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The Tinkerer 's medical bag was taken the moment the "FBI" men got him into the car. One of them popped the trunk and tossed it inside after rifling through it carefully — just in case.
All they found were basic surgical tools and a few small vials of medication. Nothing powdered, nothing suspicious. As long as no one traced the drugs' origins, there'd be no problem.
Henry — still in his Tinkerer disguise — sat in the middle of the back seat. Two men flanked him on either side, silent and tense. Up front, Agent James drove. But instead of heading downtown toward the Los Angeles field office, he was taking a different route — narrow, twisting backroads that led farther and farther from the city.
Henry frowned. They weren't going to the Bureau. That much was certain.
He turned slightly, activating his X-ray vision. A quick scan of the two "agents" beside him showed no badges in their wallets — no Bureau IDs, no credentials of any kind.
But the driver's credentials? Real. The badge in James's jacket was genuine, the regulation markings and embedded chip identical to the ones Henry had seen before when shadowing Audrey Hepburn.
So what was this, then? A rogue operation? Or something worse?
Kryptonian physiology had its limits — no telepathy, for one. So Henry had to stay still, patient, waiting for their move. He didn't yet know what kind of play this was, and reacting too soon could ruin his cover.
He'd seen enough of American law enforcement to know how "entrapment" worked — bait, provoke, and arrest. They'd push you to lash out first, then use your reaction as proof of guilt.
He wasn't about to give them that satisfaction.
The car was silent except for the hum of the tires and the occasional click of the turn signal. The two men beside him were like prison guards — quiet, rigid, radiating controlled menace.
Only James broke the stillness now and then, glancing into the mirrors, scanning for tails before deliberately choosing yet another detour. Soon, the asphalt ended, replaced by rough dirt tracks cutting into the woods north of the city.
Henry kept his face blank, but the picture was clear enough. They're not taking me to an interrogation room. They're taking me to a grave.
Eventually, the car slowed to a stop in the middle of the forest — deep enough that even the wind sounded hollow. It was winter in Los Angeles, and though there was no snow, the air was sharp and cold. Henry exhaled, watching a faint cloud of white drift from his mouth.
James turned off the engine, then looked back with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Out of the car."
Henry raised an eyebrow. "You're sure this is a suitable place for a chat?"
"Couldn't be better."
The "agent" grinned, showing two rows of yellowed teeth, then jerked his chin at his partners.
One man stepped out first. The other shoved Henry toward the door and followed, hand on his gun.
The Tinkerer stumbled to the ground — deliberately — and a gun butt immediately cracked down on the back of his skull. He collapsed forward, feigning pain.
In truth, the blow had about as much force as a fly landing on his hair. But the acting? Oscar-worthy.
The man with the gun barked, "Where's the six hundred grand, huh? Don't tell me you burned through all that in two months!"
Still kneeling, Henry looked up and said evenly, "So this is an official Bureau procedure? I can file a complaint for unlawful interrogation, you know. Maybe even torture."
James gave a low, humorless laugh. "You think you'll be alive to complain?"
He stepped closer, his voice rising with bitterness.
"Because of you and that little circus you pulled with those kids at your clinic, I got demoted. Stuck babysitting files in the archives, no field work, no bonuses — nothing. You know what that means? No overtime, no hazard pay.
"My mortgage is drowning me. My ex-wife's bleeding me dry with alimony. I worked my ass off for this job, and what did I get? Nothing. God sure as hell isn't helping me, so I'll help myself."
He jabbed a finger toward Henry's face. "You're a criminal. That money was dirty. I'm just doing my duty — taking it off your hands and putting it to better use. Why should bad people live easy while good men go broke?"
He smirked. "So let's make this simple. Tell me where the money is, and you can skip the pain. Everybody wins."
Henry blinked, then tilted his head slightly. "You're a federal officer. Do you really think you can hide something like this?"
James chuckled and looked to his men. They laughed with him.
"Why not? No one knows we're here. No one saw us take you. This forest?" He gestured around them. "No one comes out this far.
"You'd just be another missing person. You know how many of those the U.S. racks up every year? Tens of thousands. How many ever get found? Hardly any.
"No body, no crime. No crime, no investigation."
He leaned in close, voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. "To the system, you're just a statistic."
Then, with a gesture toward his two thugs, he added, "These guys? My old Army buddies. Discharged for 'prisoner abuse.' They've got a real talent for… getting people to talk. Trust me, you don't want to test their limits."
The Tinkerer looked up at him, calm and almost curious. "So no one knows about this?"
James grinned. "No one."
"Not even a single mistake? No trail, no witness?"
"None," James said confidently. "You're on your own out here. Forget the Continental Hotel — they're not coming. Nobody's coming."
Henry smiled faintly.
Then I guess it's just us, isn't it?
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