Chapter 48: We're Just Here to Collect Taxes
"Boss, let's go shut that drug lab down right now!"
As soon as Ron hung up the phone, Hank couldn't wait to jump into action.
Ron raised an eyebrow. "Shut it down? For what?"
"So we can press charges for drug manufacturing and trafficking, of course!" Hank replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. That was standard operating procedure back when he worked at the DEA—he didn't see any issue.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hank," Ron said sternly, "but I have to remind you—you don't work for the DEA anymore. You're IRS now. We have no jurisdiction over narcotics enforcement."
"…Then what do we do? Just let him get away with it?" Hank was visibly frustrated. He had joined Ron's team thinking he'd finally be able to fulfill his ambitions. But this? This was a letdown.
A sly smile crept onto Ron's face. "Of course not. Tell me, Hank—do you know what the IRS's most important job is?"
"…Tax collection?" Hank ventured a guess.
Ron smiled, satisfied. "Exactly."
"…Okay, but what does tax collection have to do with drugs?" Hank was still confused.
"You thought Fring was just a drug dealer?" Ron rested his chin on his hands. "That's so naïve."
"He's not?"
"Not just that. Or rather—not only that. While he is a drug kingpin, he's also a shameless tax evader. The IRS hasn't received a single cent in taxes from the drug trade he's running."
"Not a single cent!" Ron emphasized, slamming the table with his fist. "Which gives us every right to initiate a tax collection action. And if necessary… we're legally authorized to use force."
He finished with a mischievous wink, and Hank immediately caught on.
Right—IRS agents didn't need to be drug enforcers. They could go after Fring for taxes. And there's no way someone like Fring was voluntarily paying income tax on illegal drug profits.
"So what's the plan?" Hank asked, fully engaged now. "I've never done tax collection before. Do we just go knock on his door and schedule an audit?"
"Relax. I'll show you how it's done. Follow me once and you'll get the hang of it," Ron said, chuckling. "Besides, your chemistry-teacher-turned-drug-cook relative was bad enough… but Fring? Fring's on a whole other level. You really think he files tax returns?"
"Yeah, probably not."
Hank thought it over. Honestly, even Walter White wouldn't voluntarily pay taxes—not when every penny might be needed for treatment or to leave behind something for his kids. Fring was likely no different.
Ron turned to Andy. "Hey Andy, did anyone who looked like Nicolas Cage drop something off yesterday?"
"If you mean that weird-looking pickup truck, it's parked downstairs in the garage right now." Andy reached into a drawer and tossed over a set of keys.
Ron caught them one-handed, then reached under his desk and pressed a hidden switch.
With a soft click, the massive bookshelf split down the middle, revealing a hidden armory.
"…What the hell?" Hank gawked, jaw hanging open.
The hidden room was filled wall-to-wall with weapons—everything from Springfield rifles to recoilless cannons. It was practically a private arsenal. Hank estimated, conservatively, that there was enough firepower in there to outfit a full military battalion.
"This…" Ron said with a grin, "is the IRS Special Operations armory. Take whatever you like. Don't be shy."
As he spoke, he shrugged off his suit jacket, revealing a solid, muscular build. He pulled on a reinforced tactical vest, then covered it neatly with a loose-fitting flannel shirt. From the outside, you'd never know he was armored up.
He holstered a Smith & Wesson pistol, slung a Remington M870 shotgun across his back, and grabbed a beat-up felt cowboy hat on his way out the door.
By the time he put it on, Ron looked like he'd walked straight out of an old Western.
"Boss… isn't this a little too much firepower? Are we going to war or something?"
Hank asked nervously as he climbed into Ron's pickup, clutching a rifle in his arms.
He had noticed that this truck wasn't exactly standard issue. The outer shell looked bulletproof, and whatever was under the tarp in the truck bed had sent chills down his spine—triggering some unpleasant memories from his time in the military.
Ron started the engine and pulled out of the garage. "War? What makes you think that? We're just heading out for a little tax collection, that's all~"
Hank pointed to the large, tarp-covered object in the back. "You need that thing… to collect taxes?"
Underneath the tarp was a welded twelve-barreled steel monster. If Hank remembered correctly, it was a Type 63 107mm multiple rocket launcher. Back in Iraq, local guerrillas had used them all the time.
It had no recoil, fired rapidly, and could unleash twelve rockets in seconds. Despite its terrifying firepower, it was remarkably portable—only about 613 kilograms fully loaded. Easy to fire and run. Any beat-up car could haul it.
It was practically legendary—ranked right up there with the AK and RPG as part of the "Holy Trinity" of guerrilla warfare.
Hank's old unit had been attacked by one of these once. The trauma was still fresh.
"Of course I need it," Ron raised his voice, clearly annoyed. "There's just two of us—and we're up against an entire armed drug cartel. This is the only thing that gives me a real sense of security."
"But it's way too powerful! Are you planning to blow the whole lab to kingdom come? What'll we use for evidence then? I mean—for tax evasion," Hank hastily corrected himself.
To him, Ron didn't look like any IRS agent he'd ever imagined. He looked more like one of the guerrilla fighters who haunted his dreams. Show up to collect taxes with this kind of hardware? Nothing would be left to collect but ashes.
"Relax~" Ron waved it off casually. "It's not all high-explosive rockets. Only four of them are live rounds. The rest are loaded with tear gas and flashbangs. I'm a man of restraint."
"Oh… well that's—wait, what?!" Hank's brief moment of relief evaporated. "Even tear gas at that payload is insane! You're still way over the line!"
"What else can I do?" Ron replied with a shrug. "You know I'm short on manpower. I have to make up for it with firepower. Unless…" He turned and smirked. "You want to go full Rambo and take them all on yourself?"
That shut Hank up real quick. He sat back in his seat, silent and resigned. He was still young, still had a beautiful wife—he had no intention of dying anytime soon.
Soon, the pickup truck came to a stop in an open lot less than five kilometers from Fring's laundromat. From here, there were no buildings obstructing the line of sight—a perfect launch point.
In the distance, the smoke rising from the laundromat's chimney had a faint yellow tint. That could only mean one thing: methylamine reactions were already underway. If Ron's guess was right, the drug lab was fully operational—and Hank's chemist brother-in-law was likely inside, cooking up a batch.
Ron yanked the tarp away, revealing the menacing steel beast underneath.
"Well then…"
He cracked his knuckles with a grin.
"Time to go to work~"