THE HIT BACK SERIES (Order From Chaos)

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven 
    
“They say the best revenge is living well. I say it’s acid in the face.”—Mindy Kalling.

If bothered by the presence of the man standing legs astride before him, the timeworn-faced man gave no hang, putting a call through to a number that failed to answer at the first ring. The matter at hand was desperately urgent; he had learned from the call he just dropped only minutes ago.

Lucky enough for him, the line answered at the third ring with a familiar sonorous voice, breezing through the phone’s speaker. “Quite unusual of you to call at this time of the day.”

“Very unusual,” There was a jumpiness in the man’s voice when he added. “Which is why you need to listen carefully to what I’ve got to say.”

“Out with it then.”

“A bit of situation has arisen.”

“C’mon, just tell me what already.” The voice on the other end half-shouted, its curiosity on a high.

“Our man Paul Vica is now being held in FBI custody.”

“Damn it!” The old man could swear he heard some shattering sound in the background. “So much for keeping out loose ends.” The voice added sneeringly.

“You’ve got to get him outta there before he starts spilling the beans.”

“There you go again,” The voice said this time with a drawn-out hiss. “You botched things up and now you’re asking me to bend the law.”

“Yeah. We fucked up really bad on our end, and we promised to clean up the mess ASAP.” The man said with a resigned sigh. “But all we’re asking of you now is bend the law and not break it.”

Silence lagged for several seconds on the other end. And taking that up as his window, the man quickly added. “Either way, we’re both in this, and I best believe we both don’t want our names to end up in infamy on the tabloids and newspapers headlines.”

“And whose fault are all these?” The voice demanded in what was almost a shout. “You brought me into this jeopardy in the first place, no thanks. And now my clean slate may very well end up tarnished, anyway.’

“Not if you pull some strings.” The man coaxed. “If there’s anyone who could find us a way out of this big mess, then, that’s you. And please do before it runs over.” With that, the call went dead, and the old man looked up at the man before him for the first time today.

“So, what news have you?”
*****
Two SUVs with heavily tinted windows pulled up with a screech in the underground parking lot of the FBI building, on 935 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C. The low-rise superstructure of the J. Edgar Hoover building, having three floors below ground, sprawled out at a staggering 2,800, 876 square ft. and measured as high as eight stories on Pennsylvania Avenue NW side, and an astonishing eleven stories high on E street NW side; with its buff-colored precast and cast-in-place unprocessed concrete surfaces, which did well to give the edifice the ‘Brutalist’ impression of rugged, dramatic surface and monumental sculptural forms, rather than the blocky, boxlike monolithic structure commonly atypical to federal architectures in the US.

Wycliffe climbed out the back of the second SUV, flanked on both sides by black-suited, dark-glassed operatives. The executive director took his time, taking in the expanse of the lot, crammed-full with cars, before marshaling his men into the FBI building.

Using the elevator systems made for staffs and personnel officials of the FBI, and which fed straight into the private hallways, as opposed to the one made for public use; Wycliffe and his team of operatives arrived at the core of the building unannounced, winding up at an underground war room, where smattering agents were analyzing a crime tip.

On the other hand, upon sighting his uninvited guests through his office’s window, the cream-skinned Director of the FBI moped out the door with a cockeyed expression on his seeming young visage.

“Look who we have here,” He said, extending his hands in greeting. “Executive Director Wycliffe. It’s good to see you around.”

“It’s really a pleasure to be here.” Wycliffe returned, easing his hand from the other man’s grip.

“No, the pleasure is all mine. Plus, I must confess I’m a real fan of yours to your face.”

“Well, I’m actually flattered you did. Thing is, in our line of work, it’s kinda hard to find someone to admire you.”

“So, what’s brought you here, Executive Director; Business or Pleasure?”

“My visit is strictly business.”

“Then we should discuss that in my office.” He made to turn on his heels but was stopped midstride by the strong grip of the older man on his broad shoulder.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” He said this time, all traces of humor drained out of his tone. “It has come to my understanding you’ve been holding under your roof something which has loads to do with the issue of National security.”

“What if I may ask?”

“Paul Vica. I believe he’s been held in custody here, and I’m afraid he’s got to come with us now.”

If startled by the new revelation, the FBI Director gave nothing away, chuckling real hard in the face of the much older man. “Need I remind you Executive Director, that the CIA has no jurisdiction on this matter.”

“There comes the jurisdiction jargons.” Wycliffe fired back. “I believe you’re experienced enough to stay clear of the line when it comes to the chain of command.”

“I need a warrant or something.” Director Pulis insisted.

“Sorry to disappoint, but you’re getting none.” With that, it was plain obvious hostility was seeping in and would hit breakpoint anytime soon.

There was hesitation on the end of the young Director, who stood there like a statue, weighing the options in his mind.

“May I also remind you that we haven’t got all day.” Wycliffe cautioned, venturing on severely. “A moment longer, then, the phone in your office will ring. And I’ll pretty much hate for you to regret your inactions.”

He was sure his words had the desired effect, soon as the young Director signaled one of his agents to fetch the man.

In a matter of seconds, the sandy-haired agent from earlier returned with a rotund man, whose every body part seemed all unusually round and puffed.

“Very good.” Wycliffe sounded sated, watching as his men acted on cue, and gathered the man from the agent’s clutch into theirs.

“A piece of advice for you Director; follow the chain of command always, and you’ll have a stretch of days ahead of you in office.” He said as a parting shot and evanescenced from sight with his men and the suspect.

For the Executive Director, the little assignment meant more than acting on a clear order from the chain of command; it meant a whole more, and he couldn’t be more grateful it has ended in a victory for him.

It was a rather otherwise case for Director Pulis, who with his agents had gone through thick and thin to nab the man—Paul Vica, who had seemed a needle in a haystack this whole time. And as it stands, it was crystal clear that the CIA would reap the fruit of their own labors, once they crack the suspect through whatever enhanced interrogative methods they used in cracking their victims.