11. Jin #2
“Yes. Twenty-five up front. Twenty-five after.”
He readjusts his glasses again. “I can have it done tomorrow night.”
“But you will do it my way. No pain. No violence. Make it quick.”
“I will do my best.”
“You’re not listening,” I snap, teeth gritted. “I said my way. Not do your best. You will do it how I want it—you will not hurt her.”
“If she fights back, I will do what I have to do to get the job done.”
I snatch him by the front of his windbreaker and slam him against the brick wall behind him. He takes in a sharp breath but otherwise doesn’t react.
“You don’t seem to understand. You will not hurt her. You will not inflict any pain. I… I don’t even want you touching her.”
“But you want her dead?” he asks quizzically, lifting a brow.
I realize how crazy what I’m asking is. It sounds ridiculous even to my ears.
But I know what men like In-soo are capable of. They will commit the worst acts of brutality for laughs and think nothing of it. No torture is too extreme for them, from cutting off eyelids to skinning someone alive. Women are often brutalized before killed.
Monroe deserves none of that.
“Make it quick. Make it painless,” I repeat. “Use an injectable.”
He holds up both hands. “Alright, okay, okay. I have some lethal poison. It doesn’t even have a taste or smell. Just one prick of a needle. She will be dead within a minute of being injected.”
“If you lie to me—if you hurt her anyway—I will kill you.”
“Understood,” he says as I finally release him. “Tomorrow night. Eight o’clock.”
We exchange the final details and I pay the deposit before we part ways. He goes in one direction and I stride off in the other, like two strangers in the dark. My pulse is thrumming fast as it sinks in what I’ve done.
I’ve hired someone to kill Monroe Ross.
But it’s what has to happen. When I tried to do it… I ended up kissing her. I can still feel her lips and the small gasp of air she’d released in surprise.
Honestly… I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
It’s probably the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done. It didn’t cross my mind before I did it.
There was no consideration. No thought.
I just bowed my head and crushed my mouth to hers. I didn’t even want to stop once I did.
Kissing Monroe was the first spark of pleasure I’d felt in a very, very long time. A luxury I usually don’t afford myself.
That’s what makes her so dangerous, and that’s why she must go.
Hours later, I can’t sleep.
The clock reads 3:42 a.m. when I jolt awake drenched in sweat. It takes me a few blinks to realize the dream I had wasn’t real. I came by Monroe’s apartment to assess In-soo’s work and found the place gleaming with her blood.
It was everywhere. Streaked across the walls. In puddles on the floor.
He had slaughtered her in the most gruesome way possible.
My chest aches as I stare around the dark shapes of my bedroom and scrub the disturbing images from my mind.
Monroe had been discarded on the floor, so battered and torn open she was unrecognizable.
Violence has never bothered me before.
And yet…
The day passes in a blur.
I go through the motions—collecting debts, checking in with members of my crew, cutting a new business deal with an arms supplier. I throw jabs and kicks into a heavy bag at the gym until my knuckles bleed and I’m slicked with sweat.
All the while, the only thing I can think about is Monroe.
How she has eight hours left to live. Then six. Then three…
I remind myself over and over again that this is what has to happen. Jae-hyun is the Baekho-je and he called for her death. It was a direct order.
I marked her.
She must die. It’s the Baekho Pa’s way.
Yet it doesn’t matter how many times I remind myself this. It’s beyond logic and reason that deep regret starts filling my lungs like sand, making it hard to breathe clearly.
The sun sets as the time ticks toward eight p.m.
I make a snap decision and grab my phone. In-soo answers before the first ring is even over.
“Yes?”
“It’s off,” I say quickly. “It’s canceled. Do not touch her. You hear me?”
There’s a pause, sounds of the wind whipping in the background.
“I’m already outside the building.”
“So walk away! I don’t want to carry out this job. You can keep the deposit?—”
“We had an agreement,” he interrupts. “It was made, so the job will be done.”
“Listen, you fucking bastard—I’m telling you it’s off. Don’t go into her building! Don’t lay a finger on her!”
“I don’t have time for this. I’ll update you once it’s complete.”
And then he hangs up.
I stare at the phone, my breathing hard and stilted. It takes me a second to process what the fuck he just said. That he’s still fucking going through with it.
I’m at the Claw Lounge as I pivot on my heel and sprint toward the door, hoping I won’t be too late.
I tear through the city like traffic rules don’t exist.
My tires screech across the asphalt as I cut through an intersection. A red light flashes, but instead of pressing the brakes, I slam on the gas. Other cars honk and drivers poke their heads out the window to yell.
I’m already gone, racing across the city.
I don’t park properly when I reach her building. My Genesis G80 Sport rolls to an abrupt halt in the driveway leading to the underground garage. The door springs open as I leap out and sprint toward the entrance.
Each second another I could lose her. Another second closer to her death.
When the elevator doors finally open on the ninth floor, I’m darting toward her door.
The loud crashes boom from the other side. In-soo is definitely inside, and Monroe is definitely putting up a fight like she had the night I showed up.
My chest contracts at the thought he’s hurting her.
Before I can think, I draw back and then rush forward at full-force. I kick the door wide open, making it bounce on its hinges.
Monroe’s on the far side of the room, clutching a kitchen knife in a trembling hand. Her lip is split as though she’s been struck hard.
In-soo advances on her slowly, herding her into a corner. His sleeves are torn and he bears scratch marks on his arms and his neck from where she must’ve lashed out.
The apartment resembles the scene after a tornado. Books are thrown off shelves. Lamps have been knocked to the floor where they’ve shattered. One of the couch cushions is slashed open.
I move at once, launching forward.
In-soo doesn’t even turn in time. I slam into him with my full weight. He collapses against the wall, knocking a picture frame loose.
He tries to swing, but I’m faster. More precise and intuitive.
My fist crushes into his jaw.
What starts as a cross hook turns into a follow up, then another and another. I batter his face until his features are swelling and splitting open and he’s dropping to his knees, no longer able to withstand it.
I kick him back, then wrench my knife free from inside my leather jacket.
He has no chance of fighting back. He scrabbles for a weapon—a broken shard from the lamp, a book, anything—but he’s clumsy, bruised, and slow.
His biggest strengths during these assassinations are the element of surprise and the art of stealth.
Without either, he’s no match for someone like me.
I drive the blade into his gut and revel at how his face pinches in agony. The blade has cut straight through his intestines, made worse when I jerk and twist the handle.
The noise he makes is pitiful and hoarse. A gurgle that’s stuck in his throat.
Monroe screams from behind me, but I don’t give a damn.
I wrest the knife free, then do it all over again. Running him through a second time to make sure the job is done.
Watching as the light goes out in his good eye. The one that isn’t already swollen shut.
He dies like this, crumpled on the floor of her apartment, my knife sticking out of him.
A long moment passes where I heave air into my lungs and feel the rush of adrenaline seep away. It was a sudden and powerful current of electricity that ran through me, blocking out any logic and reason.
I became the white tiger the syndicate is named after, pouncing on an enemy and tearing him to shreds like out in the jungle.
Finally calm, I rise to my feet and push back the hair on my brow.
Monroe backs away when I turn around. She’s still clutching the kitchen knife she clearly grabbed when In-soo was attacking her, though her hand shakes with the same kind of unsteadiness as the other night.
She’s not a killer. She’s not naturally violent.
“Don’t come near me,” she breathes, eyes wide and terrified.
I ignore her, stepping to the wall.
What I do next possibly shocks her more than the brutal murder itself. I curl my hand into another fist and then launch it at the wall, puncturing the plaster.
Monroe shrieks and jumps up on the sofa.
I do it again, punching another hole. Then I move onto the second lamp on her side table and smash it against the floor. The curtains at the window are next, ripped from the rod and torn in half by my hands.
I hurl her coffee table across the room, snapping one of its legs.
Her bedroom isn’t spared. I tear that apart too, flipping her mattress over with a thump and knocking over her delicate perfume bottles.
Monroe’s cautiously followed me, watching in stunned horror.
She doesn’t understand what I’m doing and why.
I barely do, even as I smash the mirror at her vanity table, then whirl around to face her. Immediately, she backs up several steps, assuming I’m turning my wrath on her.
The first thing she’s been right about all evening. I cross the room in two long strides and grab her by the wrist before she can think to flee.
I fuse her full mouth to mine. Her lips are wet with blood, yet I only kiss her harder. I savor the tart, metallic taste of her blood and how it mixes with her natural sweetness.
My grip clenches tighter on her wrist and I hold her in place even as she squirms for freedom.
She’s going nowhere.
That night in the alley, I told her she couldn’t outrun my mark. I meant every word of it.
There will be no escaping me, in life or in death.
Something she will eventually come to terms with.
Her mouth is soft and warm. It’s inviting and addictive, making me question my sanity. What the fuck has happened to me?
How can one woman drive me to this point? How can I betray every principle I’ve set for myself?
These are questions I don’t have the answer to. At least not in this moment.
Monroe’s pressed up against me, trapped in my clenching hold as I kiss her hard and my tongue ravages her mouth.
All the guilt, the rage, the possessiveness comes to a head and explodes from inside me.
It’s the earth-shattering realization that I’m betraying the Baekho Pa for this girl. I’m venturing into a territory I never thought I would.
We’re both reeling even as the kiss ends.
She jerks back once free, still stunned into silence. Her dark, emotive eyes are larger than ever, glassy with fear.
I’m huffing ragged breaths. I probably look like a lunatic.
Nothing I’ve said or done makes sense. Neither does the blade I slash across her throat.
I do it suddenly, deftly, in a clean swiping motion. The blade cuts into her skin like the slash from a tiger’s claw. Deep enough to draw blood, shallow enough to avoid any tendons or serious damage.
Wiping my fingers across the open gash, I step toward the bed and smear her blood on her bedsheets. The once perfect white sheets now have her blood marring the cotton fabric.
Monroe’s backed up against the wall again, quaking on the spot. I went from murdering a man to destroying her apartment to kissing her and then cutting her in the span of five minutes. She likely has whiplash from it all.
But it doesn’t matter how she feels or what she thinks in the moment—this was necessary for how things have to be moving forward.
My dark eyes finally meet hers, and I speak the first words I have to her all evening.
“Monroe Ross is dead.”