Beast Hunt (4)
There’s a world of difference between a pack of mangy feral dogs that’ve gorged on scraps and a pack of well-trained hunting hounds. The army I’d brought for imperial hunting made short work of those self-proclaimed “elite guards,” the X-fucks. And not a single one died in the process—Kyung-tae’s call. He wanted to exceed the casino chief’s commission. I had to admire how they’d managed to take every last one alive without killing a soul.
As I stepped into the warehouse, nineteen pairs of eyes from lives gone straight to hell locked onto me. Gagged mouths hung silent. The tension stretched taut like a bowstring. The only one not bound was the headache of this whole mess: the woman. She stood alone amid the masked armed men, trembling like a leaf. I was masked too, same as them. But the prey could sense it from the vibe alone—I was the master of these hounds.
My men had laid out thick, wide plastic sheeting on the floor. We were about to butcher people here, and unlike some back-alley slaughterhouse, we couldn’t have blood splattered everywhere.
Even in this mess, one guy hadn’t gone soft down there. The exec who’d been rolling around with the woman right up to the end. My eyes pierced his terrified pupils and the unnaturally swollen blood flow in the arteries beyond. Drugs, huh. Even without x-ray vision, anyone with half a brain could tell from the rigid hard-on and the flushed cheeks. Pure innocents who’d never seen Viagra wouldn’t have a clue, sure.
Staring down a guy pitching a tent in his crotch wasn’t exactly pleasant.
“……I feel like cutting it off.”
At my words, his ruddy face drained to ashen. I’d spoken in English.
“Shall we?”
Kyung-tae’s indifferent interjection. The order was messed up anyway, but if we cut first and asked questions later, we’d still have plenty of time for interrogation. I shook my head, though.
“We handle that lady first.”
This time, the woman paled.
“P-please, spare me! I won’t tell a soul what I saw here! I swear, hic, I swear!”
Her sobs burst the dam of fear.
“Calm down.”
I tried soothing her evenly, but it did no good.
“If you don’t stop, I’ll kill you.”
The crying cut off cold. Threats worked better, as always. She started hiccuping instead, though.
I thought for a moment, then tossed a thread of hope to the woman hiccuping through red-rimmed eyes.
“Our business is with these mongrels tied up here. You’re an unexpected variable. Killing an innocent bystander just to tie up loose ends isn’t something we enjoy either.”
“Th-then……”
“Cooperate fully, and we might just let you go.”
She swallowed the hope like honey, her face brightening instantly.
“I’ll do it! Hic. I swear I won’t tell a soul, hic!”
“That’s not enough.”
She glanced warily and asked,
“Wh-what, hic, do I have to do?”
“Mind giving me your hand for a moment?”
“……Pardon?”
I stared, and she flinched but extended one hand anyway. I grabbed it and drew my pistol from the coat’s inner holster with my free hand. She jerked back at the glint of metal, but the hand I held didn’t budge an inch.
I pressed the grip into her palm.
“Hold it properly with both hands. Barrel down. Best not to twitch.”
She gulped dryly and wrapped her fingers around the grip, slow and shaky. A bit loose, but it wouldn’t slip. Only then did I let go.
“Your name?”
“Karen…… Karen William, hic, Williams.”
A fawning smile crept onto her tear-streaked face. Desperate, twitching lips. Even without the gaudy makeup, she had a decent look. Flawless white skin, blue eyes, naturally bright blonde hair. No wonder the bound neo-Nazi scum were obsessed.
Which makes killing her even trickier.
A prize like that, her pimp wouldn’t let vanish without raising hell. He’d mobilize every connection to hunt the White Guard’s pursuers.
Of course, there were ways. Send her out, tail her, then stage an accident or mugging far enough away. But.
“Miss Williams.”
“Y-yes!”
“Let’s be accomplices for today. Just one day.”
No need to kill when gentler options existed. Dumping her on the street meant hacking more CCTVs, watching for dashcams in parked cars. Not all would be cheap Chinese IP cams. And her phone—take it, suspicious; leave it, still suspicious. The pimp would smell something off if she ghosted without a word.
Better to make her a real accomplice. Safer that way.
“……”
Karen Williams was sharp. She side-eyed the bound neo-Nazis the second I said it. Tension stiffened her trigger finger—she clearly didn’t want to slip it into the guard by accident.
I approached the table shoved aside for the plastic. Who knew when it’d last been cleaned? Worn poker cards, coke residue, unopened baggies, rolled dollar bills like straws, empty glasses, and a bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon. Fine stuff for low-rent thugs.
I picked a glass with minimal lipstick and faint smudges, pouring a third full. Back at her side, I offered it to Karen.
“Here. Down it.”
She hesitated but brought it to her lips, gulping as I tilted it. Surprisingly lightweight drinker—she winced with a tiny “Urgh” after draining it. Guess her looks covered for the rest. No track marks on her arms either.
I tossed the empty glass to a subordinate. The harsh booze cut her hiccups down.
“Um……”
“Speak.”
“……You’re really letting me live, right?”
Her voice steadier, though cautious. I nodded.
“I don’t make sport of people I’m about to kill.”
“……”
“That gun’s whisper-quiet. Close your eyes, pull the trigger, turn, open them, and walk away. No gunshot, no screams, no blood in your memory.”
Just photos and video for insurance.
“Smile at the camera.”
Her shoulders jumped. Her eyes flicked to my man filming.
“Practice. Can’t look too forced.”
She tried, but it fell flat. Too desperate, like her earlier fawning grin—unnatural.
I spoke plainly.
“Don’t overthink. It’s what you do, right?”
“Wh-what I do?”
“Yeah. Selling smiles to bad men. Sell me one.”
Her expression crumpled. A teary laugh, but better than before. I studied it, then murmured,
“Wipe off the makeup. It’s smudged.”
“……Cleansing wipes in my bag.”
“Where’s the bag?”
“In the office, hic.”
“Fetch it.”
A subordinate dashed to the warehouse office and returned with the handbag. She reached for it, but I held out a hand to stop her. She’d forgotten what she held.
Spotting my gaze on the gun, she gasped “Ah!” in panic. The barrel had wandered toward me cluelessly.
“Sorry, so sorry!”
“No harm.”
She’d been the real danger. My men lowered their weapons. Time-wasting was grating now, but pushing would waste more.
The subordinate rummaged through the bag’s junk and handed me the wipes. I pulled one and wiped her face myself.
Hm. Tougher to clean than expected.
“Um……”
“Hold still. Bear with my clumsiness.”
Handing the gun back now would look sloppy. In this setup, gentlemanly poise mattered.
Karen, barrel down and face offered up, hesitated before murmuring,
“……You don’t seem like such a bad guy, sir.”
Right on cue. Dumb reaction, but pressure dulled the brain. New recruits weren’t born assholes—they cracked under boot camp. She was desperately currying favor with the man holding her life. Desperate flattery rang true in the moment. Polite response here primed Stockholm syndrome.
Give it a week, and she’d be fully brainwashed. Not worth the effort, though.
I gripped her chin, turning her face side to side, then grabbed a fresh wipe.
“Objectively, I’m a bad man.”
“Ah……”
“Better than these scum, though. You know what they are.”
“Yes, yes! Total human trash!”
She nodded eagerly, bonding. No love lost for her clients, apparently.
I dropped the used wipe and backhanded the nearest skinhead’s cheek. The one who’d glared at Karen.
Thwack!
“Who you glaring at?”
Blood and teeth flew. Mana-reinforced strength. Gloved, it sounded like splitting leather.
He ducked instinctively, head lolling, skull probably ringing. I wiped the lotion-slick glove and spoke calmly to the cowed Karen.
“I’m here because they sinned without punishment.”
“What sins……?”
“Murder. Of weak, good people like you.”
“Ah.”
Weak and good—pure sugarcoating. What did I know of her daily life?
“Take this one.”
I seized his hair, forcing his head up.
“Teardrop tattoos mean kills. Seven drops, seven bodies.”
Not always true—probably bluff. Maybe half that. Truth didn’t matter here.
He whimpered denials through the gag, twisting till veins bulged. The slaughter pig sensed its turn.
My men hooded him and injected truth serum at my signal. The muffled groans shrank tighter.
I asked,
“Tell me, Miss Williams. Doesn’t it feel wrong, serial killers strutting free?”
“Yes, sir! I agree completely!”
“The old man who hired me represents families and neighbors they took from me. I just want their pain to ease those folks’ suffering a bit.”
“You’re truly noble.”
She nodded fervently, immersed in her role—on my side now. Survival strategy. Plus, my noble pretext fit local vibes. America romanticized vigilantes. Skinny dudes in tights playing hero for real—ex-military, fighters, dead serious.
Good enough. I removed my mask, ran a hand through my hair, and met her wide eyes.
“Miss Williams. That gun’s whisper-quiet.”
Her shoulders stiffened rigid.