Beast Hunt (8)
Last night, in my hotel room, I'd loaded my pistol with eleven live rounds. Ten in the magazine, one in the chamber. And now, at 1:20 p.m. the next day, not a single live round remained in my pistol.
The first bullet had been used by Karen Williams. Nine more went into the torture of severing ears. And the last one was my mercy to the prey.
Droplets of watery blood-tears trickled from one eye of the white pig boss, slumped forward in the chair he'd been bound to. To grant this beast a painless death, I gripped his head and meticulously adjusted the angle before pulling the trigger at point-blank range. The subsonic small-caliber round shattered his eye and ricocheted inside his skull at various angles. If it had more power, it would've punched clean through the back of his head.
I turned toward Jay's errand boy, swapping out the magazine.
Woo-woo-woop! Freshly bound to a spare chair, the errand boy thrashed wildly, shaking the furniture. His eyes, having witnessed the slaughter, were bloodshot. Click.
A hunting target who'd fallen so easily into the $10,000 noose. The only thing that irked me was his leisurely pace—showing up only in the afternoon after my morning call.
I holstered my pistol while staring down the terrified man.
"Don't get greedy. There's no mercy for you."
Then I turned my gaze to Kyung-tae.
"Anything come up?"
Kyung-tae flashed a thumbs-up with one hand.
"Got the guy's phone number and real name, hyungnim."
"Yeah?"
"Yep. Even his Facebook page. Dude was hitting like on every post like a maniac, haha."
Jay's errand boy had been carrying two phones. One burner, the other a legit contracted device. The safe play for a meet like this is to leave the latter behind, but he'd brought both. What's the worst that could happen?
"What's the real name?"
"Calvin Kenneth Brimlow."
"Address?"
"HQ's remotely scraping his nav memory right now, but cross-checking with other leads would take forever. Why not just truth serum him? Faster that way."
"Do it."
"On it."
For simple info like an address, truth serum yields reliable results—as long as you don't botch the dosage and knock 'em out, kill 'em, or leave 'em enough wits to lie. Even pros screw it up sometimes; it's that finicky. My men, at least, get plenty of practice on doomed targets, so they fuck up less.
'Might as well call it euthanasia for the ones we're killing anyway.'
One subordinate carefully injected a scopolamine mix into the errand boy's vein. Effects kicked in before I could count to ten. All truth serums are basically anesthetics at heart. Hell, the guy who first pitched it to the U.S. government was an OB-GYN—laboring moms under anesthesia answered his questions spot-on. Could be handy for sniffing out perjury in court, right? Naturally, America didn't stop at perjury.
As the anesthetic took hold, the two subordinates pinning him down released their grip and stepped back. The drugged man's bleary eyes wandered the air.
Kyung-tae placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, buddy."
"...Yeah."
"Calvin Brimlow, you know him?"
"...Yeah."
"Where's that guy live?"
"...Lombard... Street."
"Where's that at?"
"Russian Hill..."
Kyung-tae verified several times, but the errand boy couldn't rattle off the exact address. Not surprising. Still, it narrowed the search radius plenty.
Kyung-tae texted HQ's field support team, then fired off extra questions while the serum was in play: day job, social circle, family setup, daily routine, etc.
Not long after—
"Ding-dong."
Kyung-tae mimicked the sound while checking his phone.
"Address confirmed. 950 Lombard Street, San Francisco."
"Share it."
"You got it, boss."
The address and photos hitting my device showed a mansion-scale house rare even for downtown. A guy who could sell that place and be set for life, throwing in with some white ethnostate pipe dream? Whatever. Some folks can walk any path, so they end up lost on all of 'em.
As I scrolled the pics, my business phone rang. Caller ID: the White Chief.
HQ's field team had edited and sent the footage my men shot three hours ago. He'd just gotten to it now.
'Busy with his own shit, or mulling it over.'
He'd have clocked the prey's face the moment I fingered the "White Guard" as perps, so he knew the video was legit on sight.
Stepping away from the pigs, I skipped greetings and went straight to it.
"Chief. See the video okay?"
"...Didn't expect results this fast."
"Strictly speaking, not quite results yet. They're still breathing, and I just pinned the puppetmaster—on my way to handle him."
"I mean... the speed's impressive."
"I'll take that as praise."
"It is. You handle it personally?"
"Company policy on high-priority jobs. I get my hands dirty."
"..."
"Take it as a sign of my sincerity toward you, Chief."
"...Appreciated. Didn't expect a guardian angel."
The old man seemed genuinely shocked. Makes sense—how often does he get to dunk folks at the casino? Even then, it's one-on-one, and fights are defensive scraps at best. Plus, the shadow economy's crawling with amateurs, con artists, and thieves in the hunting game.
'Hell, some idiots even subcontracted past the subcontractors.'
Happened in China, but the hitman trade's no better elsewhere. Shadow economy's a pure free market dodging state oversight—no vetting, no credit checks. Why big syndicates try enforcing their own "market order." Too many landmines; even they step on 'em.
"Your orders?"
"Orders?"
"Why keep 'em alive otherwise? Not like we're interrogating the whole herd."
"..."
"Contract's inked. Me and my company? Your blade. How you wield it is up to you. We can be blunt... or sharp."
Blunt blades make a mess. Chief didn't hesitate long.
"As painful as possible, please."
"Got it. Results like before."
We'll talk after.
I hung up.
Sunlight streamed like laser beams through the high warehouse windows, mingling with a faint stench of piss. Culprits: guys who'd soiled themselves after too long tied up. Fear-shriveled bladders, probably. That's why quick slaughter's best.
Kyung-tae asked, "What'd the Chief say?"
"As expected."
"Knew it."
Yeah. Obvious. But had to ask—can't assume. Wouldn't want him thinking I'm some thrill-kill psycho or split-personality nut. The horror has to be his choice, crystal clear.
I nodded to Kyung-tae and the men.
"Proceed."
"Yes, sir."
"As painful as possible" was the spec, but no plans to drag it out.
'Electroshock's most effective... but...'
Not the easy fakeout from Milgram's experiment. Labor-intensive, time-consuming, low visual payoff. Screams, sizzling flesh, smoke—that's it. Poisons lack punch too. Better customer satisfaction with a chainsaw grind.
Vreeee—!
Subordinates in sealed hazmat suits and face shields fired up circular saws. Others prepped the table. Gagged squeals drowned under the motors again.
I watched the first pig—strapped down—get dismantled live, without much thrill. Rough-looking cuts, but precise technique. Noise peaked gnawing bone. Minus the human factor, just standard butchery.
I stepped out after the first.
Outside sentries had ditched masks, stashed weapons. Can't loiter in full tactical gear broad daylight, even in a back alley.
Across the road, our rides blared music obnoxiously. No neighbors flung windows open in protest. Working stiffs were at jobs; these squatters earned their karma. Shithole hoods got cheap rent for a reason—especially in bad neighborhoods.
A few drums out front crackled with fire. Gangbanger hand-warmers for dirty talk by night; now, sentry bonfires for burnables.
I tossed my handkerchief into the acrid smoke.
The dismemberment took three hours. Chunks went into sodium hydroxide tanks hauled by two trucks. Blood drained via tilted plastic sheets to the sewer.
"Good work, everyone."
I encouraged the cleanup crew.
"One day off per shift rotation after this."
Left: handle "Jay"—Calvin Kenneth Brimlow. Then dawn tomorrow, send boys back to flush the lye-melted remains down the sewer. Crush surviving bones fine, dump at sea. Done. Perchloric acid's quicker, but sodium hydroxide's easier to source.
In the car, Kyung-tae beside me asked, "Karen Williams need tailing? She saw your face."
"Nah."
I dismissed his concern.
"Even if she wrestles her greed and turns the money down, by the time she steels herself, she won't remember my face clearly anyway."
"True, but still."
Memory's fragile, easily tainted. Even Unabomber's famous sketch was some random third party's face. Eyewitness saw him, sure—but a later encounter overwrote it.
'Plus racial barrier between her and me.'
They say other races all look alike. Post-this, Karen'll jump at every Asian-ish guy, and those faces'll bleed into her "me" memory. Emotions and stereotypes amp the distortion. Age/height hold truer. Why modern forensics calls sketches "better than nothing."
But... I reconsidered for caution.
"Wait. Tail her a couple days."
Kyung-tae's face lit up.
"Smart call, hyungnim."
Watch her casino coin reaction too. Straight to Tucson? Case closed.