Black-Haired Internal Revenue Service SWAT Agent - Chapter 344



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Side Story 50: Farewell to Weapons (Complete)

As I entered the federal building for the first time in a long time, I was excited to meet people I had known for a long time.

However, I didn’t meet a single person I could say hello to until I passed through the security checkpoint on the first floor from the underground parking lot.

When I was a Criminal Investigation Bureau agent, I probably greeted about sixteen people on my way here.

As I was walking, thinking that this atmosphere was unfamiliar, I discovered something on the floor near the elevators.

There is a small metal plaque-like thing attached to the artificial marble.

I was drinking my coffee and reading the words engraved on the metal plate, and for a moment I was startled.

‘On July 27, 2019 at 6:17 p.m., an attempted bombing of the Chicago Federal Building was foiled at this location. In honor of the bravery of federal agents Chris Kim, Amy Anderson, and Jim Dawson who thwarted the bombing.’

After reading the content, I had mixed feelings.

Grafton, the food truck owner who wore the Red Mafia’s suicide vest.

He was sitting right around this point.

Amy and Silver team members, who had returned to the building that could explode or collapse at any moment, rescued him.

Damn, after everything I’ve been through, even this incident feels like something from my past life.

And I felt strange that the events of that time were already ‘recorded’ like this, like the contents of a history book.

By the way, I wonder how Captain Grafton and his daughter, Rachel, are doing?

“Hey, Kim!”

Among the crowd passing through the security checkpoint, I hear the voice of my former boss and current Director of the Criminal Investigation Bureau, Dave Coulson.

I raised my hand toward him and answered.

“Hey, Pops!”

Probably, in a Korean workplace, there would have been an uproar for calling Dave “Mister” instead of “Director.”

But that old man is not the old Dave Colson who used to drink coffee mixed with whiskey early in the morning when I worked with him, and whose face was red.

It’s hard to believe that the guy with the clean-shaven face and the shirt and tie is the same guy who used to calculate how much pension he’d get if he quit the Criminal Investigation Bureau whenever he had the chance.

It appears that the positions of director-level officials at federal agencies are also creating new people.

“How’s the new SWAT going?”

When I ask him in the elevator, he answers while loosening his tie.

“Kim, compared to when you and Fred (Decker) and Jim (Dawson: Silver Team Leader) were around, it’s a peaceful time for the IRS and for Chicago as well.”

“What does that mean?”

“Isn’t it natural that all the lunatics who used to turn downtown Chicago into a war zone have now left the IRS? Chicago, and the entire country, seems peaceful.”

“What kind of battlefield is this~.”

“Say it right, Kim! If you kept doing IRS SWAT shit, every federal agency in Chicago and the state of Illinois would be bankrupt, yikes!”

Even though he said that, Dave didn’t wipe the smile off his face until he reached the crime investigation department floor.

It seems like only yesterday that I was learning the job of a special agent for the Criminal Investigation Bureau, chasing after this guy who smelled like coffee and whiskey.

But now that I’ve become this kind of popular hero, I know very well what he thinks of me.

Mr. Coulson noticed me smiling at him through the mirrored elevator doors, and nodded his head toward me.

* * *

“This is Chris Kim.”

“Jared DeVoe here. It’s an honor to meet you in person, Agent Kim.”

I got to meet the new team leader, a man in his early 40s who is currently leading IRS SWAT.

Since we left here, IRS SWAT has been operating primarily with the remaining Silver Team members and Cobalt Team members.

Afterwards, two more teams were added, and now a total of three tactical teams are active.

But under the leadership of Team Leader DeVoe, a former FBI SWAT officer, IRS SWAT is a lot different than it was in our time, according to Director Coulson.

Of course, the current teams are also SWAT forces that were created to avoid making a fuss with the police, FBI, and other federal agencies, so they are definitely the ones who need to get things heated up.

However, if we are unable to subdue the extremely evil bastards all at once, the only difference between us and them is that we complete the incident through a joint operation with all the support we have agreed upon in advance.

We were fighting as if we were in a helpless battlefield, determined to see it through to the end, but if they couldn’t achieve their goal in one go, they would unconditionally call in overwhelming support forces.

I signed the papers he handed me while making some lame jokes with a guy named Jared Dobo.

The reason I came here today is because of these documents.

Immediately after the IRS SWAT was established, when the men were not supplied or had poor supplies, they would buy various equipment and guns with their own money and use them.

The things I was signing were the relevant documents that would officially put those things the old men had left here on the IRS SWAT gear list.

That’s why I came here to report on AS-level work for my colleagues and junior agents, since the Ministry of Finance said they would support the cost of maintenance.

I read and signed twelve documents at the desk right in front of the entrance to the director’s office.

Then, Team Leader Devoe reads through the document himself before shoving it towards me.

Every time, I would glance at the seats by the window, the team members I used to be a part of.

Today, everyone, including McGrady, who works in the office, is out on business, so there are only empty desks.

I sighed and listened to Team Leader Devoe’s explanation of the document he handed me, then signed it.

Today, even your upstairs FBI bestie, Banana Muffin (Agent Nick Torres), is in DC to attend a House hearing.

In the end, I don’t think I’ll be able to meet any more of my people today, other than Director Coulson, with whom I can properly greet them.

It’s nothing serious, but why do I feel so empty?

It may sound stupid, but I already feel like I’m being forgotten by this place and the people here.

As I was leaving the office after finishing my business with Team Leader Devoe, Mr. Colson was receiving a call from the Chicago Police Commissioner’s office.

So I left the office without even saying hello to him properly.

I wanted to see the faces of my former teammates at the SWAT headquarters in the basement, but that wasn’t possible either.

Unless Team Leader Devoe is being trolling me, the SWAT team members are grounded for an operation later tonight.

After exiting the elevator on the underground parking level, I looked toward the SWAT headquarters and armory in the distance.

There were also Bearcats parked in front of it, and I felt even worse because I couldn’t stop by there.

Now, I feel so disappointed and empty that I feel like I came for nothing.

As I was ruminating on that feeling and walking towards my fake Bumblebee, someone suddenly called out to me from behind me, towards the elevator.

“Taesik! Taesik!”

I was startled by the sudden sound of the banana muffin ghost’s voice.

As I turn toward the elevator, Torres approaches me with his right hand extended.

“You came all the way here and you’re leaving without even calling the FBI? You don’t have any sense of loyalty.”

“Torres, didn’t you say you were going on a business trip to DC?”

“That’s right. But then, when there was some kind of escalation between Ukraine and Russia, those Intelligence Committee members postponed the hearing. They’re idiots.”

Torres answers, shaking my hand.

Then, he points with his chin in the direction of the SWAT headquarters and asks.

“I heard from Dave (Director Coulson) that you were visiting the office. Did you come down to say hello to your old team after finishing up your work?”

“No~. They said there’s an operation coming up later so they’re keeping it under security. I’ll stop by next time.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

“What are you going to do? I’m going home now. What am I doing here when I’m not even a federal agent?”

“Come on, I’ll see you off, Kim.”

We walked together to where I parked my Bumblebee.

As I turn the corner and head toward the visitor parking lot, Torres suddenly points to my car and says in a low voice:

“Damn, that fucking shit was done to a Mustang, not a Camaro. There are many ways to insult Chevrolet. What kind of idiot would drive around doing such childish things to a Mustang? There really are all kinds of lunatics in the world…”

“Hey, stop it. That’s my Mustang. And don’t ask me why I painted it like that. I don’t want to be pulling my gun out of its holster before lunch.”

Torres quickly shuts his mouth and suppresses his laughter.

As I was walking towards my car in silence, a few moments later the quick-witted Torres asked me.

“Why do you look so gloomy? Didn’t you say you felt relieved after beating up the IRS?”

I answered, standing in front of the Mustang and looking back toward the SWAT headquarters.

“I can’t really put my finger on it, but it’s just how I feel. I feel like I’m an outsider here now, and I can’t seem to get used to it. They even made a fucking metal plaque in the lobby with all my accomplishments written on it, and I feel like I’m an outsider now, not only to the Criminal Investigation Bureau but also to IRS SWAT. And that kind of sucks.”

Torres responds by opening the driver’s door for him.

“Tsk~, you’re so sentimental. It must have been a while since you came back from somewhere. Where did you go this time? Syria? Yemen? North Korea? The North Pole? Mars?”

When I stare at Torres without answering the question, he speaks in a calm, not agitated, voice.

“Do you regret leaving SWAT? Do you want to come back here?”

I waved my hand at those words.

Then Torres turns his head toward the SWAT headquarters and continues speaking.

“If not, there’s no need to feel sad or disillusioned. No matter how much IRS SWAT is the achievement that you and the other pops risked your lives to achieve, you’re now an outsider to them. And if you don’t want to go back to SWAT and live while testing how many lives you have left, then you shouldn’t indulge in such sentimental thoughts. You idiot. Are you filming a human drama by yourself, or something?”

For a moment, I had a feeling that this stupid friend was going to say something I wanted to hear, whether he intended to or not.

So I kept my mouth shut and stared at Torres while he continued talking.

“Everything you’ve accomplished leading the SWAT team is now a thing of the past. You understand? It’s a thing of the past. A thing of the past.”

The FBI guy who’s a banana muffin-eating brat knows how to give a pretty preachy speech.

“So now, Kim, you too must turn a new chapter in your life. If you don’t want to keep doing this, don’t look back and just look forward. Isn’t it time you started living your life as an office nerd, not a gunfighter? Stop playing the mercenary game. You were a nerd, not a gunfighter. Remember? Your original life before SWAT?”

They say that even a broken clock is right once or twice, and sometimes the words I want to hear come out of Torres’ mouth, who talks a lot.

As I nod, still holding the driver’s door, Torres cautiously adds.

“Well, of course~, if you want to be a hot federal agent again, talk to our branch manager and ask him to do FBI special agent work…”

I said, sticking my index finger toward Torres’ mouth.

“That’s it! You’d better shut up while your sermon still sounds plausible, Nick.”

Torres smiled and offered me a handshake, and I shook his hand.

As I get in the car and start the Mustang, Torres speaks again.

“If you change your mind, come back to the FBI! The branch chief will make you feel welcome by buying you a real Camaro with a real Bumblebee paint job.”

At those words, as I sent my right hand toward the waist gun, Torres raised both his hands and stepped back.

I turned on the headlights, shifted into gear, and spoke to Torres just before moving the car.

“Thank you, Inma.”

Torres nodded and I slowly maneuvered the Mustang toward the parking lot exit on the other side of the SWAT headquarters.

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And even though he could have looked once more in the rear-view mirror or side mirror, he deliberately avoided looking toward the SWAT headquarters and headed straight for the parking lot exit.

I drove the Mustang toward the exit where bright sunlight was pouring in.

* * *

“Here, take it, Kim. This is an unofficial payment from the CIA for our services.”

Our CEO pushes me a heavy suitcase.

My mood, which had been depressing at the Criminal Investigation Bureau, completely changed when I arrived at the Wizard R&R office.

How could I still be depressed when I get $150,000 in cash without having to worry about taxes?

All of the men who took part in Sergeant Miller’s rescue operation, including myself, each had a large travel carrier with the same amount of money in it.

The carrier doesn’t roll well because it’s full of wads of cash.

This money is purely for our risk allowance, excluding other costs related to the operation.

In addition to the money you received today, you can also claim additional amounts for miscellaneous expenses and medical expenses.

Strauss, you should be billing for the expensive reconnaissance drones you left behind, but it seems like everyone else is going to make a killing and rip you off.

Soto is already threatening to charge hundreds of dollars for five Cuban cigars soaked in the waters of the Santa Rita River.

Then they ask me to charge for underwear and socks.

And that too, inflated by about 10 times.

I know this because I did it many times during my time as a CIA SAD, but the CIA probably won’t ask for it, so they’re openly asking for a huge fee.

He didn’t care at all that I was a former IRS Criminal Investigation agent, and he was eager to teach me how to embezzle the huge sums of money that spy rings were running.

Anyway, whether it’s compensation for this service, hazard pay, extra expenses, or whatever, this money is now a retirement pension to me, not a severance pay.

It appears that Mr. Preston has now expanded his obsessive-compulsive disorder into new territory.

He is counting all the bills in the armory with a cash counter he bought from Amazon.com.

The sound of at least two counters operating simultaneously can be heard all the way into the office.

And funny enough, today, instead of people teasing and irritating him about his obsession, he’s asking them to check the money in his carrier too.

It’s funny to see the old men’s suitcases lined up in front of the armory entrance like at an airport.

Preston picked us up with Sergeant Miller and we flew low over that damned Frontino jungle, out into the Colombian Sea.

Up to that point, it was a perfect night low-altitude flight that could be used as a PR case for our company.

However, he circled the barge five times to make sure it was the CIA ship we were going to land on.

Because of that, the old men who had been covered in enemy grenade fragments and were bleeding here and there were all swearing at Preston and telling him to land immediately, saying that they would all end up bleeding excessively because of his obsession.

However, the atmosphere now is completely different from that time.

O’Connor, Strauss, and Soto all look at him like puppies waiting for a treat as he tries to get Preston to use his cash counter.

And since everyone was smoking a cigar that the Mexican ferret had passed around, the office and the armory were filled with cigar smoke.

Already, three smoke alarms that were making a loud noise each had a pair of old men’s swords stuck in them.

It seems like everyone is out of their minds.

In the evening, British personnel are also expected to arrive to help rescue the Doctors Without Borders people kidnapped on the Syrian border.

So not everyone was in the mood for beer, but the party atmosphere was definitely there.

The party atmosphere is definitely there as they are constantly sipping non-alcoholic beer, Coca-Cola, and Sprite.

“Hey, it’s my turn, don’t cut in, Lou!”

Soto pushes O’Connor away and drags his carrier into the armory.

Soon the sound of Preston’s cash counter ticking inside began again.

It’s amazing how this fearsome former Navy SEAL sniper’s obsession can be used for such a positive purpose.

It feels like I’m using dog poop as medicine and then drinking the remaining dog poop to make my morning coffee.

* * *

I quietly dragged my carrier out so as not to ruin the mood of the old men’s party.

Anyway, since I was planning to treat them to a meal at Ilheung Restaurant next week, I wanted to stop here for today.

As I was struggling to put my suitcase full of cash into the car, suddenly two hands appeared and grabbed me.

It was Team Leader Decker.

The old man silently put the carrier in the trunk with me and closed the trunk door for me.

Although I didn’t say anything about not being able to work with him any longer, I knew what he was thinking.

So I asked him to shake my hand and spoke cautiously.

“I’m sorry, Chef.”

Decker takes my hand and stares at me.

Then he answers.

“Don’t think like that, Kim. It’s time for Kim to live her life.”

“My life?”

Decker glanced over his shoulder toward the bustling office before continuing.

“We are people who have to accept our fate as gunmen, but Kim is different. Of course, the other agents would like Kim to live a boring life as an ordinary citizen. Without shooting anymore.”

What Decker had just said seemed to resonate deeply within me.

We were still holding each other’s hands, and the memories of my near-death experiences with this man and the other members flashed before my eyes.

I could sense a mixture of emotions crossing Decker’s face, as if he was thinking the same thing.

“Good luck, Chef.”

Decker nods vigorously at my words and lets go of my hand.

If we were Koreans who were as close as we were, we probably said goodbye for about an hour.

However, Americans don’t have that.

It’s not that I don’t have those feelings, but I don’t express them like Koreans do.

People’s hearts are all the same, so why wouldn’t Chief Petty Officer Fred Decker, who called me ‘my boy’, have something to say to me?

But for now, this is our farewell.

I also started the Mustang without looking back and pulled out of the parking lot.

As my car pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road, Team Leader Decker stood in front of the office building, staring at me without moving.

He stood there, watching me, until the Mustang pulled out of the neighborhood where the office was and onto the main road near Midway Airport.

* * *

While driving a long way toward downtown Chicago, on the other side of Midway International Airport, I somehow managed to calm my gloomy heart.

I thought about my future with Claire and made plans for a new job that would involve working overtime like a meal, pounding away at an accounting calculator instead of an automatic pistol.

By the time I got onto the freeway and back onto the city streets heading toward Old Koreatown, my plans for that future had become more concrete.

All of those plans required laundered cash from the CIA director in the trunk of my Mustang and a ton of bank deposits I didn’t have to hide from the IRS, but they didn’t seem so bad.

I can’t help but smile as I think about going over there and talking to Claire about the plans.

As I was waiting at a traffic light at a quiet intersection, all alone, I noticed something suspicious in my right lane.

A cash-in-transit vehicle, a common sight in Old Koreatown and Mexican Street, was waiting at the traffic light in the second lane to my right.

But, right behind that vehicle, there was an old van with no license plate.

As I was thinking suspiciously as I looked at the dark gray van, a masked man appeared inside the rear door window of the van for about a second before disappearing.

Ah, shit.

It’s not that I’m impatient, I’m just really annoyed.

Just then, two masked figures appeared outside the rear window of the van, then quickly disappeared.

I’m on my way home after quietly and quietly ending my life as a gunman, but what kind of variety show is this?

I was about to pull my Glock 23 from my waist holster when I stopped.

If I get caught up in this kind of thing and have another accident, I won’t have any plans for the future.

At that thought, I quickly picked up my smartphone and tried to dial 911.

But at that moment, two masked men carrying shotguns emerged from an SUV parked in front of the cash transport vehicle.

Immediately after, three masked men with pistols and shotguns get out of the van to my right and run towards the cash transport vehicle.

They threw three smoke grenades along the road to prevent pedestrians and drivers on the street from seeing what was happening there, and soon a white smoke screen began to obscure the cash-in-transit vehicle.

From then on, my head spun faster than a Mustang’s engine.

Should I call 911?

No, should I go out and harpoon those things with a surprise attack?

About 5 people, I can do it if I launch a surprise attack from the side.

no.

What if I shoot them all and get punished?

And if anything, Claire must not be made a widow.

I was alone, thinking hard with my mind wandering, when suddenly someone popped out of the smoke.

One of the security guards in the cash transport vehicle passes my Mustang and runs away into the opposite lane.

Immediately after, a masked robber appears through the smoke and aims a shotgun at the security guard who just ran away.

Oh, shit!

Oh, shit!

I threw my smartphone on the passenger seat and quickly pulled out my Glock 23.

Then he fired a .40 caliber bullet at the masked robber at the one o’clock position through the recently replaced, dirty expensive windshield of his Mustang.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

As the masked robber’s chest exploded from a bullet, his body also disappeared from my sight.

I’m going to just stick to this one thing, and then I’m going to stop being a gunman completely.

Claire and other people would probably be tolerant of that, right?

I opened the driver’s door while thinking about that random thought.

As I quickly grab my Glock 23 and run out of the car, I hear the robbers yelling something between the cash transport vehicle and the van.

As I aim my Glock at them, who still don’t know where I am, this thought keeps running through my head.

Seriously, why is my fate like this?

Why is my ‘fucking’ fortune like this?

I like the weapon, it’s fine.

Phew!

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