Beast Hunt (2)
"Laundering... you mean?"
"Exactly. Ask for weapons instead of cash as payment. Or take the money formally and then place an order."
"......"
A 3,800% margin meant, in simple terms, trading one gun for thirty-nine others. We'd have to account for price differences between different firearms, of course. But once we'd laundered our U.S.-made stock into Chinese ones, they'd be easier to use or sell domestically or abroad. Most nations and armed groups operating Chinese weapons were scattered across the Third World, making tracing a nightmare.
It might look absurd—trading weapons for weapons—but it was a perfectly viable deal. It achieved both arms stockpiling and financial gain.
"I've considered it, but will they really go for it?"
"What, pride?"
"Yes. No matter the circumstances, it boils down to treating Chinese guns as cheap knockoffs compared to American ones. The Chinese inferiority complex would explode."
A valid point. But she was overlooking something key.
"Formality matters here too. Our trading partner is strictly the Triad. Any loss of face is theirs alone, not the Party's. That's exactly how you frame it."
If the terms align, negotiations bend to the negotiator's will.
"If they get indignant, shave off the margin bit by bit. Whoever the handler is, the dropping price tag will stir their greed."
By the time they accepted the initial offer, the budget was already approved. Fail to report the renegotiation, and they could cook the books.
"You're saying create an opportunity for them to skim."
"Right."
I held one firm belief about China: there was no corner of that country untouched by corruption. Whether this job fell to the Ministry of State Security's Third Bureau or a General Staff action team, they'd never pass up a chance to line their pockets with state funds. The Communist Party were world-class experts in graft.
"Think you can pull it off?"
"I will."
Suyeon's reply held no hesitation.
"Nothing else?"
"No."
"Got it. See you later."
I ended the dry call and killed time reading the in-room newspaper. About an hour later, the guys returned, each carrying a light bag. They'd dispersed on exit and entry to avoid suspicion, naturally.
The bags were half-packed with weapons and ammo. Ghost guns. Untraceable automatics without serial numbers. Under U.S. law, citizens could manufacture and possess firearms for non-commercial purposes without a license. And if the lower receiver was less than 80% complete, it wasn't legally a gun—no matter how perfect the barrel or other parts.
Those loopholes made unregistered guns a dime a dozen in America. All you needed was a reliable dealer.
California regulated ghost guns harshly by state law, but strict rules meant nothing without enforcement. With every citizen a potential black-market dealer, how could they police the whole country?
My spacious cabin grew briefly chaotic as we gathered to check gear. Kyung-tae assembled my pistol and handed it over with both hands.
"This'll do for street punks. Hope you never have to lift a finger yourself, hyungnim."
The elongated Ruger sported a suppressor and red-dot sight. I gripped it and flicked my wrist. Small caliber meant low power, but it was heavier than standard pistols—the weight forward-focused, making the feel awkward.
Its strength lay in superior noise suppression.
Kyung-tae nodded at the window. "Give it a test."
Beyond the rain-speckled glass, the dark sea churned. He opened the window. Raindrops spilled over the sill, spotting the carpet. I aimed at the foam surging past the pier.
Thwip, thwip, thwip!
A faint metallic ping. That was the entire gunshot. Recoil so minimal it barely registered. Only the wisping smoke and rolling casings proved I'd fired.
Even full-auto in a city center, sound alone wouldn't track you. I lowered the muzzle. Kyung-tae, watching, asked, "Like it?"
I nodded readily. "Genuine article. Subsonic rounds?"
"Yep."
Subsonic—slower than sound—produced no shockwave, quieter than supersonic. The team's loadouts were mostly low-noise firearms chambered in .22LR. Low power was a drawback, but irrelevant for killing humans. Especially with skilled shooters.
As one subordinate collected casings, I eyed my pistol.
This thing alone is a mass shooter's favorite.
It had claimed countless lives in schools, post offices, corner stores. Amateurs dismissed it as a kid's toy because of weak ammo.
Click, thud. Kyung-tae shut the window and spread a map on the table for a quick briefing. It incorporated intel gathered outside.
Time was short, but grabbing obvious gangbangers and applying technical pain yielded local power structures effortlessly.
"First, the White Guard's dress code."
I was observer. Kyung-tae briefed the men without glancing my way.
"Their colors: red, white, black. Nazi flag rip-off or whatever. Black clothes, white caps, red shoes—pure prey. Mostly Adidas knockoffs, easy to spot......"
U.S. street gangs had distinct signatures: hand signs, dances, chants, graffiti, symbols, tats, colors, dress. Colors and outfits were prime friend-or-foe ID. Locals wouldn't mimic them by coincidence. Not clueless tourists, anyway.
The briefing wrapped quick. Cross-verified intel wasn't voluminous. Street gangs weren't complex quarry.
Kyung-tae clapped. "We start tomorrow, so disband for now."
Long hauls had worn us down. For peak performance, the hounds needed rest.
Rest when you can.
As Kyung-tae said, odds of clashing with imperialist vanguards weren't zero.
"Oh, right."
He paused at the door. "You call Suyeon noona?"
"Yeah."
"What'd she want?"
"Chinese thugs strong-arming for weapons."
That summed it. Suyeon's discretion handled most issues post-facto. Requesting my sign-off screamed scale and complexity.
Kyung-tae grimaced. "Guess noona's out for this trip."
"Probably."
"Shame. Missed The President's forest, but wanted to see the rest together."
He smacked his lips, finally said, "Rest up," and headed to his room.
I stared at the briefing remnants on the table.
Pathetic.
Assessment of Oakland PD. Hunting grounds knowledge rivaled quarry intel in value. My hounds scraping the city's security data was routine.
Over ten shootings reported daily here. Police response? Half that. Response times equally dismal. Hours post-report before site checks—plenty of cases.
Gunfire was daily life. Baby Iraq nickname earned.
Thus, Kyung-tae planned quiet ops, with high-firepower support if needed.
Don't scorn small matters. Lions vs. rats. Overkill for local thugs, but diligence in trifles prevented major fuckups.
I traced the map with a fingertip. Hotspots were fixed. Streets and avenues marked gang turf borders; frequency and intensity showed hostility levels.
Kyung-tae circled several in red pen.
Hottest: East 84th and Hegenberger, South 23rd, North MacArthur interchange, West port area...
Ports first, but if bust, expand search. Police arrests and demographic/income maps suggested slim odds. Non-port sites were black-Hispanic turf fights. In this colored cesspit, pale skin specks fit only the docks.
Two days short, week long max. Longer to wipe skinheads? Personal shame.
Eyelids burned. Exhausting fatigue. I stowed papers, slid loaded pistol under pillow, and lay back. Nap till dinner.
Catnaps were mandatory for chronic undersleepers like me. Rain drummed monotonically at the window. Consciousness hovered, sinking shallowly, finally plunging deep.
A dream. One of my life's great pains.
Suddenly facing a massive beast carcass, I reflexively backpedaled, igniting my mana circuit. Mage battle-ready.
But the beast was dead, inert. Flesh rotted away; hollow skull darkness.
Confirming its grim form, I realized: dream.
Because this was...
"Fucking bastard."
Sight alone ground my teeth. My mentor: hounding me through memory's maze to the bitter end, only to croak from mana depletion.
Body responsive meant not the usual nightmare. Realizing that, I regretted the incoming alarm. Rare normal dream. Chance for decent shut-eye.
Not entirely normal.
This lucid dreaming: side effect of our chase.
Leisure let surroundings register. Giant-tree forest. Nearest: circuit-pierced The President. Memorable backdrop from an ordinary dream.
Unlike reality, its mana field didn't suppress mine. Dream logic.
Leaning on the trail fence, I stared at the bastard mentor's remains. Precisely: the pitch-black sockets in the human-traced skull.
I saw the dark; the dark saw me.
No illusion—the darkness spoke.
"Let... me go......"
Dream hallucination? Unconscious fear? Lingering ghost wisp?
"Let... me......"
Irritated, I snapped back.
"What're you saying? Marrowless corpse."