Chapter 8 Gun #2
“Make no mistake—this was not mercy or hesitation. This was poor execution on the part of a professional killer. It tells us that Black Silk, while dangerous, is not infallible. We will track him down like the dog he is, and when we find him, we’ll make sure his employer understands the cost of targeting the Cheongryong. ”
One of the captains in my row—an ass-kisser named Park Hee-joon—raises his hand to ask a question. “Lieutenant Ko, do we have any intelligence on why this assassin is targeting us specifically? Is there a pattern to the attacks?”
“The motivation could be any number of things—a business rival looking to destabilize our operations, one of the other syndicates testing our defenses, or simply someone with deep enough pockets to afford a contract killer of this caliber. What we do know is Black Silk is exactly what the name suggests—a hired blade. Contract killers will take any job for the right price. Someone has clearly paid well for our heads.”
The rest of the meeting unfolds with a thorough briefing about search protocols, surveillance networks, and the rewards being offered for information leading to Black Silk’s capture.
I listen with half my attention while the other half churns through everything I know that they don’t—the graceful, impressive way she moved like liquid, the sweet taste of her mouth, the precision with which she’d tried to open my throat.
The fact that their mysterious male assassin is actually a beautiful woman who calls herself Jamie and kisses like she’s trying to steal souls.
I could end this manhunt in a single sentence. I could tell them about the Dalbit Hotel and how she’d slashed my ribs with a knife and even how she’d felt in my arms.
The information sits heavy on my tongue, begging to be released.
But I say nothing.
It’s information I’m going to keep for myself. I want to be the one who handles her.
When the meeting adjourns and the chamber begins to empty, I remain in my seat for a long moment, watching Father converse with Lieutenant Ko.
Joon-gi leans closer and mutters, “I’ll wait outside.”
Eventually, we’re the only two remaining in the chamber.
My father is a small man, barely scraping five seven.
He’s lean and wiry but with a soldier’s hardened posture through and through.
He’s balding with sparse dark hair that’s streaked with smoky gray on the sides.
But his goatee is always neat and trimmed, and he takes pride in dressing well, usually donning a pressed shirt and gold watches.
He readjusts the band of the one he’s wearing today as he glares at me from across the chamber.
You’d think we were enemies and not father and son.
I rise from my seat, both hands deep in my pockets. “You wanted to talk, Appa?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Gun-woo,” he snaps impatiently.
His eyes narrow to slits and he takes a step closer.
“You know exactly what this is about. You’re withholding information from the syndicate.
I can smell the lies on you from here. I know you had some kind of incident last night, and you’re not coming clean about it. ”
I shrug with calculated indifference despite the fact that he’s right. “What I do in my private time is my business, Appa. Don’t worry about it; I’ll handle the situation myself.”
“Handle it yourself? HA!” He lets out a bark of laughter that contains no humor whatsoever. “That’s exactly the problem! You’ll handle it yourself. You’re mediocre, Gun-woo. Incapable. You’ll only mess things up further, just like you always do.”
My jaw clenches so hard my molars grind together.
What frustrates me most is the fact that—despite years of his disappointment and dismissal—a part of me still burns with the pathetic need to prove him wrong.
It’s a weakness I’ve never been able to shake. The desperate hunger for his approval lives buried deep inside me, feeding on my pride and self-worth like a parasite.
No matter how many times he cuts me down, no matter how often he makes it clear I’ll never measure up to his expectations, some foolish corner of my heart still believes that maybe… just maybe… this time will be different.
But I know why he looks at me the way he does. His voice carries a particular brand of contempt he only reserves for me.
It’s because when he sees my face, he doesn’t see his son—he sees her.
My mother, the woman who was supposed to be nothing more than a temporary distraction from his failed marriage to Ho-seok’s mother.
The prostitute who somehow wormed her way into his heart before their toxic union inevitably imploded, leaving behind nothing but wreckage and a son who inherited all her reckless impulses and none of his calculated control.
“She was wild,” he’s told me more than once, usually when I’ve disappointed him in some spectacular fashion. “Unpredictable and selfish. A liability to herself and everyone around her. And you’re exactly the same.”
I straighten my shoulders, meeting his glare with one of my own, drawing on every ounce of arrogance I possess. “You can assume the worst if you want, Appa. But I’m going to prove you wrong once and for all.”
As I turn to leave, he refuses to let me have the last word. He issues his final blow like a curse.
“It’ll be your head if you’re caught lying to the syndicate, Gun-woo. And when that happens, don’t expect me to save you.”
Over the next few days, Joon and I work closely together, using our resources and doing our best to track down the elusive Black Silk.
We’ve concluded that Jamie is likely a fake identity she assumed for our meeting at Eclipse. But we struggle to uncover her real name or any other discernible information on her.
Joon runs through his regular intel contacts, seeking to gather any info he can on a Black American woman in the area. Unfortunately, Itaewon and the greater Seoul area have no shortage of tourists, expats, and others visiting.
Any time we’re on the streets, I’m scouring the crowds for a sign of her. My gut says she can’t be far; I doubt she’d be based out of another city. It would make little sense to be so far out when your targets are in Seoul.
No… the feline is close by. She’s probably lurking, waiting for her next opening.
Don’t worry, Goyangi-ne.
We’ll be meeting again soon. You owe me a kiss—and that sweet little pussy of yours.
“This is the name of a landlady in Itaewon who rents to a lot of expats,” Joon says on our third afternoon spent searching.
He’s opened the passenger’s side door and slid into the seat with a business card.
“He says there are a couple tenants who match her description. The landlady doesn’t like gangsters, but my contact said if we bribe her with cleaning supplies she might budge. ”
“I doubt there’re many who match her description,” I say. “She was… one of a kind.”
Joon grins. “Gun-woo, are you still smitten? You sound like a man in love.”
I cut him a warning glare. “You must like having your life threatened. What have I told you?”
“Can I help it if my best pal is in love with the club girl who tried to slit his throat? It’s a sweet love story if you think about it—fucked up but still sweet, eh? It has K-Drama written all over it.”
“I have to get myself a new partner. I don’t know what’s worse—your corny humor or your terrible fashion sense.”
“Hey, this is stylish!” he protests, gesturing to his basketball jersey and skinny jeans. “Your problem is you don’t know modern fashions, Gun-woo.”
I ignore him, popping the lid on my pain killers and tossing back two of the large pills. The new medication Dr. Song prescribed me have been working slightly better, but the ache is still there.
It will always be a part of me. Some curse I’ve had to live with.
We head to the address Joon has so we can speak to the landlady. It’s true she takes one look and refuses to speak to us, likely recognizing the dragon tattoos on our arms. We get past the barrier by offering her enough funds for cleaning supplies for the rest of the year.
She waves us through her office door and then shows us a tenant board, where every person living in the building has their picture displayed.
It only takes me a second to spot her among the others—pictured next to another Black girl with afro puffs and a bright smile is Jamie.
…or the woman who said her name was Jamie.
My suspicion was correct. Her real name is Elise Quinn and her occupation is listed as model.
A broad grin crosses my face. “Hello Goyangi-ne. Are you ready to be reunited soon?”
Once we have her address, the rest is easy. No less than a few hours later, Joon and I dig up any and everything we can find on the elusive Elise Quinn.
Her family is from Illinois but she was born in an American military hospital in the U.K. She graduated toward the top of her class in high school, then went on to enlist in the military herself, where she served four years.
And then… that’s where her history gets interesting.
The company that’s listed as her employer is a fake.
But with a little more work, Joon and I are able to track down an address in Seoul. The next night, Elise has a shadow she’s not even aware of.
I lurk at a safe distance as she leaves her apartment and heads to the subway. She’s dressed in all black again, except this time the clothes are obviously intended for movability and discretion. Both the top and pants are distractingly form-fitting.
We ride the subway together until she gets off at a stop in the Seocho District. I follow her off the train, unsure what I intend to do tonight.
Whether it’s just reconnaissance or if I’m going to be quick about it—if I’m going to end the feline that’s been the object of my fixation for several days now.
But I never get the chance to decide.
As she comes up the stairs leading to the streets, she’s greeted by a brawny man who’s waiting for her. He’s in all black attire too, his shirt nondescript and plain and his pants cargo with many pockets.
The second he sees her, he pulls her toward him in a crushing hug.
I stop midstep, my head slanting to the side. An instant current of jealousy streaks through me.
“Who the fuck is this?”