Night Warrior: Dragon and Fox (Book 1)

Chapter 1 Friend or Foe?

Location: FBI headquarters, unnamed city just outside San Francisco, California

Time: 8:35 PM

Assistant Director Robert Featherweight sat at his desk and pored over the enormous amount of paperwork that lay in front of him.

It had been a busy and stressful week at the FBI. Busy and stressful were commonplace in his line of work, true, but this week had been the mother of it all. From the moment it started, a long string of events happened to keep him away from his normal routine. Now he was staying late to get caught up on three days' worth of paperwork.

The new agents under him didn't help matters. Fresh out of the academy, and they still acted like they didn't have a clue what was going on. He almost lost it when one of them asked if he could unclog a toilet in the men's restroom. What did he look like, a plumber? They're adults. They should know better.

Could the week get any worse?

Featherweight grumbled in frustration and rummaged through his papers, trying to find one he needed. His desk was a sloppy, disorganized mess as usual. In his search, he knocked over a pencil holder and spilled the contents across his work area. Angrily, he picked up pencils and paperclips and moved the holder to the other end of the desk.

It was late, he was tired, and he wanted to go home. He wished more than ever that the paperwork could wait until morning. But the thought of having more piled on top of the current urged him to keep at it. Most of the time he enjoyed being part of the FBI, but there were times when he was tempted to hand over his badge. He regretted to admit tonight—more specifically this whole week—was one of those times.

He called his wife an hour ago to tell her he won't be home at the usual time, and for her not to wait up for him. A little part of him died inside when she mentioned taking a dish of hot fried chicken out of the oven. His stomach screamed at him in protest. At the time, he couldn't help looking at the improvised dinner on his desk. His wife's fried chicken sounded much better than a bag of sea salt and vinegar potato chips, a bag of peanuts, and a diet soda from the lunch room vending machines.

This was not the way he had envisioned spending the night when he woke up this morning.

Featherweight let out a sigh and ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair, mussing it up. He tapped his pencil on the paper as he struggled to focus his mind on his work. Instead, his eyes ended up wandering around the cozy office to find something else to stare at besides the words on the papers.

He scanned the bookshelf, the filing cabinets, American flag, and the small table and coffee maker near the door, eventually stopping at the framed photos and diplomas on the wall on his left. He found himself staring at a picture of him at a luncheon, where he was given a special award for outstanding service to the bureau.

That was ten years ago, yet it seemed like yesterday. He was amazed at how fast time flew by.

His thoughts came back to the fried chicken he could have had for dinner. He smiled at the picture of his wife setting in front of him. She made the best homemade fried chicken of anyone he'd met—even better than what you could buy in restaurants.

Giving another sigh, he turned back to his paperwork, noting how quiet the place was. His secretary went home hours ago, leaving him the only one there, except for the night janitor. Everything was unnervingly calm, unlike it usually is during the daytime hours.

A flash of lightning lit up the window behind him, and a rumble of thunder followed. It had been storming for about a half hour—one of those rare California storms—but Featherweight hadn't noticed. Up until now, he had been too absorbed in his work.