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Damage Controllers

Robert was just a young man who accidentally went missing when he was on a combat mission in China.  During the days he was gone, he encountered something incredible that gave him superpowers.  He would become a "Legend" that lives on and on and on... even to this day.... But where is he now?     Jack is a New York City detective who doesn't play by the rules. After an incident at work, he starts to come across mysterious people and receives strange requests. He will soon realize, some of these people have evil plans, and they are quite impossible to defeat. Unless, Jack can recruit a team of people with special talents, including a "Legend" who never dies. Together, they may have a chance to defeat the villains. But first, can they find the "Legend" to join the team? Can they control the damage that's about to happen? * All Rights Reserved. Cover designed by me. **!! Strongly suggest that you don't waste any money on this. Use free coins if you want but don't pay. I will NOT get whatever you spent here so please don't spend any money!!** * Visit my page for other stories: bio.link/PageTurner

Choyee_Lin · Urban
Zu wenig Bewertungen
208 Chs

Who Are These People Around Jack

Jie Ai tries not to look too angry. But Kasim Bashar already catches that.

"I am not trying to offend you, Jay, but, this is a serious report, about people wanting to blow something up." Kasim Bashar says.

Could Jie Ai be making things up, though? What would be his motivation to make stuff up about people wanting to attack the less populated area of the United States, also known as The Midwest? Unless Jie Ai is somehow fishing for information. But of course, Kasim Bashar shouldn't assume that Jie Ai is guilty of lying already.

Jie Ai nods, "I know you are not trying to offend me. But I am telling you everything I heard from the old man. He said he heard those workers at the pier that something something is going to blow off with gasoline. With fuel." Jie Ai adds the detail for Kasim Bashar.

It is never a good sign to have more details than the original report, Kasim Bashar thinks to himself. It sounds like Jie Ai is adding more things to say, now that he is being suspected. In the original report, there is no mentioning of gasoline.

Kasim Bashar doesn't want show any facial expression, "Well, I might need to ask the old man you helped to come in one day. And I will have you sit next to us so we can question him together."

"Sure."

"And again, I will try to find another translator just in case. Does the old man have a son or daughter? Usually they understand their own home dialect the best?"

"I can ask for sure," Jie Ai replies.

"And actually, the reason I'm taking this seriously is because, I've heard another language interpreter telling me something similar." Bashar shakes his head, feeling a lot of pressure.

It's quite unusual that Bashar gets two leads about bombing within a couple of weeks, really. Something has to be wrong.

"Oh? Who else?" Jie Ai is now interested. He is glad he's not the only one hearing this. "You hear from another Chinese language interpreter?"

"No, actually, an European language interpreter down at Brighton Beach. Maybe we should meet one day and double check our information together and see what is going on." Bashar looks stressed again, touching his forehead.

"OK. I can start calling Flushing precinct and see if we can get that old man come in again to talk."

"Yes, that would be nice. What is the old man's name?"

"He only told me his last name. Lai."

"Oh. Lai sounds like 'lie,' like lying."

"I sure hope he was not lying. But you said you heard something similar from elsewhere. I don't think he was lying."

"Alright," Bashar adjusts his tie, "I'll head back now."

They both stand up.

"Let me know when you find out more? I shouldn't be too busy because I'm technically done with college now."

"I will let you know." Bashar smiles and puts his sunglasses back on.

Kasim Bashar could have been a model. Bronze-skinned, chiseled and tall. He can blend into many Middle Eastern communities with his looks. He speaks fluent Arabic. He's very useful, especially because he's assigned to investigating national security threats related to Middle Eastern communities in New York. But he starts to realize, the threats don't just come from one community or one ethnic group.

He decides that he needs to ask Jack to help with this case.

*** *** ***

{ Today-- Downtown Manhattan, New York. } -

Jack and Bob are now back in the police records department office. After seeing a black and white photo that contains an image of a man who looks like Bob, Jack realizes he doesn't know Bob all that well.

Yes, Jack has chosen to act like an idiot to let Bob's guard down. But eventually, he would like Bob to tell him the whole truth. And really, Jack is a little disappointed that Bob hasn't told him much about his story. He just knows Bob has this long last name that sounds like that famous Russian composer, Tchaikovsky. And Bob does like to listen to classical music composed by Russians and Scandinavians. Jack doesn't understand why, because they sound quite depressing. Beautiful, but kind of depressing.

Jack did ask Bob one time why he liked depressing music. Bob said, it takes wisdom to appreciate depressing things. "You probably don't have enough wisdom, Jack." Bob joked.

So, how is Jack going to approach this topic? The topic of who Bob is. How does Jack ask the awkward questions, such as, who the hell are you, Bob? Did you travel here on time machine? It makes a whole lot of sense if you did travel here on a time machine, because the way you act, and talk, and think, is just totally not from modern day. You could have been my grandpa when he was young, Bob.

Would the question somehow fracture their friendship though? Bob can take this, right?

"Hey...," Jack starts.

"Yeah?" Bob responds right away.

Jack then stands up, walks over to Bob.

"Do you.... do you... have you ever considered getting a different job?"

Ah, Jack chickens out the last minute.

"Oh. Um, not really. Not unless there is a need for me to do that."

And then suddenly, Jack's cell phone is ringing.

"Excuse me," Jack says and then goes back to his desk.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Jack?"

"Yeah. Speaking."

"This Detective Kasim Bashar. How are you?"

"I am good. Is there anything I can help you with? Just so you know, I'm on desk duty now."

"That is fine. I just wanted to talk to you, because you apparently have a lot of connections with a lot of people that I'm interested in."

"Oh?" Jack tilts his head. He doesn't know why, but he looks over in Bob's direction.

"Yeah. Lots of, lots of characters. So, when do you take a lunch break? I hope you're not too busy?"

"I can work with your schedule." Jack looks at his watch. He doesn't think he will suddenly become too busy.

"Cool. Meet me at a diner. I will send you the address."

"Sure."

Kasim Bashar pauses, and then says, "Oh yeah, is Bob Tchaikovsky in the office right now? I think he also works for the police records department."

"Yeah," Jack gets a little nervous. He is nervous for Bob. It seems like more than one person is looking for Bob.

"I don't believe you guys have a huge office, so I think you'll see Bob. So, can you tell him to come with you to the diner during lunch, please? I can call him, too, but, I figure you guys share the same office."

"No problem. I will tell him."

"All right then," Kasim Bashar sounds like he is about to hang up the phone.

"Wait...., um, why did you need him? And how do you know him?"

Kasim Bashar laughs, "He works for the police, of course I know him. In fact, he just helped translate something important. I'd like to hear from him in person."

"Translate?"

"Yeah, he also works as a translator for Brighton Beach precinct. Geez. You don't know that? Is your office really that big that you don't cross paths with him? You guys don't talk and get to know each other? He's done that for at least two years."

After both Kasim Bashar and Jack hang up the phone, Jack really, really thinks he needs to have a chat with Bob.

"Gosh, Bob. I thought we were friends." Jack says.