched sides and that's why they think they need me. God, I hope not. Wetwork's the reason I gave up my mask in the first place.
------------------------------
What do you think?
------------------------------
I let the package just sit there on my desk for over an hour; there was no need to open it.
The return address told me everything I could possibly need to know. The law offices of Reynolds and Bonig. Somebody out there was pretty proud of his sense of humor.
Eventually Tony leans over the partition between our little offices, and his curiousity got piqued.
"Hey Rick, what's with the mail?"
"Dunno. It says 'confidential documents enclosed', so I'm figuring I'll deal with it during lunch."
"Confidential? Somebody serving you a subpeona?"
God, don't let that be an omen. "Probably just some old customer's estate paperwork."
"Mrs. Merriweather did sort of have a crush on you."
I laugh. "Yeah, I can see it now. She leaves the house to her cats, and their favorite can opener to me."
Tony laughs too, more enthusiastically than I can muster today. "Yeah, but knowing your luck, it's a subpeona."
"Thanks, man. Really."
"I just call 'em like I see 'em."
"Hey, stupid question. Do you remember my favorite television show?"
"Current, or all time?"
"All time."
"Magnum, P.I. Everybody knows that one, Rick."
"Yeah. That's what I'm afraid of."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Forget about it. We should both probably get back to work, before Petersen gets bored and decides to take his daily tour of the offices."
Tony sighs, but he turns back towards his own desk. Along the way, I hear him mumble "spoilsport".
And once again, the package just sits on my desk. Reynolds and Bonig. Jeff McKay played two characters on Magnum, one who was killed by a car bomb a couple seasons in, then another one a year later who started out impersonating the first, but with a mustache. The latter role was Jim Bonig. And the first was Magnum's favorite military informant, Lieutenant MacReynolds.
What scares me about the package is the part they left off of that joke of a return address. Mac. The Metahuman Affairs Committee. Not the sort of government agency that an ordinary loan officer has any business hearing from. Especially these days.
I wait until lunch, then take the package out to my car in the underground garage across the street. Once far away from the security cameras, I bring up the eyebeams. A little present from the would-be bank robber who had a sudden crippling headache bad enough the paramedics thought he'd had an aneurism in the middle of his little heist. Nobody's ever that lucky. Hell, that's probably how they found me again.
The blue pulse of energy vaporizes the package, and whatever icebreaker it had inside to get me into a good mood before the hammer falls. I put the power back away again, and walk calmly back to the bank.
Once I'm seated at my desk, I grab the phone and select an outside line.
"Operator. How can I connect your call?"
"I need to speak to the local office of the F.B.I. Can you connect me directly?"
"Certainly."
First ring, another operator picks up. Professional.
"You've reached the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Who are you calling for?"
"I hope you're recording this; you'll want my exact words to play back for them. I need you to start tracing my call, to make sure they notice."
"Sir, what is the nature of your business with the Feder--"
"I'm not playing games here. I got a package today from some very scary people. They answer to... No, they don't really answer to anybody anymore, do they? But their letterhead says MAC across the top."
"Sir, are you trying to report a crime?"
"Nothing that simple, I'm afraid. When they contact you, when they ask about this call, tell them to send a car to pick me up at my house. I'll give them a chance to explain why they're so suddenly keen to bring me out of retirement. And maybe I'll even give them what they want, if they can resist the urge to screw around with me. Can you do that, agent?"
"Sir, I'm afraid you'll need to be a little more direct if you want--"
I know hanging up on any law enforcement agency is a bad idea, but I don't have the patience right now to sooth their bruised egos.
If the Metahuman Affairs Committee wants to bring the Avenging Angel out of retirement after all these years, it can only mean the whole damned world's about to go to hell in a handbasket.
And whoever they were counting on to save them just got himself killed. Or worse, he switched sides and that's why they think they need me. God, I hope not. Wetwork's the reason I gave up my mask in the first place.
------------------------------
What do you think?