Chapter 8 Gun
EIGHT
GUN
Lightning bursts across the sky, but it’s nothing compared to the storm me and Father are in. He shoves the doors open and we step out into the rain, his strides long and mine half the length as I scurry to keep up with him.
His face is clenched in anger as he roars over his shoulder. “Baeshinja!”
We cross the dark street, the pavement slick under my sneakers. He jerks his head at the unmarked car parked against the curb.
“Get in!” he spits.
I scramble into the passenger seat, hands fumbling with the seatbelt as Father slams the driver’s side door so hard the entire car rattles.
The interior smells like leather, cigarettes, and some funny cherry air freshener he’s used to try to mask the cigarette stench. I’d normally complain because the smell tickles my nose, but he’s so angry I don’t dare say a word.
I’m not even buckled in before the engine growls to a start and we lurch forward into the night. The tires spin against the wet asphalt as Father jerks the wheel like he’s forgotten how to drive.
The Hangul pours out of him in a torrent as vicious as the rain hammering the windshield. Words I recognize are mixed with others I know are bad; words he’d be angry with me and Ho-seok if we ever dared speak.
“Baeshinja!” he screams again, beating a fist against the steering wheel. “Geu saekkiga nal bae-shinaesseo!”
It takes me a second to decipher what he’s said.
Traitor! That bastard betrayed me!
But what traitor? What bastard?
I’m debating if I should ask, but then I remember Father’s motto: children are to be seen, not heard.
I was only brought along tonight because he had nowhere else to dump me. He and Mother are no longer together, and Ho-seok is away at his special academy for geniuses.
His knuckles turn white against the steering wheel as he glares at the roads ahead. Every few seconds he slams his palm against the leather-clad wheel, then even the dashboard.
The heavy thud resounds in the tight space of the car.
I press myself deeper into the seat, watching the city blur past in bright streaks of neon. Soon the familiar streets transform into something alien and threatening under the storm’s assault.
We hit the main thoroughfare way too fast, the speedometer needle climbing as Father’s rage seems to feed the engine itself.
The wipers can barely keep up with the deluge of rain. Through the streaked car windows I catch glimpses of other headlights, many wavering like we’ve all been plunged underwater.
Father’s breathing is harsh and ragged, punctuated by more curses, more accusations hurled at an invisible man nowhere to be found.
I want to ask him what’s wrong. Why is he driving like a madman? Why is he so angry when he had been so excited earlier?
The words stick in my throat like wet wool.
The car skids out of our lane for a terrifying moment, sliding sideways before Father wrestles it back under control.
His jaw is clenched, his eyes narrowed. He keeps checking the rearview mirror like he expects to see someone racing after us.
He’s so concerned watching what could be behind us that his focus slips from what’s up ahead.
We take the next curve too sharply. The wheels spin as they try to regain traction, but it’s too late. We veer straight toward the guardrail as if pulled by some invisible force.
I shrink against the passenger seat, bracing for the inevitable.
In that final second before impact, there’s a flash—the light blinding and white—that swallows everything whole.
“All vitals are good,” says Dr. Song. “You say the migraines are worse?”
I grunt as I’m jerked from the past to the present. Ragged breathes puff out of me as I blink and realize I’m seated on the edge of a padded examination table.
I’ve got my shirt off, and Dr. Song is jotting down notes on a clipboard. My skull pulses with its usual dull pain, a constant reminder of my condition.
…and the hellish night I’ve relived a thousand times.
I scrub a hand over my face and urge myself to calm the hell down.
It was just a flashback.
There’s no changing what happened.
“Eh?” Dr. Song prompts when I don’t answer.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “They’re getting worse. The pills aren’t doing shit anymore.”
Dr. Song’s pen scratches against his clipboard as he makes another note, his expression neutral but attentive. He’s one of the best in Gangnam.
Exactly why the Cheongryong has bribed him to be on our payroll. Every syndicate has its private professionals they pay for discretion and special service. Doctors, lawyers, policemen, tax clerks, and more. The Cheongryong chose Dr. Song so he could provide us some of the best private medical care.
He’s paid so well he knows to keep his mouth shut.
“I see,” he says finally, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “How often are you taking the current medication?”
“Every few hours when it gets bad.” I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the heavy tension that’s settled like dried concrete. “Sometimes more.”
He grunts, a sound that could mean anything. “I’m going to prescribe you something stronger. Oxycodone. It should help manage the pain more effectively.”
He reaches for his prescription pad, but before he can write anything, he picks up a small penlight from the metal tray beside him. “Let me check your pupil response first.”
The moment he flicks on the light and aims it at my left eye, white-hot agony explodes behind my skull like a grenade going off. I jerk backward with a sharp grunt, my hand flying up to shield my face from the assault of brightness.
“Fuck!” I hiss through gritted teeth. The pain is so intense it radiates down my neck and into my shoulders.
Dr. Song’s expression darkens with concern, immediately switching off the light.
“That reaction is not normal, Gun-woo. The sensitivity has increased significantly since your last visit. I’m referring you to a neurologist. Dr. Kim at Seoul National University Hospital is excellent with traumatic brain injuries. ”
“Forget about it,” I snap, already reaching for my shirt. “My brother Ho-seok is a neurologist. He’s poked and prodded me dozens of times over the years. He’s run every test in the book—and nothing. If he can’t help me, some stranger sure as hell won’t be able to either.”
Dr. Song’s frown deepens, though he doesn’t argue. He knows better than to push when I’ve made up my mind. Instead, he tears the prescription from his pad and holds it out to me.
I snatch it from his fingers along with my shirt, the cotton wrinkled from being balled up on the chair. “Thanks for the drugs, Doc.”
The door rattles on its hinges as I yank it open and storm out of the office.
There’s no question about where I’m headed next. The Cheongryong are hosting a vital meeting to discuss last night’s events.
Black Silk’s assassination attempt on Lieutenant Im has left the entire gang bloodthirsty. Everybody wants revenge for the enforcer that was slain.
I show up to our headquarters in Inwangsan, a palace-like blue house in the foothills of Seoul. It’s where our leader, the Cheongryong-je, resides and the main base of our operations.
Security is airtight at all hours and no one gets through without authorization.
The interior is luxurious and fancy, with our signature midnight-blue color and platinum trim everywhere you look.
I make my way through the ground floor, passing the murals on the wall that pay homage to the mythological blue dragon we’ve named ourselves after.
Several lower-ranking Jeokpa’s nod their heads at me, eager and willing to please. As a Yongsa—what we call a captain—they’re automatically intimidated by my presence.
I ignore them all on my way to the chamber where the meeting’s being held.
I’m still disgruntled after last night’s events.
It’s not often that somebody bests me. Yet Jamie did just that; she not only seduced me, she almost succeeded in killing me.
The rest of the syndicate still believes Black Silk to be a man. I haven’t made up my mind if I’m going to tell them the truth.
Honestly? I like the idea of getting even myself.
An eye for an eye.
Nobody should get to put that beautiful feline in her place but me.
Joon-gi stands with another intel guy as I stride down the corridor. He mutters some parting words to him and then comes up on my left side.
“How’s the battle wound?” he asks.
“Yesterday’s news,” I answer, jaw clenched. “Today’s news? I have myself a stray kitten to find.”
He chuckles with a shake of his head. “But the real question is, are you going to tell them?”
Joon-gi’s question goes unanswered.
We enter the interior chamber to find most of the ranking members seated. The chamber is a large circular room with rows that rise higher as they go. In the center is a platform for the speaker to hold court.
Joon-gi and I take our seats in the fourth row where Yongsas and Seryeongs typically sit. My father is in the second row, seated right behind the Cheongryong-je himself.
It’s been long believed that he’ll succeed our emperor and take over someday. It’s what he’s always wanted; he dedicated his whole life to the syndicate, working hard to become one of the Four Horn Lieutenants.
Even at the expense of his family.
No price was too high to pay for Father. The Cheongryong always came first.
The meeting begins with another one of the Four Horns briefing everyone about last night’s assassination attempt. Ko Dong-kyu explains that Black Silk is still on the loose.
“He managed to infiltrate our lounge in Gangnam,” Ko Dong-kyu continues, his voice carrying through the chamber’s acoustics.
“Our intelligence suggests he was posing as service staff. When the opportunity presented itself to strike, he missed his primary target. He didn’t anticipate the Jeokpa taking the bullet in Im’s place. ”
A murmur ripples through the assembled ranks, a mixture of frustration and dark amusement at the enemy’s incompetence. Ko Dong-kyu raises his hand for silence before his expression hardens like a true predator.