A Little Rebellion: April 15th Surprise

By R.D. Sexton

In retrospect, forty-four year old Lucas Stone thought his life had been good. Lots of money in the bank, a reasonably successful CPA tax practice, the opportunity to fly Marine Corps jets almost anytime he wanted, and two good friends dating back to high school. He tries not to think much about his ex-wife or the day he returned from high school to find his father hanging by his neck in the garage over income taxes.

Stone’s loosely framed plan for the future involves doing what he does now until his age or attitude pushes him into retirement. He has no idea what is about to happen that will make him the target of a Russian mole and lead his government to label him and his friends as terrorists.

The IRS takes a special interest in Stone’s CPA clients leading to one suicide that pushes him over the edge. When hate consumes him, Stone and his friends develop a plan to assault the main Internal Revenue Service processing center and nation-wide storage facilities.

Tax Attorney Rex Valero, also a Marine Corps aviator, works to incite La fundación de Unidos La Resistencia, an organization representing Mexican illegal aliens working in the United States. Computer systems expert, Kat Korah, develops software viruses to use against IRS computer systems. A covert firm of soldiers-of-fortune assist Stone in the assault on the Internal Revenue Service.

A Little Rebellion is a roll-a-coaster ride, action thriller designed for readers to burn through the pages towards the last word.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.D. Sexton
• Release date: Dec 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311708274

R.D. Sexton

R.D. Sexton is a former U.S. Marine and Vietnam War veteran. He lives in Texas with his wife where he retired as a Certified Public Accountant. He holds the following degrees: Bachelor of Business Administration (Accounting) and Bachelor of Theology.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Epilogue

About the Author

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Prologue

New York Times.

In a surprise White House briefing last night, President Maoba responded to questions about the recent charges against the Internal Revenue Service. According to sources who wish to remain anonymous, the IRS has denied conservative organizations tax exempt status and targeted conservative non-profit organizations for audits.

I take this charge against the Internal Revenue Service very seriously, the president said. I have contacted Jack Edgeworth, Commissioner of the Internal Revenue Service, to look into this matter and report back to me. In the meantime, reports indicate that over the past decade, particularly during the two terms my Republican predecessor occupied the White House, tax revenues substantially declined.

When asked what further steps might be initiated to address this decline in tax revenues, the president had this to say:

Early reports from the IRS indicate this decline has resulted from non-payment of tax or outright tax cheating by both businesses and individuals primarily owned by Republican right-wing individuals. most of whom are also members of one of the extremist Tea Party groups. I have directed Jack Edgeworth, Commissioner of the Internal Revenue Service, to step up collection activities and take a closer look at how the tax system is being manipulated by these would be extremist elements in our society.

Chapter 1

1986

Magnolia, Texas

A little after nine p.m., sixteen-year-old Lucas Stone walked through the front door of the trailer house and yelled, Hey, dad, I’m home.

He glance around thinking someone must be home because the television was on. Lai, are you here? Nope, he thought. His father’s Vietnamese friend from the war who stayed nearby and was usually at the house, wasn’t there.

Lucas just finished his after-school, four-hour shift pumping gas at Valero’s Shell station. The three-dollar, thirty five-cent an hour job blended into weekends of an additional sixteen-hours when he had the time and energy. Rex Valero got him a job at his father’s station two summers ago after Lucas’s mother died from complications resulting from a bad car wreck. The medical bills and funeral costs almost buried Lucas Stone, Sr. so any money at all would help.

The back of his mind continued to replay tomorrows game with Tomball High, Magnolia’s High School’s closest rival. He pulled off a near perfect season as a varsity fullback, probably the tallest and heaviest for high school football in many years. He hoped this last game would ice it for him. Scouts from Texas A & M met briefly with him at the season’s start and implied a football scholarship might be on the table soon. Even if it wasn’t, his high school grades stuck on straight As so the academic scholarship he applied for at A & M would be his ticket.

He cocked his head to listen but heard no sound except for the garbled buzz of the little black and white TV sitting on the two-dollar, rusty folding table he’d found last summer at Amos’ Junk Emporium. He glanced at the small kitchen and noticed the Mr. Coffee pot was still on and the pot half-full of thick, black coffee. His eyes fell on the sink of dirty dishes waiting for his attention. His dad wouldn’t have left the coffee on if he wasn’t home.

He stuck his head out the backdoor and his ten-year-old male Doberman barked a welcome at him. He walked down the steps and stooped down to rub Jock’s head. The dog slathered his face with a wet tongue so he rubbed the smelly stuff off his cheeks with the back of his hand. He noticed light filtering through the cracks around the metal garage door and grinned. Dad’s probably repairing one of the neighbor’s clocks in the garage, he thought.

His father’s small workshop squatted in one corner of the fifteen-by-thirty metal building he erected eight years ago to keep the truck out of the rain and provide storage space for whatever wouldn’t fit in their twelve-by-fifty foot, faded blue and white trailer house. He spent his quiet moments back in one corner of the garage rebuilding antique clocks, a hobby he’d picked up from his own father.

Lucas opened the side door into the garage and stuck his head inside. The smell of his dad’s workshop stains and varnishes tickled his nose. The 1980 Ford pickup sat close to him. He learned to drive in it and the faded green paint held some of his affection. His eyes swished over the truck’s hood towards his father’s workbench. The four-tube, fluorescent light fixture over the workbook blared down on the stillness. It was at that moment, his right eye’s peripheral vision picked up something odd. Very odd. Even as he slowly turned his head that direction, his mind had already begun to translate what the rope hanging from the rafter’s meant.

His stomach did a little twist, like he might have eaten something even Jock would avoid. He recalled how despondent his dad had been over the past few weeks. But he said not to worry about the IRS thing, It was okay. He’d get it straightened out. But then the IRS guy hand delivered the notice. Stone Sr. told Lucas they were going to lose the trailer and the four acres of land. He said they would do what all Marines do, Improvise, Adapt and Overcome.

As his eyes traced a line down the taught rope, his mind flashed through a thousand scenarios to make sense of what his brain was trying to process. The rope stopped at his father’s neck, now almost black from hanging and chocking until all his life had been spent.

Lucas walked slowly around the truck and he screamed but no sound left his throat. He stopped a few feet from his father’s body hanging from the rope, his father’s feet only six-inches from the concrete floor.

Six inches away from life.

Chapter 2

2014

Houston, Texas

Lt. Colonel Lucas Stone, Jr. slipped his 2000 Harley Davidson Electra Glide into a space next to his Marine Corps squadron hanger. Although Houston's Ellington Field Airport once served only as an Army Air Corps base during WWII, Stone’s squadron now shared the runways with the Air Force, National Guard, Navy and a host of private air courier companies. A slight haze appeared around the six-o'clock a.m. digital clock mounted in the middle of his handlebars, a warning he probably shouldn't be flying for a few more hours, at least not until the Jack Daniels wore off. He probably shouldn’t even be on the bike.

After removing his helmet, he glanced at his bloodshot eyes in the left mirror and ran his meaty hand across his buzz cut. At the moment, he felt every bit his age of forty-four. An F-18 Hornet thundered off the nearby runway and he grabbed his head to control the pain from the noise. He wondered why he drank all that he did. After he used his left boot to move the kickstand down, he shook his head and stepped off the bike on his artificial left foot, throwing his right leg over the seat to dismount. He opened the left saddle bag, pulled out his nylon flight bag, and dropped it on the pavement.

Stone slid the helmet over the backrest, reached down and picked up the flight bag, and he walked around to the back of the hanger to say hello to the maintenance crew. Plane captains were checking out several jets parked on the ramp. When Stone appeared around the corner of the hanger, Corporal Ken Tragger glanced at Stone and snapped a classic Marine salute.

Good morning Colonel Stone, sir, he said over the screaming engines, Good to see you again.

Morning, he said in the loudest voice his head would allow followed by a less than enthusiastic salute. His eyes flashed across the aircraft inventory lined up on the ramp.

His reserve squadron managed to hang on to a Vietnam War era A-6 Intruder and two F/A-18C Hornets, two AV-8B Harrier II jump jets and a C-130 transport plane. The A-6 was parked on the test ramp, its engine screaming wildly as its exhaust blasted against the backstop. One of the Marine jet mechanics was testing its thrust and the air was heavy with the smell of jet fuel. The piercing sounds and pungent odors hammered his brain and made his stomach roll.

He walked through the hanger and returned a salute to Private First Class Edward Pitts who was busy swabbing the hanger deck into a glassy shine.

Glad you're back, sir. How did that foot surgery go?

Good Pitts, real good.

Inside the squadron's flight operations office, the air carried the familiar smell of pine-o-pine and floor wax synthesized with the sound of an automated flight weather broadcast. Neither helped his condition as he dropped his green nylon flight bag on the floor next to one of the work tables. He shook his head at the man standing across the room holding a helmet and already dressed to fly.

I still don't understand how such a lazy, skinny excuse for a Spaniard managed to get into this outfit, Stone said.

The other man nodded and grinned. He could not avoid sparing with Stone's banter.

You don't call, you don't write, you son-of-a-bitch, why the hell don't I hear from you? Rex Valero snapped back.

I forget to get you a note from my surgeon, he said. He had to get a little creative with the new bionic foot after cleaning out the infection where things hooked up.

Judging by the fact you're walking as good as the rest of us, he must have done a pretty good job.

Yes he did. Hell, I rode my bike here today.

Wasn't the VA hospital supposed to discharge you a couple of weeks ago? You were starting to worry me.

I wouldn't be here if it wasn't the deadline to get in my flight time for this quarter. One more day and the C.O. would—

Your commanding officer would ground your ass, Lt. Col. Stone, a familiar voice said from the little office behind the counter.

Stone recognized the squadron commanding officer immediately. Yes sir.

He cut his eyes over at Valero and the C.O.’s face appeared around the edge of the door.

How's that new foot? the C.O. asked.

Sir, it's about as close to a real one as science can design. It feels real to me.

Good. Glad to hear it. Now, about your flight hours – with all the screw ups around the world by our commander-in-chief, we’ve got to be ready for whatever he gets us into within minutes. If anyone's flight hours aren't up to date, that kind of puts us in the shitter, doesn't it? One weekend a month isn't too much to ask of you, is it? Don't wait this long again or I'll get your ass activated and sent to the worst place that I can find.

Aye-Aye, sir.

Now get your butt into one of the Harriers and catch up those hours. The C.O. disappeared. Stone arched his eyebrows while grinning at Valero.

What’s Cat up to these days?

Valero ignored the question. "You look like the end of a bad party. Want to wait an hour before we go out?

No. I'm good.

You still have the hots for her, don't you?

He shook his head. Will you answer my friggin' question?

I saw her this morning. She just got back from a run and was going into her office. I asked her what she was up to and she said she was over at HP working on some computer systems issues. She also asked me what happened to you. I didn't have an answer.

Hell, Rex, you're a tax attorney, doesn't your tax season work kind of curb your outside activities?

Yeah, yeah. I guess I'll cut you some slack this time.

That's better, you little greasy bastard. Is Cat still planning to run that marathon?

See, Amigo. She averages six miles every morning. I told her to start wearing her running gear to the office but she didn't think it was funny.

She has always liked you more than me.

I've read the summaries on some of your recent Tax Court cases against the Internal Revenue Service. I'll bet they are pretty ticked off at you.

You aren’t going to respond, are you?

Valero grabbed his flight bag. You ready to go out and raise some hell in those old Harriers?

The Navy has a carrier in port. How about we run down to Corpus and shoot some touch-and-goes?

Sounds like a plan.

Let me get my paperwork done. I’ll meet you in the air.

Suddenly his mind conjured up a picture of Catherine Korah back in high school. That long, blond hair and a body that drove the boys crazy. Am I still hot for her? He shook his head and continued his checklist.

Fifteen minutes later, Stone stoked the power of the Roll-Royce Pegasus engine and it lifted the AV-8B Harrier off the runway. He moved the thrust-vectoring control lever to transition thrust from the four vertical exhaust nozzles to the rear exhaust, applying its full 24,000 pounds of dragster force into a steep climb to try and catch Valero who was probably twenty-miles out by now. The turbine engine was only a muffled roar inside his headgear, overlaid by air-traffic radio chatter on his frequency. Not a cloud marred the sky and the morning sun hung like a glowing orange off his port wingtip.

In a few minutes, he spotted the dot ahead that was Valero's Harrier. His eyes unconsciously swept his instruments, a habit welded into his mind during flight training years ago. When he reached 10,000 feet, he eased back on the power until the nose dropped a little and Valero's Harrier looked less like a dot an more like an aircraft. He pulled the stick back to level, completed his radio sequence, and finally switched over to Valero's frequency. He glanced off his starboard wingtip and moved close to the other Harrier.

Valero turned his head Stone’s direction and saluted with one finger. This is a lot more fun than dealing with the IRS, isn't it?

That's affirmative, Stone said. He shoved the throttle forward and snapped the Harrier into a roll. He cut back to cruise and Valero caught up to him.

You, my big genius friend, are a little too confident for someone who hasn’t been in the cockpit of one of these rockets for months.

So maybe you should give me a little space, huh?

Yeah, like that's going to happen!

Stone rocked his wings while his hard-blue eyes swished across the airspeed indicator holding at 450 knots. Drilling through the sky with the only fighter on earth capable of taking off vertically was something only experienced by a special few. He congratulated himself for having made the right decision, a long time ago, to become a Marine aviator. There was a time, mainly while in Iraq, when he doubted that decision. The passage of time had clarified things.

How about we do some formation acrobatics? Stone asked.

"You still know what formation means?"

Let’s see.

Stone throttled up and eased into his first acrobatic maneuver. Every time he flew, he couldn’t help himself and his mouth jumped into a grin as the G forces pressed him back into the seat. He felt like a kid on his first roller coaster ride.

In a few minutes, he snapped out of a turn, Valero still within inches of his wingtip. Very few people, Stone thought, could appreciate what it takes to hug wings. It’s a lot like trying to balance a dime on the edge of a razor blade with the razor blade on the tip of your big toe, held out waist-high in front of you while you’re hopping and chewing gum.

Rex, even though you're a Spaniard, I think you'll make a pretty damned good aviator once you get the hang-of-it. Now let’s make our noses bleed, he yelled over the radio.

Punch it, Valero ordered.

Explosions burst from their exhaust vents as the Harriers strained under a one hundred percent power dump. Just seconds later two sonic booms shattered glass in a farmhouse below as two dirty Harriers streaked treetop high across the earth.

Vertical now, Stone said. Both AV-8Bs jerked into a steep climb. They slow-rolled to inverted as if their wings were welded together followed by other acrobatic maneuvers. A minute later, they returned upright and dropped to cruise speed.

Stone glanced down at the green-blurred forest. Want to skim the trees again?

Let's drop 'em.

* * * *

Mid-afternoon they were back from Corpus Christi. Stone glanced back at his Harrier wishing there had been more time. He strolled into the dressing room then set his flight helmet, oxygen mask and survival gear on the bench and dropped his flight bag on the floor beside him. Valero was standing in front of his locker stripping off his flight suit and glanced at Stone.

You know, if I had it all to do over again, I would not have specialized in tax law. The damned tax system just can't be fixed. One of my little fantasies is to destroy the IRS and the whole damned tax system.

Stone grinned. Rex, you know that no one dislikes the IRS more than me. Hell, they killed my father.

I know. That's why I never understood why you selected tax as your CPA practice specialty.

Me either.

When are the Devil Dogs going to ride again? Valero said. Man, it’s been a couple of months.

I’m thinking next weekend, Saturday. There’s a benefit for Wounded Warriors in Galveston.

You want me to send out emails to let the brothers know?

Yeah. That’s the Secretary’s job, isn’t it?

Velaro shook his head. Don’t get wise-ass on me, Mr. club president. What time?

Let’s set the meet-up around six-hundred. How about Mancuso’s Harley Davidson over on Highway 290?

Yeah. Everyone knows where it is.

Lucas – I almost forgot to ask. How’s Lai doing?

Stone unzipped his flight suit and started out of it. Hell, he's going to out-live both of us, no doubt about it.

Tell him I said ‘hello’.

I’ll do it.

Will I see you at the Dark Horse next Friday after work? Velaro said.

Yeah, I’ll stop by. We’ll drink a few for the Corps. Be sure and bring Korah with you.

Rex nodded while he pulled on his jeans and then tucked in his shirt. We'll see you at the Dark Horse, he said on his way out the door.

When Stone pulled out into the traffic, his mind stumbled back to Cat Korah. That mind-blowing letter she sent while he was in Iraq remained fixed in his mind forever. He still felt guilty about not telling Rex about it.

Chapter 3

Mexico retained a strong presence in Texas just one-hundred-thirty miles north of its own border. Although San Antonio began in the nineteenth century as a dusty little town, time allowed it to evolve into a bustling business center and vacation spot. When you mention the name San Antonio to most Texans, they first think of the Alamo and the men who died there to free Texas from Mexico's steely grip. In reality, the sprawling city offers an attractive River Walk, Mexican influenced shopping and dining, and an opportunity to mix with the locals. It also is home to a large contingent of Internal Revenue Service employees and National Security Agency cryptology experts at the nearby Air Force base. In one of the glamorous hotels along the River Walk, one person was mixing in his own way.

The beautiful Mexican prostitute, drenched in sweat, tugged at the small chains attached to her wrists with nylon straps. She was bound to the bed's headboard and she fought to avoid the leather whip that cut her flesh like a razor. Her screams were muted by the tape he slapped over her mouth.

The whip suddenly touched the inside of her thigh and she screamed again, this time choking on her own fear.

Jack Hawk grinned as his manhood throbbed at her. He dropped the whip and jumped on her like an animal in heat, piercing her repeatedly. Finally, he moved away and stood up beside the bed. He pulled on his trousers and finished dressing, then removed the nylon straps from her wrists. On his way to the door, he glanced back at her.

It was good, slut, real good. For some reason, she reminded him of his own mother and his mind traced back to a period of his life he wished a surgeon could carve out of his brain.

Nights were mostly hot in their little trailer outside El Paso, Texas but the heat wasn't the only reason thirteen-year-old Jack Hawk was miserable and often-times crying his eyes out. His old man, Rocky Hawk, enjoyed beating his mother at night and Jack could hear her screams. Rocky told him that women were weak and stupid and sometimes needed to be punished. Jack came to believe that his mother was stupid and a slut just like Rocky told him.

Jack got his first beating on his fourth birthday. It was his own fault, of course, because he shit his pants. Jack was home alone with Rocky because Jack’s mother worked late at her waitress job in the city. Rocky just finished his third six-pack of beer and he grabbed Jack and gave him a birthday whipping. It scared Jack so badly he lost control of his bowels. Rocky smelled the shit and was enraged. He tore Jack’s pants down, ran his hand between Jack's ass cheeks and smeared the shit across Jack face, then into his mouth. Jack threw up all over the floor. The lesson was not lost on Jack, one of his father's lessons about responsibilities and self-discipline. Jack never shit his pants again.

Rocky Hawk was a Texas State Trooper. Because his territory covered over a hundred miles, he often wasn't home until late during the week. He insisted that Jack study hard to do well in school. On Sundays, he made sure the family attended the local Baptist church.

Although Rocky was a small man, he was mean and hard. On or off duty, he carried his gun because, as he told Jack, A man must always be ready for anything. There are so many sleazy people out there who would cheat you and lie to you if they could get away with it.

His mantra was, People are liars, boy, You gotta remember this, Jack. It's the Hawk's responsibility to stomp the scuz out of this world. You remember that boy!

His father didn't trust anyone. Rocky taught him to be wary of old people. They’ll take advantage of you, he said. They try to hid things from you. Keep on your toes around them, he warned. The same goes for business people. Arrogant bastards! They think they are so damned brilliant. Liars, all of them! They treat you like some kind of dumb shit. They think you’ll believe anything. Gotta watch all of them Jack. Watch ‘em all the time. We Hawks, we gotta keep on our toes, boy. We’ve gotta stomp the scuz out of this world. Remember that, boy, he finished with one final spray of spit.

Jack felt closest to his old man when he got to ride in the patrol car with him. Rocky taught him about power. Jack, however, didn't particularly like his father’s take on self-defense training. On Jack’s ninth birthday, his old man started Jack's self-defense training. He referred to it as Rocky’s Power Boot Camp.

Jack ran laps around the nearby high school track, did push-ups, jumping jacks, squat thrusts, sit-ups, and finally chin-ups on a bar. The finale was a three round boxing match with his old man that eventually gave Jack the crooked nose carried into adulthood. Afterward, Rocky would lecture him about how people were dumb like sheep and it was his job to punish them so they would do right.

When Jack reached seventeen, his high school grade point average was 4.0. Straight As, nothing less. Jack's body was lien and hard as a rock. He wore his hair in a military cut. He might have been handsome but for the broken nose. No one messed with Jack at school because they feared him. Rocky was a bastard but, over time, Jack started to believe in him.

Chapter 4

Washington, D.C.

Dennis Alberts stood next to the expansive wall of glass that separated him from the air and noise outside the building. This was his eighteenth year with the IRS and the ride had been exciting and hard. When he started out as an IRS agent, he had no idea that politics would play such a big role in the ladder he sought to climb. His eyes scanned the busy street five floors below but his mind played back random thoughts about his job as Assistant Regional Commissioner of Criminal Investigations and what it all meant.

The six-story brick and glass complex next to the street looked harmless, like so many other modern structures just inside the beltway of Washington D.C.'s city limits. The IRS, like other federal agencies, had no love for either history or architecture. He wasn’t completely sure how he felt about that fact because, once upon a time, he'd wanted to be an architect. More often than not, old buildings were indiscriminately ripped down and replaced with modern steel and glass edifices.

He nodded to himself. The IRS bureaucrats were probably right, of course. Alberts once saw pictures of Moscow’s infamous Central Lubyanka, Lefortovo, the Soviet secret police's central interrogation facility. Lefortovo was not the kind of structure the IRS wanted American taxpayers to conjure up in their tiny, cheating brains when arriving at the IRS building. The IRS specializes in the application of fear at the proper time and manner required.

Play-day for his people was April 15 and it wasn't far off. Tension, like that found in the locker room of any athletic team, was running high inside Internal Revenue’s Services Centers scattered all across the United States. A kind of nervous anticipation, he thought. Yeah, at every center the parking lot visitors section was full twelve-hours a day. The elevators were packed with civilians, forcing IRS personnel to use the stairs. That little, well-calculated hardship helped steer their mental attitudes towards the aggression they needed to handle the taxpayer mobs.

Waiting rooms were jammed with irate taxpayers seeking answers to impossible tax laws while others waited like sheep to be audited, an experience they’d forever-after associate with going to the dentist or being detained by secret police in some unfamiliar totalitarian state.

Recently at one of the service centers, a letter bomb had exploded in the mail room fortunately injuring no one, but it had burned up half the payroll checks and IRS personnel were hot. They’d be paid a week late, now, Dennis Alberts thought, but collectors would work harder and auditors would be much more aggressive next time. Rumor was that it had been an inside job, maybe done by some of the U.S. president's union friends, a way to incite IRS employees against the people. Although he doubted that rumor, he felt his blood pressure jump a notch.

Although the federal reserve was printing money faster than the ink could dry, the deficit bitch in Washington put a real strain on the IRS budget. Not only that, but a recent revelation that the IRS had been targeting conservative groups for audit while denying their groups tax exempt status didn’t help with congressional democrats. The new president was pouring on the pressure to squeeze blood out of the rocks, the middle and lower income taxpayers, to help solve the enormous deficit and fund the many special-interest projects the president was indebted to begin.

Promises to keep, he thought. His brows arched and his jaw tightened. If they weren’t able to use a host of draconian laws against Americans on an almost daily basis, the entire operation would fold up in no time. The IRS operated outside the constitution when it came to little matters such as due process. Seizing assets belonging to innocent taxpayers kept the machine rolling along within an ever growing budget.

He chewed on his cigar hoping no one would see his little sin. He glanced once more at the computer printout, a list of tax professionals whose clients walked away from their audits without paying another dime of tax. That meant the IRS had failed to win additional assessments. His eyes wandered down the list and stopped at one professional with the most clients who beat the system. He blinked repeatedly. His chief investigator, Maxwell, had drawn a big, red circle around one name.

Lucas Stone? Thirty-five cases and we lost all of them to this one CPA? Who the hell is this guy?

He grabbed his phone and called Maxwell. He wanted to see him immediately. A few