Capturing the Second Slave
After treating herself to a fine meal at the hotel restaurant, Go Yumi turned in early.
Early morning. Jet lag still dragged at her, but she hauled her heavy body out of bed all the same. The sun rose early over Cairo, and she meant to catch that view and put it on Instagram.
Click.
Only after she had strung dozens of tags together was the job finished. The moment that well-shot morning photo went up, the exhaustion seemed to melt clean off her.
"Yaaawn~ My friends are going to love this."
Already tasting the envy that would flood the comments, she got ready for the day.
"Dongseon told me to come, so he'll be the one to reach out first."
The words were barely out of her mouth when a text lit the screen.
"Huh? Is that him?"
She opened the chat. It was Park Dongseon.
"Tch. What is this. I dropped everything and came all the way here, and he texts me like it's a work memo... So annoying. Does he think he's the only one who's busy?"
Her mouth said one thing and her feet another. She went straight to the suitcase spilled open on the floor and started picking through what to wear.
"What would look right in Cairo? Primary colors, maybe? The sun's so strong. Something bright and sharp ought to work if I put it on..."
After sending the text, I set the phone down, picked up the water jug sitting off to one side, and stepped forward. Park Dongseon sat bound to a chair in front of me. I upended the jug over his head.
"Gah—! Uuugh...!"
He came to with a grimace, as if the water stung. Beneath the dripping face was a body in nothing but his underwear. Across the chest, the marks where the iron had seared him stood out stark and clear.
"I put medicine on it, so it shouldn't fester."
So long as the burns didn't go bad, scars were acceptable. I was selling him as a slave anyway. Even so, just in case, I had left the face alone. A good-looking piece of goods moves easier, and a clean, handsome face would fetch a better price.
"Chung—Chungsik! I'm sorry. Really. Please. Let me live. Huh? I swear, I swear I won't report you! Okay?"
Terror-struck, Park Dongseon begged. In the first hours after I dragged him in, that face had blazed like he meant to tear me apart with his teeth; now there was no trace of it. Then again, when had any modern man ever felt his own flesh seared under an iron? A single session of torture had been enough to drag the whole story out of him—how he and Go Yumi, after meeting at the housewarming, had started passing messages; how many times they had met after that; and the plan the two of them had laid to have me killed on contract, take my apartment, and live there together. Of course, in his telling, Go Yumi had seduced him and Go Yumi had nagged until he had no choice. I would have to hear her side before I knew how much of that was true. Not that it mattered. What he had already done was reason enough to deal with him.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to kill you."
A light of hope passed over Park Dongseon's face. And then—
"What? Wh-what are you saying? Buy? Buy what! What do you mean, buy!"
Shock, then fear, then anger all tangled together as he shouted.
"You! You! What are you trying to do to me!"
"You did what you did. You owe me."
"Money? You need money? Huh? I—I'll give it to you when I get back. I'll take my severance and scrape something together somehow, I swear."
The nerve of him.
"No. I don't need any of that crap. You can pay with your body. If that doesn't suit you, bite your tongue and die right here. I won't stop you from going that far. If you've got the guts, go ahead and die that way."
"You son of a—!"
I spoke coldly to the curse he was winding up to throw.
"Curse at me, and I'll iron the other side too."
Terror seized him at once, and he clamped his mouth shut. His face crumpled instead. I took a pleasant moment to admire it, then turned away, collected his phone and his car keys, and stepped outside. It was time to go get Go Yumi.
She spent a long while choosing clothes, then set shoes and a hat to match. Only after hauling out dozens of outfits and cycling through them—on, off, on again—did she land on the perfect combination.
A little later, a text arrived from an unknown number.
"Oh? A Korean? It's in Korean."
That surprised her. But she figured Park Dongseon had sent it, and she didn't suspect a thing. Handbag in hand, Go Yumi hurried out of the hotel room, rode the elevator down, and went out through the rear door of the lobby.
The sun hammered the street, light pouring onto the road as if someone had upended a bucket of it. Sunglasses hiding her eyes, she picked out the sedan waiting in front of the convenience store across the way. She checked left and right, saw the road was clear, and ran for it. Without a second thought she opened the rear door and climbed in.
The man in the driver's seat had an Arab headscarf drawn over his head, so she couldn't make out his face. Go Yumi greeted him brightly.
"Hello."
No answer came back. The driver simply put the car in motion and pulled away.
What is this. Someone says hello, you say hello back. Rude bastard. A driver, of all people. Seriously.
Swallowing the irritation rising in her throat, Go Yumi sank into the seat and turned her face to the window. Little by little the car carrying her left central Cairo and pointed toward the outskirts. She had been watching the scenery slide past when the streets grew quieter and quieter, and a wrong feeling stirred in her. By then, though, the car had already cleared Cairo's edge and was running across the barren desert.
"What is this? Hey. Where are we going right now?"
The man still said nothing. Irritation surged.
"Excuse me. When a person talks to you, you answer. Who even are you? You're just a driver, and you're ignoring me? Huh? This bastard, I swear. Hey! Answer me, right now!"
She poured the words out, decided this was getting her nowhere, and lifted her phone.
"You. Fuck. I'm calling Dongseon right now, so you deal with it."
She dialed Park Dongseon. The line rang and rang, and he never picked up.
"Goddamn it. Why won't he answer!"
And then—
Brrrrrr—
Brrrrrr—
A vibration thrummed from somewhere.
"Huh? Where's that phone..."
A chill slid the length of Go Yumi's spine. The handset at her ear kept sounding its ringback tone, and in perfect time with it a phone buzzed inside the car. One hand still on the wheel, the driver reached to his right, popped the console box on the passenger side, and drew out a phone. He dragged a finger across the screen.
The tone in her ear cut dead.
Struck dumb, terrified, Go Yumi's hands began to shake. And for the first time, the driver spoke.
In that instant Go Yumi's eyes blew as wide as they would go. She had ignored him, treated him as if he weren't there—but there was no way she could fail to know the voice of the man she had lived with as her husband for nearly two years.
"Y-you... it's you?"
Ahead of the car, container boxes stacked along the desert road came into view. Ten or more of them ringed the place on every side, like a fortress wall. He answered without so much as a glance back.
"What's wrong with your voice. You sound like you've seen a ghost."
The sedan reached its destination and stopped before an entrance left between the containers. The way in was shut with a gate of steel pipe and barbed wire, a chain and padlock hanging from it. He climbed out of the driver's seat, produced a key, and went to the lock. Once the entrance stood wide open, he came back to the car.
Go Yumi sat frozen where she was, too stunned to do a thing.
"Y-you, what is this? Huh! This—this is kidnapping. You know that? It's a crime. A crime."
"I wonder. Does a husband giving his wife a ride count as kidnapping?"
"Why on earth are you doing this? Huh!"
"Why. Why else. Weren't you trying to meet Park Dongseon?"
Go Yumi's body went rigid.
"I brought you so the two of you who are so eager to see each other can meet. Wait a little. He's in there."
I didn't bother torturing Go Yumi. I settled it simply.
Blackout
A spell that strips a person of consciousness.
I'd only tried it as a test, and it worked remarkably well. I bound the sleeping Go Yumi hand and foot, put Park Dongseon under as well, and drove back toward central Cairo.
Before I sold those two bastards, I needed to lay in some gear of my own. Out on Cairo's ragged fringe, I walked into a narrow alley. A scrap of paper in one hand and the map on my phone in the other, I pushed deeper into the filthy streets—not a place a tourist would ever come, and not a place a tourist should. Deep in a slum where being robbed in broad daylight wouldn't raise an eyebrow. But I had two layers of Iron Skin magic vest on me, other enchanted gear besides, and a pistol riding solid inside my coat, and courage I hadn't known I possessed came surging up. Head high, I went looking for the place written on the note.
A small shop. From the outside it looked like a rundown general store. I walked in without hesitation. A middle-aged Egyptian seated at the counter inside looked me over, suspicion plain on his face.
"I'm the one who sent the message."
"You? And how exactly do you know Amin?"
"We've crossed paths a few times, doing business. You're not asking me to draw you a picture, are you?"
"That so?"
He kept watching me with those same doubtful eyes.
"We doing business or not? If not, I'll go somewhere else."
He stared a moment longer, then turned and headed into the back.
"Wait."
When he came out again he set a bag on the table and looked at me. I read the look, drew a thick envelope from inside my coat, and laid it on the table as well. While he took the envelope and checked the money inside, I pulled the bag over and unzipped it. The moment I saw what lay within, a smile rose to my mouth of its own accord. I reached in and drew it out. Heavy. A U.S. military standard-issue mark on it—so it had walked off some American base. I worked the grip, hauling it back and slamming it forward, again and again.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Clean in the hand.
A pump-action shotgun.
Next time I went through, I'd have to wipe out the vermin living in that burrow, too.