An Untitled Novel

“Come on, ya’ just know you’re gonna’ miss interviewing rednecks who got too wordy in their Facebook rants” Odell teased. He paused momentarily, and when Ned Smith only responded with a short smile he continued. “Well, I don’t know what someone like you did to get dead ended down here in Nashville, but if anybody’s gonna’ get out of here it’s gonna’ be you.” An ambivalent look washed over Smith’s face. “Well, I can’t say it’s been great. But you’ve certainly made better company than angry rednecks and flopped musican-”

Odell interrupted. “Hey, I think intern Frankie just left a package on your desk. I take it that’s your ticket outta here?” Smith shrugged. “HR’s not going to give a promotion like that. Not sure what that is.” Odell returned the shrug. “Well, I’m going to hit the road, see you around Ned, at least for a few more days.” Smith gave a cursory nod before going over to see what the mysterious package was about.

Smith kicked open the warehouse door. Infrared said it was empty aside from the rats and the one man standing in the corner, but this was shitty civilian gear, so there was no being sure. “Price of being off the books” he thought as he rounded the corner with his sidearm at low ready. He heard somebody clear their throat, and milliseconds later blinded them with his weapon mounted light. An older man wearing a suit that failed to conceal the wearer’s weight shielded his eyes. Although the old man seemed about average height, Smith’s 6'3 frame dwarfed most.

“No cameras and no backup; you picked a shitty spot to blackmail a federal agent. Especially one with my background” Ned stated in a calm tone, words full of suppressed anger and bile. The old man smiled a cold smile. “Already resorting to threats I see?” Smith could feel his forced calmness beginning to fade. “Alright, I’ll bite; what’s this offer that’s supposed to convince me it’s in my best interest to let you leave here alive?” The old man cocked his head as if to feign confusion. “Aside from the contents of the package I sent you? And that they were hand delivered to you in an FBI field office? Or perhaps it’s because I created your promotion, and you now answer directly to me.”

Smith’s external posture resumed his artificial calmness, though his internal turmoil grew exponentially. However, before he could dwell on things for too long, the old man handed him a stack of papers. “Here’s your promotion, all wrapped up in a neat little bow. You’ll forgive an old man for being old fashioned and not using those new fangled electronic records.” Smith quickly started looking through the papers, now outwardly projecting confusion as he skeptically holstered his weapon.

“Your team and the location of your own field office in Detroit are all there. You will report only to me or my subordinates, whom I will introduce personally at a later date. You will perform investigations into specific occurrences under my instruction.” Smith felt suspicious, repeating the old man’s words to prompt further elaboration. “Special investigations?” The old man seemed annoyed at the question. “Code word classified investigations into specific happenings. And before you ask, Smith, you will not get clarification beyond that. Your job is to collect and verify information I direct you to.”

Smith continued to look the documents over. “This appears legit, why the fuck did you threaten me?” Smith paused momentarily before adding “Sir,” still perplexed at the circumstances, but now feeling as if he may have just disrespected a superior. “Temper, temper” the old man - now revealed to be Baron Polarski according to the papers - stated before pausing as if to let the chastising kick in. Finally, Polarski broke the silence of his creation. “Because people I have leverage over are predictable, which is a prerequisite under stakes such as these."