Incheon Port (3)
The deputy president and his gang slipped through the darkness, gas masks pulled tight over their faces. They tapped the shoulder of a wide-eyed, tense employee and asked, "You sure they're all inside?"
"Yes, sir. Saw all three head into the dorm with my own eyes and they never came out. Didn't even glance back once, so it's certain."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. But the tall woman and the guy—they didn't go into their separate assigned containers. They both went into the same one."
"...?"
These fuckers? The deputy's eyes twitched at the corners.
At his signal, the container windows and door locks sealed shut completely. With a sharp psssshhh, sleeping gas began pumping in through the connected hoses.
Banging from inside—thud thud thud on the windows and door—but it was useless. Bulletproof reinforced glass; good luck breaking that. The deputy scoffed.
"Alright, time to—"
"Gaaahhhh!!!"
Crack! One of the ajussis clinging to the container wall suddenly spewed blood from his side and rolled across the ground.
Huh? What's that? A blade?
Before they could process it, a sword edge sliced through the container wall like paper—kagak—carving it open.
The ajussis froze rigid, staring at the perfectly rectangular hole punched through in an instant.
How the hell...? They couldn't even hazard a guess.
The deputy—who'd been hauling out the knocked-out Mi-young to package her up—froze too.
"Fuck, these flat-ass bastards don't sleep!"
"Wha—"
A brilliant flash erupted amid the acrid gas fumes. A thug collapsed in front of the door, melting gooey in a heartbeat, his final death scream echoing.
Smoke billowed from the hole inside. Cheol-woo caught Yuri as she dropped the sword amid shattering glass.
He carried his sister to the bed, then stepped out.
Isn't this tactic a bit too cliché?
Sleeping gas? It was obvious during prep, and even after stumbling into the trap, it was counterable in a dozen ways.
Might as well have used poison gas. Trying to keep them alive for profit just meant dropping your guard and getting fucked.
"Kill 'em! Kill! Chop 'em to pieces!"
At the deputy's roar, the ajussis snapped out of it and charged en masse, hand axes raised.
One gun barrel, after all. Could only shoot one at a time, so if they rushed from every angle, even a gun couldn't handle it, right?
Undisciplined rabble froze at gunshots or got mowed down by a single shooter. But veterans who'd diced up plenty of armed guys knew there was no reason to fear.
The ones who should fear were the side short on bodies and bullets.
Sure, charging first upped your odds of eating lead, but in a cornered fight, hitting vitals precisely was damn near impossible.
'Shot = paid vacation,' so the ajussis shoved their heads toward the muzzle like they were high as fuck, fearless.
"Urk!?"
"You scrawny shit!"
"Quit whining and move! Don't block the way! Why the fuck you flopping?!"
Each one lunged in turn, Cheol-woo's pupils darting rapidly as he clocked them all, then fell back and squeezed the trigger.
Gun tucked tight to his body to avoid a snatch, closest first, one by one.
The muzzle tracked heads seamlessly, one bullet apiece, turning them gooey.
Trip over a fallen corpse and you were done.
What the—what is that?
Watching Cheol-woo melt a dozen-plus without batting an eye, the deputy's face drained white.
How could he stay so calm with an axe thrusting right at him? Even battle-hardened vets moved on ingrained habits built from experience.
But this guy? Optimized like a fucking computer program, dropping bodies.
That wasn't habit. Pure instinct.
In seconds, over a dozen thugs lay piled in a heap.
They looked fine on the surface—no screams, just sprawled like they were asleep. Eerily still.
One shot each. He'd finally emptied the mag.
"Drop the gun! Or she dies!"
"..."
The deputy whipped a cleaver to Mi-young's throat and bellowed.
But seeing Cheol-woo swap mags without a word, he knew it was over on instinct.
Even if he nicked the neck to show blood, no reaction. This wasn't a guy who'd fold to hostages.
Wrong pick? The deputy bolted, hunting a new one.
"Drop it! Drop the fucking gun! Think you can save her if I slice the carotid?"
"Ah..."
Panting after him, Cheol-woo sighed at the sight: Han Si-yeon held hostage, knife to her throat.
Not just a buzzcut— a total bonehead too?
Han Si-yeon was HQ-bound for Hong Kong on orders. Killing her here would bring assassins, but this idiot hadn't clocked that?
Cheol-woo had overlooked that not everyone stays rational in the clutch.
"Quick, drop the gun—!"
Bang! The instant her buzzcut peeked from behind Han Si-yeon's head, Cheol-woo's Maigne barked, blasting his temple.
"Aaaah—" Han Si-yeon clutched her sliced neck, groaning as she checked the wound in a mirror.
A bit deep, but no major vessels hit.
She swallowed a boiling groan and slapped on a bandage.
"Ahem. Well done, Cheol-woo. You handle the rest of 'em?"
"Yes. Coming back from it now."
"Good. Follow me. I memorized that line worker's face. Let's mop up the remnants before they bolt."
"President."
"What? Not coming?"
Cheol-woo was dumbfounded watching her beckon like it was obvious.
He stood rooted; Han Si-yeon huffed in frustration.
"Ah, hurry! They'll all scatter!"
"Here's the gun. Handle it yourself, President."
"What? What's with the attitude? Forgot our deal?"
"Agreed to escort you, not clean up your company civil war. Sort your own mess."
To Cheol-woo, these were one-and-dones anyway—no need to play janitor.
Want overtime? Pay up. Passion pay? Fuck that.
Compared to her brother footing missile bills promptly, her mindset was rotten.
"Escort means literal escort? You only draw when my life's on the line?"
"I'll preempt anything blocking the Hong Kong op, but is icing your rivals here essential to that? That's your personal beef. I'm not some bloodthirsty maniac itching to cap heads. I don't stick my gun anywhere just 'cause there's a target."
"..."
How can someone be this rigid? Han Si-yeon let out a hollow breath.
Even flat broke now, scared I'd stiff her on bonus later? Was our trust that thin?
Forgot the friendly free yacht lesson already, drawing lines—felt a twinge, no, a lot of hurt.
Or does he just hate killing period?
Does what he must without hesitation, but skips the unnecessary? Shoots like a pro but hates the body count?
Ah—what kind of guy is this? Handling difficulty: nightmare.
"Fine. Sorry. I overstepped."
"Good you get it. No gun? Screw the remnants?"
"Gunshots scared 'em off. Too late now. Unless you chase with those fast legs."
Pretending concern without helping. Han Si-yeon turned away, lips pursed.
No taming this breed.
With skills like that, GeumMyeong Group would throw astronomical offers to reel him back. Should've clocked it when he walked.
A man valuing more than money? Can't domesticate with capitalism.
"Advance departure. Gunshots'll stir shit soon."
"Big boat's tough solo. You good?"
"Hid a small one inside. Tough solo too, but you teach me—I'll manage, right?"
"Teaching boats now?"
"Skill never hurts. Easy investment for me. Gave up putting you under me, but partnership? Sure."
Felt like charm offensive, but all investment? Cheol-woo stayed silent; Han Si-yeon whispered, 'Hurry. Wake staff, reload gear, sail before dawn.' She patted his shoulder and passed.
A bit prickly, but refreshingly direct. Unpredictable woman.
Sting sting. Some throbbing ache made Yu Sil-jang raise her left hand.
Her left hand hurt, but there was no hand—just bandages wound tight above the wrist.
"How long was I out?"
"Full day post-op. The hand... helicopter gauges collapsed and mangled it. Necrosis too bad; had to amputate."
"Ha, tsk..."
Wanted to scream for the doc, but swallowed it.
Yelling at the surgeon and nurses wouldn't regrow a severed hand.
Yu Sil-jang stroked the phantom sting and sat up.
"DongYang Department Store?"
"Assault failed. Park I-sa negotiated a truce."
"No news on the store, so deal went smooth. What'd we cough up to shut 'em up?"
"They agreed to slot in a small GeumMyeong Sports shop."
"What?"
"Glare all you want; that's the fact."
A shoe-laundering company's store to end it? That sly bitch? No way.
Backroom deal with Park I-sa? Or did they fuck? Either way, nauseating.
Time to deal with Park I-sa quick.
"And last night, reports of gunshots at Incheon New Port..."
"You just watched?!"
"No. New Port seemed doable—not Incheon proper—so we hit it right away. But Han Si-yeon and Min Cheol-woo already swept through. Just the deputy and his crew dead."
Port access control was Team 2's turf, right? They didn't just stare at land routes and ignore the sea, did they?
Slipped into Incheon New Port right under Team 2's nose and sailed out overnight—Yu Sil-jang's gut boiled.
Guessing where Han Si-yeon lured Min Cheol-woo? Easy. Stripped of presidency, Hong Kong was her only shot at comeback.
Needed elite escort for that; Min Cheol-woo fit perfect. He was itching to bail Korea anyway—match made in heaven.
How the fuck do we chase?
Heli totaled. Even intact, that junk radar couldn't spot a boat in the open ocean.
Plane might track flight paths with strings pulled, but sea? Fucked.
No navy connects—not her, not Kim Sa-jang, not Myeong Hoe-jang.
Dead end.
"Ah? Right! My sword!? Found it?"
"Well... take a look at this..."
Her subordinate, sweating bullets, shoved a photo forward.
Container wall gaped with a hole—like it'd been chainsawed out.
Next photo: too clean for a saw. Like one sword stroke cleaved it.
Ah?
"Jeong Gwa-jang, you motherf—"