“No, Mr. Rodgers or rather, Federal Agent Brett Miller, whichever you may prefer. Those two men are under my father’s employment, who also happens to be the majority stakeholder in a company he founded, Quill Technologies.” Tim calmly explained to the caller on the other side of his smartphone, desperately trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

Tim’s expression changed as he heard the response, his face twitching twice in less than a minute as the caller concluded his message.

“Very impressive detective work, Mr. Miller”, said Tim, as he hit the mute button on the smartphone and inhaled deeply in an attempt to rein in his anger, then quickly unmuting the conversation and answering “I understand that my SUV is registered under a shell company, but you must also understand that I am not my father, just the prodigal son who decided to hide away from his problems by running away into the middle of nowhere. Now, it took me six long months of suffering to convince my psychiatrist that a retreat was the best thing for me, and I would deeply appreciate if I, and my humble life in solitude, were spared from further scrutiny by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. If you would be so kind as to leave me a method of contact that you are comfortable with sharing, my father, presumably with a team of far more competent lawyers than I, would be happy to field any questions you have regarding his financials.” Tim finished with an overly polite tone, but the scathing rebuke concealed behind those words was not lost on either man.

The voice on the other side paused for a moment, before deciding to agree to Timothy’s proposal. Anyway, it wasn’t like shell companies were illegal, and Tim by bringing up his profession as a lawyer implied that he was aware that Miller was just fishing for information and had nothing even remotely damning on him. He was used to such little games that high society was oh-so-found of, and even besides that, some of these Feds had real hard-ons for bringing down the 0.01%, so there wasn’t any reason to chance it no matter how angry he might be inside.

Noting down the contact details given by Mr. Miller on a notepad, Tim concluded the conversation by wishing the man a ‘pleasant evening’.

“FUCKING BULLSHIT!” Timothy yelled, and in his fit of rage, the top-of-the-line smartphone was flung into the wall, followed by a loud cracking sound. Alarmed by the noise, Frank entered the room with moderate haste, not too worried about the safety of his charge but still living up to a professional standard. This was, after all, quite a common occurrence these days.

The best way to describe Frank in one word was: Intimidating. It wasn’t the long scar that ran across his right arm, nor was it his impressive physique or the mean glare he always seemed to have on his face: No, it was the way the man moved, the way the man talked, the way his eyes always seemed to be taking everything in his surroundings with meticulous detail, as if he was waiting for a hidden assassin to jump out of cover the moment his concentration wavered in the slightest. Apart from that, he was a man in his late thirties, with a military-esque crew cut that diminished the splendor of his naturally blonde hair, a grizzled beard that needed more than a few touchups, and brown eyes with a short nose, all pulled together with the standard secret service clothing: black coat, white shirt, black pant.

“Tch” Frank grunted in annoyance at the sight. “That costs like 2000 dollars, you know. Fuck, if you didn’t want it you could’ve just given it to me, Timmy boy.” Frank went over to pick up the phone and started shaking his head as he gazed with pity in his eyes at its shattered screen and crumpled body.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

“Oh, fuck off Frank. Name me one…. Just fucking one bodyguard in the world that gets paid more than you and I’ll fucking buy you twenty of those.” Tim shot back in annoyance at the man’s unnecessary antics.

“Hey!” Frank protested. “I believe the official designation was Chief Security Officer, Quill Technologies, or CSO if that’s too hard to pronounce,” with a haughty expression on his face.

“You shameless bastard, have you done a day of paperwork in your entire life?” Timothy asked in irritation, though a hint of his amusement leaked out despite his attempts to sound all sullen and depressed.

“Have you ever been part of a mercenary squad that operated in hostile territory? Have you ever served in the military? Have yo-“

“FINE! Fine, fine I get it.” Noah hurriedly put a stop to Frank’s rambling, otherwise, he’d be forced to sit through a seminar on the man’s long list of frankly, amazing qualifications. One that he’d heard over twenty times though and was in no hurry to refresh memories of.

“Jonah!” Tim loudly called out, and moments later the second bodyguard came in jogging. It was nice to have a bodyguard that actually listened to him, for once. “Head to the local electronics store and buy me a new phone, preferably the same one. Oh, if there’s a new model out that’ll do too. Also, do you know anything about the local culture?” Tim asked with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Sir, I heard this town is famous for its barbeque restaurants,” Jonah replied in an even and professional tone.

“Hmm, that’ll do, I guess. Drop by the first one you see and tell the owner that the first thousand people he’s got on his speed dial are invited to an all-you-can-eat barbeque cookoff, courtesy of Quill Technologies. Also, as a personal favor to me, I’d be grateful if you can attend the event as a delegate from our side.” Tim asked politely, though he hoped Jonah wouldn’t refuse.

“Sir, I have no problems doing that, but diplomacy is hardly my strong suit and I don’t give off the most amiable first impression either.”

“Diplomacy? Hardly, all you have to do is enjoy the food, I’m sure the locals are friendly enough. Even if they aren’t, I don’t know of any better way of expressing goodwill than unlimited barbeque, do you? I’m planning to stay here a while, and if a few thousand dollars prevents the CIA at my doorstep and the NSA tapping my calls, it’s a price I’ll happily pay” Tim explained his logic to set Jonah at ease, knowing that whether he wanted it to be or not, the economic power behind him was such that it was hard for people to address him ordinarily. Well, except Frank. Frank was family.

“Very well, sir. It shall be done,” said Jonah, giving a light salute and then hurrying off to attend to his tasks.

Finally done with the irritating tasks, Timothy collapsed into the gaudy sofa that screamed nouveau rich- pity that there was no decent furniture store nearby, and he sighed in exhaustion.

Sitting down next to him, Frank cracked open two energy drinks and passed one to Tim, who accepted it after a glance.

“You ready then”

“You bet I am. Get ready to taste gravel, you sad, lonely past-your-prime merc.”

“Could say the same about you. Oh wait, too soon?” Frank shot back with a brutal comeback, perhaps too soul-crushingly so, for those in the know.

Had any of the other town residents been here, they would’ve been privy to an unusual scene. For the first time, Timothy had burst out into loud, boisterous laughter that extended on for longer than a minute, to the point where a single tear leaked out of his eye. Those in the know, however, knew that this was not a tear of happiness or laughter, but of regret and lamentation. Quickly snapping out of the melancholic state, he wiped the tear and replied “You motherfucker!”, in an oddly upbeat tone.

“Hey, you started it. Don’t swing first if you can’t take a hit.” Frank replied nonchalantly, though he was grinning too.

“We really are pathetic, aren’t we?”

“That we are.”

“Fuck you. Nobody likes people too similar to themselves.”

“Fuck this world.”

“Fuck me."

“No, thank you. This is taking an odd turn, we sparring or what?”

“Get going then, old bastard. Or are those knees finally feeling the impact of your adventurous days?”

"You know, some very vicious criminals would cry tears of joy if they heard that."