Beast Hunt (9)
Strictly speaking, Jay-Calvin Braimlow wasn't my contract target. What I'd promised the White Chief was the extermination of the White Guard—nothing more. But the essence of the commission was revenge, and if investing ten units of extra effort could yield a hundred units of bonus results, there was no reason not to. I needed that submarine badly enough. The smuggling fleet for the terrorism that would burn London to the ground.
Come to think of it, the 'American Front' was born from the influence of the 'British Front' too. The heartland of devil worship was Britain these days. The English were always behind the world's worst atrocities, one way or another.
The subordinate in the driver's seat spoke up. "We're here."
Calvin's mansion stood facing the San Francisco Art College, perched on sloped terrain. The raised foundation, leveled for construction, blocked the view like battlements. Thick ornamental trees draped their branches over it all, making the interior invisible from outside—at least to ordinary eyes.
"No one's inside," I said.
Kyung-tae tilted his head. "Really? I figured there'd be guards at least."
He squinted, tilting his head again. "Not even a single servant in a place this size? That's weird."
I brushed it off. "Must be the shy type."
Some people were like that—obsessively hiding their vulnerable spaces. Exposing their private domain felt like stripping naked in public. Or maybe he just hated people.
"Whatever the reason, it's convenient. You and I will go in alone first. Something worthwhile's in there."
Kyung-tae nodded without argument. "Got it. I'll tell the rest to circle around."
This was a residential neighborhood. Plenty of CCTVs and parked cars. Pulling up en masse and moving in a group would draw eyes.
Beep-clunk!
The electronic lock on the small side door yielded easily to magic. My spells lacked raw power, not precision, and it only needed 1.5 volts. Pausing the CCTVs was about the same difficulty.
I led the way, hands clasped behind my back. Weeds sprouted from cracks in the paving stones crunched under my slow steps.
"This isn't some abandoned ruin," Kyung-tae muttered from behind.
The garden looked neglected for years, its plants withered yellow in winter. Bare branches rustled faintly in the dry wind. The overgrown yard encircled the entire mansion—just right for waiting until Calvin returned and slept, then lighting a single late-night spark to burn him alive. Magical arson left no traces, and the Chief would be satisfied with the agonizing death.
But letting it end as a mystery posed risks. Starting a fire in a garden this size with no escape routes would require scattering countless ignition points—an unnatural spectacle anyone would notice. Arson confirmed, but zero evidence. The dashcams on all the parked cars around here would capture every anomaly.
Once ability users awakened to primitive magic start appearing, this case will draw suspicions of some superpower crime.
Even with mana concentrations rising, it was too early for awakenings. If the Round Table Masters hunting my mentor caught wind, they'd suspect. Worst, the White Chief—my client—already knew it was me. He'd gain ironclad conviction. Better avoid even minor risks like that.
Kyung-tae and I slid open the door and entered. No alarms triggered, mechanical or electronic. Most locks and security were useless against me. The Golden Age's Eye visualized live wiring in unique colors; with focus, nothing slipped by. It highlighted and searched specific info in my field of view.
Kyung-tae sniffed, then chuckled. "Huh. That 'worthwhile' thing you spotted from outside? Looks like priest bombs."
"Yeah."
"TATP of all things. At this point, he's practically gift-wrapping his alibi."
"Why? Isn't it textbook?"
"Sure. For amateurs."
TATP—triacetone triperoxide. The terrorist's best friend: acetone, sulfuric acid, hydrogen peroxide. Three tools sufficed: beaker, mixer, filter. Know the ratios, and any civilian could become a bomb-maker in an hour. Hence the nickname Mother of Satan—too easy, spawning devil spawn everywhere.
Kyung-tae had sniffed it out because it reeked of artificial fruit. Both during synthesis and finished.
The basement door had its own lock, but it fell easily. The irritating scent intensified as we descended the stairs.
Kyung-tae whistled at Calvin's basement. "Whoa. Good boy."
A workbench for detonators and bombs sat in the center, surrounded by car batteries drained for sulfuric acid.
Pathetic hobby.
Yes, a hobby. No need for a rich guy like him to DIY when he could buy ready-made. The setup screamed aesthetics and delusion—the revolutionary's beauty, the childish thrill of struggle. Even extracting acid from batteries fit: partly to dodge suspicion, but mostly poor-boy chic for the wealthy.
"Hyungnim. You see this too?"
Kyung-tae, at the bookshelf, pulled out a volume with gloved hands. The Anarchist's Cookbook. Infamous for bomb recipes; the FBI banned it, forcing revisions. In our circles, it was decent intro reading, but its real value was as a collector's item.
"Put it back. The cops will love it."
"Shame. Clean first editions are rare."
Ignoring his regret, I sat at Calvin's bench and checked the soldering iron. He'd left a half-done detonator—perfect to finish and use.
Kyung-tae scratched his cheek. "Doing it yourself?"
"Yeah."
According to his drugged-up errand boy, Calvin would return soon. Finishing the detonator took minutes. For a veteran like me, rigging a 'flawed' one was child's play.
I grabbed the finished product and opened the small fridge in the corner. Half-filled with Calvin's homemade bombs—about 15 kilograms.
15 kilos... Accounting for margin, blast pressure at five meters: 30-40 psi. In a sealed space, deadlier. Fatal radius to the bench without shrapnel: 100%.
I set the detonator, closed the door, and stroked my chin thoughtfully.
"Feels empty."
"Does it?"
"He should at least know it's revenge before he dies."
In capitalist society, money meant status and power. Calvin Braimlow, despite his dark soul, played benefactor to his community—the ostracized whites, specifically. He networked eagerly among the affluent neighbors. Natural for a self-proclaimed revolutionary to aspire to influencer status.
Thus, the Chief's agonizing death was impractical here. This rich white supremacist's end needed zero doubt. Besides, San Francisco PD had deep pockets—unlike Oakland next door. The Chief would understand the necessary mercy.
I scribbled a short line on Calvin's recipe notepad, tore it off, and magneted it to the fridge—after clearing the others for visibility.
"He who seeks revenge must dig two graves."
A Chinese proverb on vengeance—one for the enemy, one for yourself. I'd chosen it because Calvin's true motive was hatred for non-whites.
Turning, I stared at the wall. Corkboard clippings, pinned: institutional reverse discrimination against whites, crimes by people of color. Centerpiece: a mother-daughter duo slaughtered by a black man in broad daylight. Last name: Braimlow.
The killer, a self-styled "radical black rights activist," ranted in court: "Whites, as the privileged class, can never be victims to blacks." "White equals sinner." "My killing wasn't crime—it was righteous." "All problems solved if whites vanish."
Sounded like Black Guerrilla Family echoes. Dark-skinned decals of white supremacy. Squandering the mandate bought with ancestors' blood.
No grave without a story, no hate without cause. Collective hatreds had reasons per group, but usually none of my business—except when it intersected mine.
In a world full of two-grave diggers, understanding hate was just a businessman's polish.
The Braimlow tragedy would soon fade from my concerns.
I glanced diagonally toward the front gate. The garage door rose; a car pulled in.
"Homeowner's finally here."
"Let's go."
"We should."
We exited leisurely, as we entered. Owner incoming front gate, intruders outgoing back. Mansion's size kept us apart.
Down the outer slope, I boarded the car and watched the house.
He wouldn't head straight to the bench post-arrival. Wait until he entered kill range.
"Hyungnim."
"What."
"Not craving sweet donuts?"
"...Out of nowhere?"
"We're in America, donut homeland. Stakeout etiquette: munch donuts."
"..."
Wasn't that a cop stereotype? Staring at Kyung-tae, I saw plain hunger. No proper meals during the hunt; end in sight, appetite hit.
No, he's looking out for me. Quick calories, then hotel rest. Sleep deprivation dulled my edge. Maybe I'd loosened up too.
Ends weren't ends until over.
"...Fine. Order some."
"Yes sir!"
He radioed the getaway team: Yelp high-rated donut spot nearby, variety for headcount—needlessly detailed.
Soon, glazed donut and overly sweet milk tea in hand, I tracked Calvin. Post-dinner, he spotted the basement door I'd left ajar—froze like facing a beast, swallowed, grabbed a pistol from the fireplace hidey-hole, descended cautiously.
No giant obstacles like The President here. My circuit domain could engulf the whole mansion. Within range, remote spellcasting worked.
I prepped the incantation on my circuit.
"Another?"
"Mm."
I picked chocolate iced from his box. Surprisingly good. Mid-bite, Calvin—wriggling like a maggot—reached the fridge.
He read my note, eyes widening. Tried to dodge—but my spell sparked the detonator first.
Tick.
BOOM!
The massive blast shook the earth. Overpressure and fridge shrapnel shredded Calvin; ceiling chunks collapsed, instant ashen tomb.
Forensics would blame a faulty detonator malfunction.
Kyung-tae asked, "Done?"
"Wait."
One more spell: tiny ignition on note fragments. Burn key pieces—handwriting analysis impossible. Evidence gone.
"Good. Let's head back."
The driver accelerated. We sped from the now-rowdy affluent hood.
But rush-hour traffic clogged the roads. No smooth return to the hotel.
I ate three more donuts along the way.