Authors note: in this chapter the head of the FBI will be introduced. He is very racist. If you are easily offended by racist comments, I hope you will understand that this is FICTION. I do not believe in racism. Thank you.


"What the hell do you mean 'they got away again'?" His name was Fred Hookerson. He was the head of the FBI. It was his evil and sadistic ways that made men like Alan and Kyle fugitives. He wouldn't have been where he were now if he hadn't been best buds with the Clinton family. He was on the phone right now. "You idiot," he muttered, "I realize that you mean they got away. What I meant by the question was how did they get away?"

There was a pause while the person on the other end of the line said something.

"Mr. Hickler, how long have you been working for me?" There was another momentary pause. "And in those two years have you ever run into a case where the people you're tracking have a car in which to drive off in?" Pause. "Then why the hell weren't you prepared for something like that this time?" Without another word he slammed the phone down. After a moments thought he picked it up again.

"Operator, get me agent Gunray." Hookerson drummed his fingers on his desk in impatience. Then someone got on the other line. "Hello, Gunray. How are you?" Without waiting for a reply he said, "That's just great. Listen, I have a job for you. You know agent Hickler." He said all this in a falsely joyous and happy voice. His next words were anything but happy. They were cold and menacing. "Eliminate him."

After putting the phone down again he got up and walked to the door. As he exited he said, "Mrs. Wilson, tell anyone who calls for me that I won't be back for several days. Right now just call ahead and tell my pilot to get the jet ready." The two guards at the door followed him as he went to the elevators. Hookerson abruptly turned around and told the guards, "I'll be going alone today."

"Yes, Sir." They replied in unison.

As he entered the lobby he saw his car out front but for some reason his driver wasn't there. He turned to the lady at the front desk and asked, "Where the hell is my driver?"

"I don't know," she said, clearly afraid. She quickly added, "Sir."

Face contorted with anger, Hookerson said, "Go throw yourself off a cliff you useless piece of shit." He said, whirling around to walk out the door, "Where the hell can I find good help these days?"

"I.I.I don't know, Sir."

Turning back around quickly, he glowered at the lady, "That was a rhetorical question you idiot! Get out of my sight!"

Hookerson turned around and walked out the door. As he exited the building he looked around and saw his driver only ten meters away having a smoke.

"TIFFDER! How many times do I have to tell you not to leave the vehicle and not to smoke?" Hookerson demanded.

Looking extremely startled and afraid, the driver quickly dropped his cigarette and said, "No more timez, Sir. I svear. I vill do vhatever you ask ov me. Just pleaze don't hurt me."

"Very well. But this is the last time Tiffder."

"Uh, Sir. It iz Tumanova. It iz not Tiffder." Tumanova stammered.

"I don't give a shit you Russian bastard." Hookerson turned around and got into the back of the car. Tumanova quickly got into the drivers seat.

"Vhere to, Sir?"

"To the Airport."

"Very vell, Sir."

The car was halfway to the airport when it ran out of gas.


"It iz Tumanova, Sir." There was a noticeable amount of fear in his voice.

"I don't give a shit what your name is, all I want to know is why the hell you didn't have the damn car filled with gas!"

"I am sorry, Sir," Tumanova quickly said, "It vill not happen again, I svear."

"You won't get the chance for it to happen again you Russian bastard."


A small wisp of smoke floated out of the barrel of Hookerson's Beretta 92 as Tumanova's lifeless body collapsed in his seat. With a mutter about incompetent help, Hookerson took out his cell phone and called a cab. He then stuffed Tumanova's body into the trunk and waited.

As the cab drove up, Hookerson glanced at the driver. With a mutter about all cab drivers being damn Mexicans, he got into the cab.

"I need to go to the end of Wisconsin Avenue."

"Sure thing boss." The cab driver said with his heavy Mexican accent.

As they drove along they passed a series of old, abandoned buildings. When they passed in front of one that didn't look at all remarkable, Hookerson told the cabby to stop paid the driver, got out and went to the front door. Using his body to shield what he was doing from the sight of passerby's, he flipped up the old, rusted doorbell to reveal a brand new, high-tech key pad.

". ." He muttered to himself while entering in the code number.

With a soft click the door unlocked and Hookerson walked in. Inside was a subway system completely free of the public subway that was used by high ranking FBI members to get to the secret air facility. Without a word to anyone, he hopped on a train and it zoomed off.