Dean was quite curious about the FBI, that marvelous department that could intervene in any violation of federal law.
Massa didn’t hold back and briefly explained some of the FBI’s internal workings. The FBI is well-known both domestically and internationally, but its salary situation is actually difficult to explain succinctly. It has numerous internal departments. Overall, employees are divided into 19 Levels, A through D, with A1 being the lowest and D4 the highest. The D-Level positions are supervisory.
As a Trace Tracking expert, Massa was currently an instructor at the training base. His rank, C1, was equivalent to a field supervisor at an FBI regional office. This Level was already quite high. But Massa’s annual salary was only just over $70,000. This was only because he was stationed in a bustling place like Los Angeles, where additional allowances brought his pay to that Level. After deducting about 26% for state and local taxes... well... he took home roughly $53,000.
That was even less than what a regular city patrol cop, who worked the field and put in a lot of overtime, made. Can you believe it? This was the salary of a regional office field supervisor! Some undocumented workers, diligently washing dishes and then delivering food after work, might even earn more in a month than Massa...
As for the rookies, their situation was even worse. Before they climbed the ranks, their first-year average salary was only about $30,000. That was even less than what some undocumented workers earned.
When Dean heard this, he almost thought Massa was joking. He thought back to his early days at the detective bureau. Those FBI trainees following Anthony, with their suits, sunglasses, and earpieces, looked so cool. Who would’ve thought they were actually a bunch of poor chaps making even less than undocumented workers?
Dean wasn’t sure what FBI salaries had been like in the year 2000 in his past life. But in this parallel world, they were just that hard up.
Of course, salary is one thing. Some less capable individuals, lured in by the FBI’s impressive façade, eventually realized it wasn’t for them and left when they couldn’t take it anymore. But there were also those who managed to climb the ladder, using the platform to rake in all sorts of money.
Massa was one of those people. He spoke with such vehemence that he spat out of the car window, his face a mask of resentment. "If it weren’t for the chance to make extra money using my FBI credentials, I’d have quit ages ago."
"For instance, if I use my current status to give lectures, I start at $50,000," Massa added, "per hour!"
"That high!" Dean was somewhat surprised.
Massa chuckled, then sighed. "But suckers like that are hard to find. Most of the time, like today, I just take on some bounties."
"Under-the-table rules?"
"Pretty much. It’s like how His Excellency Anthony leverages his status to open over twenty prisons across the United States," Massa shrugged. "Otherwise, who’d want to take on the risks of dealing coke for the pay of selling flour?"
Dean was speechless. This is real life!
"Oh, right," Massa suddenly recalled something. "Dean, my friend’s name is Barton. He’s an active-duty field agent, a member of the counter-espionage team. He’s a sensitive and meticulous guy. When you meet him, don’t go asking about internal FBI matters. If you do, he’ll definitely investigate you privately."
"That paranoid?" Although Dean believed he acted cleanly, he didn’t want someone secretly watching him.
"Try to understand, it’s an occupational hazard. Most people in the counter-espionage team have a few screws loose and love prying into other people’s private lives. If he weren’t so damn good in a fight, I really wouldn’t want to work with him."
Why didn’t you say so earlier! In single combat, who could be stronger than me?
Dean grabbed Massa’s steering wheel and lightly tapped the brakes. Amidst Massa’s dumbfounded and helpless resistance, he brought the car to a stop on the side of the road.
"F—! Your actions just now were incredibly dangerous! I need an explanation!" Massa, a former FBI support logistics staffer who looked fierce but was actually all bark and no bite, had initially wanted to explode. But remembering Dean’s powerful build, his tone unconsciously softened.
Dean wasted no time. He looked Massa straight in the eye and said earnestly, "You do the Tracking, I do the killing. I’ll give you $2,200,000!"
A coin flew from the car window, arcing overhead. Dean didn’t even look as he drew his gun and fired three shots in rapid succession.
Three crisp metallic sounds blended into one, drowned out by the gunshots, cutting Massa off mid-sentence.
Massa’s eyes narrowed. Such a fast draw! He hadn’t even seen where Dean had pulled the gun from! But what good was just being fast with a gun...?
Dean lowered his handgun and reached out. A mangled, twisted coin landed squarely in his palm.
Massa stared at the coin in Dean’s hand. It bore the marks of at least three bullets. He blinked, then rubbed his eyes, confirming that what he was seeing was real and not an illusion. His mouth fell open. He pointed at the coin, then at the gun on Dean’s thigh. He wanted to say something, but found his vocabulary utterly insufficient to express the storm of emotions he felt. Struggling for words, he finally just gave a thumbs-up. "Shit, how come?"
Dean, having made his point, gave a faint smile and tossed the coin to Massa. "Massa, believe me, we don’t need your privacy-invading friend. You do the Tracking, I do the killing. You’ll get an extra $200,000 on top of your original cut!"
Feeling the still-warm, twisted coin in his palm, Massa nodded decisively. He picked up that ugly black satellite phone and dialed again. "Hey, Barton, my good brother, it’s ... No, no, no, I’m not lying to you, my bitch really is about to give birth! You’re my good brother, I’m really not lying to you! Okay, okay, I’ll treat you to dinner when you get back!"