Beast Hunt (6)
In the Nazi concentration camps, Jews walked in lines under control and died in lines. Most of them couldn't even raise their voices properly, let alone resist, right up to their final moments. Were the Jews a particularly weak people? No. All the other massacres in history held similar scenes.
Those who haven't experienced it themselves think, If I'm going to die anyway, I'd at least thrash around a bit. But if it were that easy, much of history would look different.
The pigs here were no exception. Hadn't they just rolled their eyes in silence even when their comrades died right in front of them? If even one of them had screamed through their gag or thrashed in rage, I might have upgraded my assessment of the White Guard. At least they'd have some camaraderie and spirit, even without principles.
"Learn anything?"
While I was toying with Karen Williams, my men wouldn't have just stood around twiddling their thumbs. There was plenty they could do quietly.
Kyung-tae confirmed it at my question.
"We checked their phones."
"Results?"
"First off, that guy—" Kyung-tae's gaze flicked to the officer. "He's the top dog among the ones yapping about the Guard."
"Lucky break."
Frazier, was it? Not just some underling, but the head honcho.
A boss who's way too cowardly for his position.
Earlier, Kyung-tae had reported that this warehouse served as both their operational base and sleeping quarters for the homeless grunts. From Frazier's perspective as boss, holing up here meant round-the-clock protection from his men. I'd half-expected it when we spotted the safe.
"Anything else?"
"We scoped out the guys outside too. Surprisingly organized bunch."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Seven off-duty at home, twelve out on deliveries and collections, another twelve on guard duty and patrols at the main sites. Looks like four-man teams are standard from the orders."
"Nice, bite-sized numbers for picking them off one by one."
"Right?"
"Backers?"
The Chief had guessed these guys had sponsors or backers. Kyung-tae answered.
"Messenger chats and call logs are still there, but not enough info from that alone. We'd need interrogations, but it might get noisy, so we were waiting for that Williams woman to leave."
"Good call. Let me see it."
"The phone?"
I nodded. With a flick of my fingers, Kyung-tae politely handed over the boss's phone. Security was already cracked—iris scan, fingerprint, no point when we'd nabbed the owner.
Jay.
The alias used in Telegram secret chats by the shadowy figure. Robert Jay Mathews sprang to mind immediately. Leader of the now-defunct neo-Nazi group, the Silent Brotherhood. The white Chief had testified that these skinhead pigs claiming Guard succession were their inheritors, which led me to the name during my check.
He'd gone down in a shootout with over seventy cops—had to look heroic as hell to these idiots.
Even though Mathews himself was at odds with the drug dealers.
Mathews was a true believer. A criminal with convictions, that is. Sure, his convictions involved seriously buying into Jewish Zionist world government conspiracies, but still. It was pretty amusing that the backers of these cocaine-pushing thugs were borrowing his middle name.
Well... from the surviving chats, this Jay seemed to have his own convictions too. Hard to gauge the full ideology or identity since everything older than a week was wiped.
Having seen what I needed, I handed the phone back to Kyung-tae. Not much intel, but useful for feeding false orders to the guys outside.
"I'll handle the interrogation. Round up the rest."
"Got it."
With roles assigned, I scanned the warehouse interior again. Folding chairs stacked up—probably used for meetings. Tools for bashing people, cement bags too. Walls cluttered with Nazi knickknacks. Cheap replicas.
"Take off the gag."
At my chin flick, one subordinate approached with a knife and cut the boss's gag. It had been tied so tight his saliva-soaked mouth corners were swollen like clown makeup.
"Wh-who the hell are you? What the fuck is this about?"
I answered his gasping question with a slap. Hard enough to split skin.
I brushed the blood splatter off my waterproof coat and said coolly, "Watch your tone."
"......"
Frazier swallowed after some hesitation, then tried honorifics.
"Sir... who are you, sir?"
I slapped him again.
"I ask the questions. You answer."
"Fuck...!"
Thwack! Another head snap. Nosebleed this time. Blood droplets pattered onto the tarp below.
Probably a reflexive curse from the pain, but did I have to put up with it? I grabbed his lolling head like a basketball and yanked it back to center.
"Not learning?"
Tears welled up unusually in the boss's eyes—must've hurt bad. I swung without hesitation.
Thud!
"No tears. Disgusting."
Frazier looked up pleadingly, his slapped cheek vividly bruised.
"Please... stop......"
"You giving me orders?"
"No, no!"
As I slowly lowered my raised hand, he visibly relaxed. Cheekbone cracked, face swelling asymmetrically. One eardrum ruptured. From the neck up, he looked like a fighter dragged out of the cage after a beating. Eyes still teary, but we'd move past that. I just needed an excuse to pound him anyway.
"Name."
"Pardon?"
Pardon? I gripped his head, pressing my thumb into the swollen center, the cracked cheekbone. My finger sank into the purple flesh with a crunch.
"Gaaahhh!"
"Name."
I already knew, but interrogations start with easy questions. Establish the pattern of answering.
"Frazier! Hnngh! Frazier Duke! Frazieh Duk......!"
I released after hearing the name screamed like a confession. Even without mana reinforcement, my grip left clear handprints over the bruises. Faint blood seeped from the dented skin.
"Good. Frazier Duke."
I leaned in toward him, shadowing my face.
"Confession time. Why'd I come for you?"
"Pardon?"
No learning curve. I pivoted and stomped his knee with my combat boot heel. Diagonal crush—felt the grind transmit up. His scream echoed through the vast warehouse. The knee trapped between chair edge and boot couldn't be fine. If I hadn't aimed off a bit, it'd have shredded the ACL and shattered the patella.
Can't break him all at once.
I needed varied violence to pulverize body and mind bit by bit. My vision helped here, letting me target bones and ligaments precisely. Balancing merciless terror with keeping the subject alive. Sustainable agony.
"Asking again. Why'd I come for you?"
Frazier eyed me, face half pain, half fear, and spoke.
"H-have you... come from 14K? Did we encroach on your turf?"
"Wrong."
Crunch! He writhed as I stomped the knee again. Posterior ACL hanging by a thread. Full recovery was off the table already. Assuming he left here alive.
14K was the Chinese Triad faction he'd named. Loose alliance of multiple sub-groups, really.
Did these idiots kill in Chinatown without a plan?
He'd overheard my chat with Karen and desperately replayed his org's moves. Clues: elderly client, revenge for 'those who lost family and neighbors,' and me being East Asian. Guess he had a hunch there.
What balls for a newbie outfit to spill blood in a place even big players avoid touching guanxi webs.
I pressed on.
"Guess why I'm here."
"......"
"Wrong answer or slow response like now—"
A wet rip, snap. This time I severed the ACL, patellar tendon, damaged the kneecap, then ground the heel in before lifting.
"—and this happens."
No truth serum first—statements under it often glitch. Events mix up, timelines flip. Better to play irrational monster. No room for thought, just relentless pressure. Serum later for verification, if needed.
Frazier spat dialect-mixed ravings. Beaten relentlessly, graced with violence, he spewed his and his org's murders like a Pentecostal speaking in tongues. Pushed by fear beyond pain. Terror of permanent ruin hits harder than pain for weaklings like him.
Jay's a true believer, all right. High chance he's inside American Front.
Murder patterns reveal killer traits. Here, mixed motives: org's turf hits, robberies, and ideological/political human hunts.
'Indian hunts' were part of it. Ideological training, really—to indoctrinate grunts, build belonging, give organized kill experience. Natives died for such petty reasons. As if unglamorous deaths are rare.
From the keyword flood, I narrowed the interrogation. Jay had propped up the White Guard via proxies, provided ideology and legal cover, took tribute or outsourced disappearances. These morons were hooked on his 'white nation' utopia pitch.
I paused for breath, wiping glove blood on a handkerchief.
"More on Jay. What does he do? Real name? Where's he live?"
Battered bloody in minutes, Frazier was psychologically crushed. Learned slow answers meant more crippling. At my slight frown, he panicked.
"Don't know! Really! Never seen his face! Always sends lackeys! They contact first! Please, spare me! No more beating!"
"Lackeys?"
"Yes, yes! Lackeys!"
Gasping, words broke. Multiple cracked ribs made breathing agony. Still, I drew my pistol and blew off an earlobe.
One yelp, then sobs. I kept squeezing, trimming the remaining ear bit by bit. The already ruptured eardrum side.
"No crying. Talk. Where'd you meet the lackey? One guy or multiples? Demands? Chats? Accent? Looks? Contact method......"
Tap, tap, tap! Quiet shots, ejecting casings, suppressor wisps. Ear shrinking live, Frazier wailed through tears.
"Spare me! Please!"
"Won't die from this."
Van Gogh cut his own; recent Russian dissident artist too. Latter just the lobe, but waited for cops without bleeding out. This guy's Viagra might amp the flow, though.
Outside noise briefly, then four new pigs dragged in. They froze at the violence and fear stench. Despair deepened; Frazier yelled hastily.
"I can call them! Let me call!"
"The lackey?"
"Yes!"
"How?"
"Pardon?"
"How? What excuse?"
"Uh, well......"
"Spitballing without thinking? Still see me as pushover?"
"Absolutely not!"
"Then think. Convince me. Before I ventilate that useless skull."
Frazier panted, brainstorming lures for Jay's proxy. Couldn't push too hard yet, so I held off the next beating.