11. Jin
“I saw your cute little rabbit. She’s still alive and well.”
Seung-min sounds smug as he waltzes into the Baekho’s gym at the Claw Lounge. It’s on the second floor, as worn and old as the rest of the lounge.
Nothing about it is flashy.
The mats for Tae Kwon Do and other sparring are permanently stained with blood, along with other fluids like sweat and spit.
The walls are an ugly nicotine yellow from years of faded paint and humidity.
Punching bags hang like meat carcasses at a slaughterhouse, their chains rusted over.
Some are patched with duct tape. Others leak stuffing.
There’s a decent selection of weights and a wall of mirrors for guys to watch their form. No state of the art equipment you’d find at other, fancier gyms in South Korea.
But it’s enough to get the job done. It has the bare bones of what is needed for members of the syndicate to take out their frustrations when required.
That’s what I’m doing this afternoon.
The bag creaks on its chain with every blow I land.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Rear kick.
My fists are taped but still raw, the sweat rolling down my back. I’m in the middle of another hard jab when Seung-min interrupts with his little taunt.
I’m out of breath, shirtless and soaked in sweat while he’s strut inside the gym clean and fresh like he’s here for social hour, not to work out.
In the past, Seung-min reminded me of myself. He was hungry and determined, but lately, I’m seeing more of Jae-hyun from him.
His hunger isn’t rooted in discipline and achievement. It’s rooted in greed and excess. He wants the glory of rising up the ranks; he doesn’t appreciate the hard work it takes to get there. It’s no wonder Jae-hyun seems to have taken a liking to him.
I let the bag sway to a halt, lowering my fists. I turn around to face him, observing the glint in his eye and the smug twist of his mouth.
He knows that Monroe is still alive because he’s been watching her.
A direct show of disrespect to me, his captain.
The next breath I take burns from more than the physical exertion I’ve been engaged in. It burns from the fury that rises up inside me like a ferocious flame.
Normally, I am disciplined and restrained enough to resist its draw. I can control my emotions and keep myself in check. But as I stand across from Seung-min and that cocky grin on his squashed face, I choose to let the fire consume me.
My stance slips into a sharp and sudden pivot, and I launch my leg up in a roundhouse kick. Otherwise called a Dollyo Chagi in Tae Kwon Do. The blow connects with Seung-min’s ribs, wiping him off his feet. He crashes to the ground before he’s even recognized what’s hit him.
The large room goes quiet. A few of the younger Baekho members pause in between their weightlifting, glancing over in curiosity.
I peer down at Seung-min, my sweat-slick hair in my eyes. “This is the last time I’m going to tell you. Don’t speak of her.”
The shock fades from his face for laughter that sounds like it’s coming from a caveman. Thick, loud, grunty sounds.
He rolls over ’til his lower back is off the ground, then juts his legs forward, pushing all the way up ’til he’s jumped to his feet.
He’s still laughing as he does, tugging off the bomber jacket he wears and tossing it aside.
“I can’t do that,” he answers smoothly. “Not when it’s true. I’ve been watching her. You left her alive, Jin-tae. Has the Silent Hunter gone soft?”
The fire in my veins surges to white-hot levels.
My vision narrows until he’s the only thing I see. The fury takes over.
My fist slams into his cheekbone with a satisfying crack that sends spittle flying from his mouth. He grunts and stumbles sideways. Before he can recover, I follow up with two sharp side kicks to the ribs.
I feel the impact reverberate through him. He’s knocked back against the wall, that cocky grin nowhere to be found now.
How dare he follow her? How dare he put eyes on her like she’s his prey?
I marked her.
She’s mine.
I’m not through with Seung-min. I advance on him, ready to beat him some more. As my leg snaps outward for another kick, he throws his arms to block. Then he ducks low and sweeps his leg through mine.
Pain sears up my hip as I hit the mat hard and air is knocked out of me. He moves to mount, arm drawn back for a strike, but I twist away at the last second. The weight of his body sends him stumbling forward as he hits nothing more than air.
The adrenaline guides both of us. It’s coursing through me, moving even faster than my thoughts, which feel more disjointed than usual.
But in this moment, I don’t care. I don’t give a fuck about anything but rearranging Seung-min’s squashed face.
We circle each other like wolves.
He dives for a jab as I pivot and then counter with a spinning elbow that lands.
It’s how we carry on—trading blows, fighting between the gym equipment that surrounds us. My leg lifts high and slams vertically down on him in a brutal axe kick. In Tae Kwon Do, we call it a Nae Ryo Chagi.
But it’s not only Tae Kwon Do that I fight with.
I’ve spent my whole life fight training. I’ve mixed various styles into a hybrid version that’s mine and mine alone.
Kang Seung-min is a competent fighter. But you need to be a lot more than that to even come close to standing a chance against me.
His shoulder slams into a hanging punching bag after another swift kick from me. He rebounds by shoving it toward me.
The punching bag collides with me and knocks me back long enough to buy him some time.
Or so he thinks—I grab the chain above it and swing around the side, using the momentum to vault into the air.
He watches on in helpless fashion. It almost feels like a slow motion moment, yet in reality it happens quickly.
I leap into the air and rotate my body in a complicated spinning roundhouse kick. The force lands in the center of his chest.
He flies backward with a pained grunt, crashing into the mat. The kick was a straight blow that’s enough to disorient most fighters. It’s enough to call victory.
But I’m still not satisfied.
I’m on him before the next blink of an eye. I drive a knee into his chin as he tries to stand again, then another punch to the cheek. His bone cracks beneath my knuckles. The dull pain throbs through my hand, a welcome sign I’m doing him damage.
He’s sputtering and spitting up blood now. His cocky grin is unlikely to reappear anytime soon.
I drop to straddle his chest and grab a fistful of his sweaty, damp hair, yanking his head up off the mat.
“If it weren’t against the Baekho oath,” I growl, voice shaking with thin restraint, “I’d rip your fucking heart out right here. With my bare hands.”
He opens his mouth, then coughs up more blood as I dig my knee harder into his ribs.
“But,” I continue menacingly, “there’s no rule against ripping your tongue out.”
My fingers clench shut on his jaw like I’m about to do just that. I’m seconds away from prying open his mouth and ripping his tongue out by force.
“Don’t fucking speak on things you don’t understand. I am your captain. Your Ho-gwi. And if I have to teach you a lesson, I will.”
I knock him out with a final punch.
Seung-min goes limp, splayed out on the mat with blood bathing his squashed face.
Silence has fallen over the gym. No one dares interfere or so much as moves an inch.
I slide my fingers through my sweat-damp hair and rise to my feet. I ignore their stares as I turn and walk out the door.
I’ve hesitated for too long. I spent two weeks watching Monroe Ross so closely, I got to know her intimately. Though I am a cold, withdrawn, emotionally distant man, I am still human. I have some semblance of a conscience.
I realize now, that as frustrating as it is, I can’t kill her.
Someone else will have to do the job for me.
It’s late at night when I show up to an alley behind the Gukje Market. It reeks of the day’s trash, unpleasant smells like rotting meat, spoiled milk, and eggs. Sewage and sludge that’s oozed onto the streets from the drainage holes.
I cross the pebbly asphalt and accidentally scare off a stray cat that hisses and darts from one side of the alley to the other.
He should be showing up any second now.
When I came to terms with the fact that I can’t kill Monroe, I realized that the person who did it couldn’t be Seung-min. It couldn’t be anyone from the Baekho Pa.
The last thing I want is for one of them to hold it over my head. For me to know they took her life and have to act as if we are brothers bound by the oath we’ve taken.
Someone else needed to do it. Someone further removed.
Nam In-soo emerges from the shadows. A contract killer the gang sometimes hires when we’re looking for clean, unassociated kills of important people like elected officials, prosecutors, or police; he’s good at what he does.
Maybe because he’s so unassuming. He looks like somebody’s father.
Small, no taller than five-five, five-six, he dresses like a civil servant in slacks and a windbreaker. Wire-framed glasses sit on his round face, his hair up top sparse and neatly parted. He could be a tax clerk or banker.
But really he has more kills under his belt than almost anyone in South Korea. His record is flawless, his trace that of a ghost.
I don’t know much about his past, except Jae-hyun once told me he defected from the North after an illustrious military career.
He adjusts his glasses as he stops in front of me. “You said you had a target you wanted to discuss.”
Tension thickens inside my jaw. I give a stiff nod. “Yes. Her name is Monroe Ross. She’s an American expat, teaching children English?—”
“I don’t care who she is,” he replies dismissively. “All I care about is finishing the job and getting paid.”
I bite back the urge to snap at him. He may not care about what he’ll have to do, but Monroe is worthy of dignity. She’s not just some faceless target to be eliminated…
“She lives in Seomyeon,” I go on. “The concrete towers. Ninth floor. Apartment 9D.”
“You said for fifty million?”