24. Jin
“You touch her, you die,” I growl, the phone pressed tight against my ear.
I shove past a couple hauling wheeled luggage, narrowly missing a platform attendant checking tickets. Both yell at me as I rush past them. Their outrage doesn’t register.
I merely sprint faster, making quick work of the concrete structure that’s Gijang Station. My heart pounds inside my chest so loudly, the rest of the world is on mute.
“She’s sweet, this one,” taunts the voice over the phone. “But she has a spark, doesn’t she? A little rabbit with some fire.”
“Your life is over,” I snarl. “I’m going to kill you. All of you.”
The man on the other end laughs. The longer the conversation goes on, the more familiar his voice sounds.
“Making threats is all you know how to do, Jin-tae,” he says.
“You’ve said that to a lot of people, haven’t you?
But you haven’t realized that we will never stop.
We will never stop coming after you… and the weaknesses you claimed you didn’t have.
It looks like the great Silent Hunter has one after all.
You couldn’t kill her like you were supposed to.
So now we will have to. That goodbye kiss on the platform was very romantic. Fitting it would be your last.”
“Tell me where you are. I’ll come meet you. We’ll see if you’ll say that to my face,” I growl, fumbling for my car keys.
I’ve made it to the parking lot where my Genesis G80 Sport glints in the late-afternoon sunlight. I have exactly thirty minutes to make it to the Busan train station and attempt to intercept Monroe and these bastards.
“Don’t worry, Jin-tae. We’re taking good care of her for you. We haven’t hurt her yet. Much anyway. Think we can get her to break before we get off the train?”
“You’re dead,” I say in a low, eerily calm voice. “Prepare to die.”
I press the red button to end the call, slamming my phone down on the passenger seat. My fingers tighten on the wheel, knuckles taut and white, as I floor the gas pedal. The tires screech as I whip out of the parking lot and leave a trail of burned rubber behind me.
There’s no room for error. No time to hesitate or pause.
There’s a narrow window that I must make or else…
I can’t even bring myself to think of the alternative. They’ll kill Monroe. They’ll torture her and do some of the worst, most inhumane things to her before putting her out of her misery. All out of sick revenge against me.
Payback for the shit I’ve done as a Ho-gwi in the Baekho Pa.
The route from Gijang to Busan takes forty minutes on a good day of traffic. I aim to make it in half that as red lights blur and I speed straight through. I’m like a formula one racecar driver, gunning it from the country roads surrounding Gijang to the more congested streets of Busan.
Trucks swerve out of my way and taxis honk violently. A deliveryman on a bike screams as I almost clip him at a crosswalk.
Twenty-four minutes later, I’m pulling up outside of Busan Station. The lot is a chaotic maze. Cars line up in tight rows. People meander in every direction. I veer into a no-parking zone and throw the door open. A parking attendant shouts that I’m not allowed to park where I have.
I sprint toward the terminal, his words falling on deaf ears.
The station is a sea of hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. Their shoes clap the tile and their chatter forms a dissonant sound. Neon-lit signs flicker above me with arrows and directions which way to go.
It would be so easy to lose track of someone here. If I’m not careful, Monroe and her captors could slip right by me.
I push forward, shoulder-checking a businessman and knocking a college student off-balance. But if they’re in my way, they simply have to move. There’s no time to be polite or patient about it. I shove my way through the crowd until the arrival boards emerge overhead.
My eyes scan the digital letters and numbers.
Platform 9 - 2187 Gijang Line - ETA: 5 Minutes
I pivot hard on my heel and tear down the corridor toward the platforms. Sweat slides down the side of my face, lungs burning from the sprint.
I’m coming up on platform nine when an announcement overhead turns the tables.
“Attention passengers,” the intercom buzzes. “Train 2187 from Gijang has been reassigned. Now arriving on platform three in two minutes.”
My blood goes cold.
I whip around and bolt for the other side of the massive station. The Busan train station is the second largest in the country, second only to Seoul. A change of platform means a long trek through a crowded station.
The corridor narrows. The crowds are packed in tighter moving through. Many people walk at a strolling pace, engaged in conversation with each other or lugging heavy suitcases they can barely carry. I shoulder past, knocking over a luggage cart, sending the pieces tumbling to the ground.
More people scream after me.
I’m already at the front of the crowds, vaulting over a turnstile.
The train’s pulling in as I stumble onto platform three, husking out ragged breaths. The brakes squeal as it comes to a halt. Doors slide open to reveal antsy passengers bursting from the exit like a waterspout suddenly turned on.
I shove past more people, elbowing bodies out of the way so that I can board the train myself and search for her. My head is on a swivel, turning in every direction, eyes scanning wildly. Looking over every compartment, every seat, every face leaving the train.
Where the fuck is she?!
I spot her out of my periphery—or, really, the two men moving fast across the platform, clutching a third smaller person between them. Their heads are down and their strides long as they attempt to sneak off unnoticed.
Rage slams into me and turns me impulsive and feral.
I leap from the train before the last of the passengers even have a chance to get off.
Boots thudding on the ground, I take off after them.
They’re nearly at the exit when I’m coming up from behind.
Before either of them can sense my presence, I throw myself at them, tackling all three to the ground.
We each land in a hard tumble on the concrete floor. Both men scramble to make it to their feet. I’ve already beaten them, back on my feet from the moment I crashed down. Monroe’s on the ground, hands tied and a pair of sunglasses slanted across her face.
One glance at her, and I can tell she’s bruised. They’ve struck her across the face and caused a bruise to bloom along her nose and cheek. Probably part of what the sunglasses are meant to conceal.
The men stand opposite us, ready to attack. The crimson tattoos snaked along their necks tell me exactly who they are—Bulgeomhoe seeking their revenge for what happened at Club Gongshi weeks ago.
I curl my fists and hold them up.
“What are you waiting for?” I challenge, jutting my chin. “Didn’t I tell you to say it to my face? Let’s see how tough you are now.”
The smaller one in dark clothes moves first. He lunges at me with his leg raised high. He’s going for a roundhouse kick but lacks the technique to pull it off seamlessly.
I anticipate it before he’s even done executing the move and duck low to leave him kicking air.
These types of enforcers all fight the same. While one attacks, another lurks in the wings for their opening.
As the smaller one attempts his roundhouse kick, the second guy throws his fist at me from my blind spot. He’s aiming for my ribs.
I twist out of the way, catching his forearm and then doubling back to jam my elbow deep into his gut. His breath rips from him in a choked grunt. I step inward hard, driving the heel of my boot into his ankle to drop him to the floor.
The first guy’s already launching his second attack.
He’s learned from his last mistake. The roundhouse kick he delivers this time is more fluid, his foot slamming against my jaw.
My head snaps to the side, and for half a second, my balance falters.
I stagger two steps back with the taste of blood in my mouth, but I’m not shaken.
One of the most important things about fighting is keeping a clear head. Not being mentally thrown off by a hit or two. Even the best fighters take some blows.
What’s important is how you recover and move forward.
I duck as he follows up with another arcing kick. It sails over my shoulder and narrowly misses. I snap my own leg out in a low side kick, slamming my shin into his thigh. His knee buckles as I add a cross hook to the jaw.
Just like that, he’s dropping back.
The second man makes his return. We collide in a blur of motion, fists flying and our bodies bobbing and weaving. Jabs. Cross hooks. Haymakers.
We develop a violent rhythm that’s instinctual and primal.
He’s obviously a trained boxer judging by how he carries himself. I have the advantage of knowing what to expect from him. I bait him into swinging wide, then pivot, forcing him to follow. We move in circles as he tries to land a punch on me, but I’m too quick and agile.
His breath grows heavier. His throws sloppier.
That’s when I strike. Ducking under his jab, I slam an uppercut into his chin, then sweep his legs out from under him. He crashes to the ground, flat on his back.
“JIN!” Monroe screams in warning.
My head snaps up just in time to spot the smaller man charging again. He’s pulled out a blade to shank me with. He draws his arm back to make his stabbing motion.
Monroe sticks her foot out as he passes her by and trips him.
His chin cracks against the cement floor. The knife clatters out of his reach.
I pounce before he’s even processed what happened. Snatching the blade off the ground, I flip him over and drive it into his throat, severing his jugular. Blood spurts hot across my hand. He squirms and squeals until his mouth goes slack and he falls still.
Gasps erupt all around us. The passengers who have gathered to watch the street fight stare in horror.