Chapter 156. Wreckage and Retribution

My brand-new sport bike, purchased just twenty-four hours ago, lay in the middle of the asphalt lot as a mangled heap of plastic and metal. Its aluminum space-frame chassis had been twisted like a corkscrew, the cast-alloy wheels bent at unnatural angles, and the souped-up engine crushed and driven into the crankcase. The scene looked like the aftermath of a direct hit from a multi-ton road paver. A few yards away, Dillon's massive SUV stood motionless. Its front chrome bumper was deeply dented, and fresh, greasy streaks of motor oil and tire tracks marked the gray asphalt, leading straight from its wheels to the wreckage of my bike.

The scene was so brazenly, almost cartoonishly stupid that my analytical mind stalled for a fraction of a second as I ran through alternative explanations. My first working theory was a setup. Had someone deliberately, and with astonishing clumsiness, tried to frame the base commander? Perhaps the same thugs who had attacked me the night before. Judging by their behavior and the way they talked, they had clearly come from the fringes of society, where petty crime was practically a way of life. They might well have possessed the basic skills needed to steal a vehicle. It would have been the perfect two-for-one deal: get revenge on the hated lieutenant for the bruises they'd suffered the night before while simultaneously getting rid of their own commanding officer, who hadn't bothered to protect them.

Why had I initially suspected just about everyone except Dillon himself? It certainly wasn't because I naively believed in an officer's honor or some sacred code of conduct. Dillon was no Leon Stewart. The colonel's rank and sense of honor would never have allowed him to stoop to such petty vandalism on a military installation under his own command. The P-SWAT base commander was rotten to the core, a coward, and a slacker, but my brain still refused to accept that a U.S. military officer could be so spectacularly stupid as to pull a stunt like this in broad daylight, right under the surveillance cameras, and expect to get away with it.

Abandoning my mental audit, which had taken no more than a second in real time, I moved on to gathering hard evidence. With quick, purposeful strides, I headed for the glass security booth at the main gate, which had full access to the base's surveillance servers.

"Pull up all the archived footage from midnight to right now," I said, leaning over the duty operator's shoulder.

"If I may, sir..." The young man at the console swallowed nervously, avoiding my eyes. "I think you'll want the footage from eight this morning. I've already pulled it up."

He double-clicked the mouse and started playback. The monitor displayed a crystal-clear image. The timestamp read 08:14. The entire base was in the mess hall at the time, methodically devouring my breakfast. Dillon's SUV came through the open gate at a decent clip, swerving along a jagged, erratic path. First, the commander struggled to park, repeatedly failing to get his vehicle inside the white lines marking the officers' parking area. Then he suddenly cranked the wheel, floored the accelerator, and plowed straight into my parked bike. The footage clearly showed the heavy SUV rolling over the Buell with a sickening crunch, backing up, then running over it a second time for good measure before finally shutting off the engine. Dillon climbed out lazily, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel's in his left hand. His puffy face wore a blissful, obscenely wide grin, as if the degenerate had just hit the Powerball jackpot. He muttered a string of curses, kicked the twisted rim of my motorcycle with the toe of his boot, then ambled toward his office, badly humming some country tune under his breath.

When the footage froze, I spent another long minute staring silently at the screen, trying to fit this spectacular display of stupidity into some remotely logical framework. Even the processing power of my cybernetic brain couldn't find a rational explanation for the man's behavior. This was the sheer idiocy of a hopeless alcoholic who had lost all sense of reality under the delusion that he was untouchable.

The operator mistook my silence for disapproval and shifted nervously in his chair.

"Sir, I wanted to step in. I thought about yelling at him or trying to stop him, but Lieutenant Dillon's the senior officer on the base, and I'm just a first-year private. I didn't have the authority."

"You did exactly the right thing, Private." I gave him an approving pat on the shoulder. He was barely older than my own hopeless aide, Ted. "You documented the incident and preserved the evidence. Leave the investigation and the cleanup to the grown-ups. Export that footage and send it to my work email right now."

"Yes, sir. Just a second."

While the progress bar crept toward one hundred percent, I calmly considered just how precisely the Corps' central assignment algorithm had calculated that I belonged in this godforsaken sector. The base was full of frightened young men and junior enlisted personnel who were too scared to so much as speak up, let alone file an official complaint about an abuse of authority. And when the offender was a combat veteran with a service injury and officer's insignia on his uniform, the system of mutual protection became an impenetrable wall. I was the only person in this equation who could put an end to the madness, firmly and lawfully, without sentiment or hesitation.

[Special Command: Prepare an additional legal attachment to the report against Lieutenant Dillon. Attach verified video evidence of the deliberate destruction of a Corps officer's personal property on military grounds. Submit the complete package through official ministry channels.]

My fingers raced across my smartphone's touchscreen with the speed of a cybernetic processor, composing a precise, clinical addendum to the case while adjusting the contrast and sharpness of the video's key frames. A couple of minutes of concentrated work later, the encrypted package was on its way to the military police servers. The process was underway.

"Sir, is there anything else I can do for you?" The private at the console suddenly straightened, his eyes shining with sincere, almost fanatical enthusiasm. "If there's an official investigation, I'm ready to testify for the prosecution. I saw everything with my own eyes from this window, sir. I'll swear under oath that you could smell the booze on him from three yards away, even through the glass!"

"I really appreciate the enthusiasm, son," I said, and I meant it. Apparently, my late-night cooking shift had sent my reputation among the troops soaring overnight. "That's all I need from you for now. But I've committed your name to memory. We'll see each other again soon."

I turned and stepped out of the stuffy glass booth into the cool air of the parade ground. Glancing back through the glass, I saw the young man practically glowing with pride, basking in the importance of the role he'd played. One of the books on practical military psychology I'd studied before training camp had made a point that struck me as absolutely right: an officer didn't need to curry favor, hand out expensive gifts, or throw parties on his own dime to earn the genuine respect of the rank and file. What soldiers needed most was for their superiors to recognize them as people, respect their personal boundaries, and treat them fairly. That was the foundation of human relations.

Standing beside the mangled remains of my scarlet Buell, I pulled the business card the dealership's senior manager in Washington had given me two days earlier from my pants pocket and calmly dialed the direct number printed on it.

"Mr. Ross! Great to hear from you!" The senior manager's voice practically burst from my smartphone speaker, dripping with the polished flattery of a seasoned salesman. "What can I do for our VIP client today? Looking to add something to go with that beast of yours? Riding gear? Custom accessories? Or maybe you're thinking about another two-wheeled machine? We just got another Buell Hammerhead in last night. Brand-new, still wrapped in protective film!"

"Sounds tempting, but not today," I interrupted, cutting short his sales pitch. "I'm calling about that specialty shop you mentioned while we were doing the paperwork."

"Ah, so you've decided to go with the matte gray finish after all? Excellent choice, sir! We'll make sure it's done right. And don't forget, our partners offer active-duty officers a flat fifty percent discount on all paint jobs."

"I remember. Does that shop handle major restorations?" I asked, casting a cold glance at the heap of twisted plastic and crushed metal at my feet. "I'm talking about severe structural damage. The kind you get from being crushed."

"Oh, my God..." All the artificial cheer drained from the manager's voice. "Mr. Ross, what happened?"

"An accident."

"On the second day after you drove it off the lot?!" Genuine dismay crept into his voice, mingled with panic. "Mr. Ross, are you in the hospital? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Not even a scratch," I replied coolly, taking note of his reaction. "Someone deliberately ran over the bike while it was parked."

"Oh... I see." He sounded noticeably relieved. "Well, you really shouldn't leave a machine like that unattended in an open parking lot. It needs a secure storage bay or a private underground garage."

"I'm aware," I cut him off, having no patience for a lecture about precautions that came too late. "Let's get to the point. Can the shop send a tow truck to pick it up?"

"I think so. They've recovered vehicles from worse wrecks than this. By the way, Mr. Ross, have you contacted your insurance agent yet? If your policy covers deliberate damage caused by a third party, the entire restoration could be covered. You might not have to pay a cent out of pocket."

"This isn't an insurance claim," I said flatly, lying through my teeth.

I had no idea whether a drunken rampage by a base commander would qualify under the terms of a standard commercial insurance policy. What I did know was that the Corps' classified regulations strictly prohibited involving civilian contractors or private insurance adjusters in investigations of incidents on secure military installations. No civilian appraiser could set foot inside the perimeter without Pentagon authorization.

"Well... in that case, the restoration could cost you a fortune," the manager said after a moment's thought. "We'll have to order an original titanium frame directly from the manufacturer, replace the entire cylinder block, all the wiring, and the digital instrumentation. That's going to cost a lot of money, Mr. Ross."

"That doesn't matter. Send the tow truck to these coordinates. Once you've assessed the damage, send me an itemized report with the total cost. I'll find the money." I raised my eyes to Dillon's curtained office window.

Through a narrow gap in the blinds, I could clearly see the degenerate rocking in his chair, frantically clicking his mouse as he tried to win back his losses at online poker.

Dillon and I were both officially registered Awakened. More importantly, the incident had taken place inside the Corps' secured perimeter. This disciplinary case would never go before an ordinary civilian court, where lawsuits and appeals could drag on for decades while lawyers lined their pockets. Once the report had been verified, the Corps' internal security division would deduct the full amount of the documented damages from the offender's bank account and transfer it directly to mine. Every last cent.

Engaging my enhanced muscle density, I lifted the heavy wreckage by myself, carried it beyond the base's outer gates, and carefully lowered it onto the grass beside the road. The tow truck from the repair shop would be able to collect it there in a couple of hours without any trouble. I wasn't worried about leaving the wreck in an open field. There was hardly anyone around here who might try to steal it, but I decided to take a few extra precautions and put a pair of watchful eyes on it, just in case.

Back at the main gate, I approached the duty operator. "Could you keep an eye on the wreck until the civilian tow truck arrives? You've got a perfect view of that stretch from your window."

"Yes, sir!" The young man immediately snapped to attention, visibly proud that I'd entrusted him with the task. "I'll take care of it. Nobody's getting near it!"

My next move was to open the ride-hailing app on my smartphone. The app gave me a dismal estimate: because the military installation was so remote, the earliest a car could reach me was in thirty minutes. Meanwhile, I was supposed to report to the FBA in exactly five minutes. I was already hopelessly late on my very first day at the new agency, and no law of physics was going to fix that scheduling disaster. All I had left was a little courtesy and diplomacy.

I quickly scrolled through my contacts and called the captain of detectives, whose number I'd wisely saved during my trip to the Pentagon to receive the Bronze Star.

"Hey, Hawk," I said calmly when the call connected. "I don't know if you've seen the latest personnel updates, but as of today, I'm officially assigned to your division."

"Hmm... Hello, Mr. Ross." My direct approach seemed to catch him off guard, and a brief silence followed. "Yes, I've received the notification. I'm actually reviewing your personnel file right now. I'm supposed to meet you at the entrance and bring you up to speed on the Bureau's ongoing investigations."

"Plans have changed. I've had an accident, so I won't be able to make it on time."

"Mr. Ross, are you hurt? How serious is it?" Captain Hawk's voice immediately took on a professional edge. "If necessary, I can dispatch a Corps medical transport to your location right now."

"That won't be necessary. I'm perfectly fine," I assured him, gently reining in his eagerness. "But I'm almost certainly going to be delayed by several hours while I sort out transportation. I hope this won't cause any major problems for your department on my very first day."

"Well... considering that your rather unusual contract has you working only six hours a week for us..." Hawk let out a long, thoughtful sigh as he mentally recalculated his duty roster. "It's not exactly the best start. But I'll see what I can do and smooth things over with the Bureau's higher-ups."

"Thanks, Hawk. I owe you one. I won't forget it."

I ended the call and slipped my smartphone back into my pants pocket. In a single morning, one particular bastard's stupidity had forced me to call in personal favors twice. A flash of raw, primal fury surged through me. For one brief moment, I genuinely wanted to track down that pampered thug who had turned my bike into scrap, punch him square in the face until his blood spattered the asphalt, and then stand over him, perfectly calm, while the sniveling little worm knelt in the dirt and repaired my motorcycle with his own two hands. Just like in that Brad Pitt movie.

The anger faded as quickly as it had flared. These were nothing more than idle fantasies, the kind any ordinary man might indulge in. I couldn't even see the point of going upstairs to Dillon's office to demand an explanation and listen to his drunken babbling. Whether he'd been drunk out of his mind or was simply an idiot by birth made absolutely no difference. Before long, my report would get that deadweight kicked off the base. Then I'd finally be able to restore order and enforce the Corps' regulations here. And that was what mattered most.

With that thought, I put Dillon behind me, walked through the main gate, and headed toward the bus stop along the highway.