#8. El Municionero (2)
Two days later, in the suburbs east of Houston.
The Mexican fugitive introduced by the Chief was living a simple retirement on a ranch near a lake and the sea. Honestly, it was unexpected. I'd imagined a wrecked life—having blown all his money on gambling and drugs, reduced to begging on the streets. Not just prejudice against cartels, but I figured someone would only sell out their connections after hitting rock bottom like that.
'Still, asking me to buy dog food on the way here.' Meeting in the front yard made sense, but this was the first guy to send me on an errand for pet chow. Was he naive or pulling a rude power play? I couldn't tell. If the Chief hadn't vouched that it was the former, I'd have ignored him outright. If he was testing my temperament, well, I could humor that.
A cool breeze carried a faint whiff of manure through the open window. At driving speed, the sign for "Dos Vaqueros" drew closer.
"This must be it."
Kyung-tae, behind the wheel himself, pulled into the parking lot in front of the store. The escort vehicles flanking us braked to either side.
The area was dotted with pastures, so even around this quiet feed shop, dozens of trees with open circuits dotted the landscape. The scenery was beautiful, but not ideal for human habitation.
"Wait in the car, sir? Or—"
"I'll get some air too."
"Got it."
Kyung-tae hopped out quick and opened the door for me. The guys in the escorts stayed put inside their vehicles.
Quack quack! Near the store entrance, I watched the chicks pecking at feed inside their coop fence. Even among these fledgling featherbrains, a few had circuits pierced through. Probably linked to the bloodstains lingering in the corner of the coop.
Kyung-tae smacked his lips with a sigh. "Chickens might get hard to come by from now on."
He couldn't see everything like my eyes did, but the ones I'd personally tuned could indirectly sense shifts in mana fields. That meant they could detect awakened beings.
The guy who often ordered chicken and beer to HQ sounded genuinely mournful.
"That's what's worrying you?"
"Hyungnim. Chicken's a serious issue. You never heard that C between B and D is the chicken between birth and death? Chicken vanishing is like life vanishing."
Soo-yeon furrowed her brow slightly. "You're too flippant around hyungnim."
"Aw, noona, come on. It's a trend. Who else is gonna clue hyungnim in on what the kids are into these days? I'm helping him stay young in body and spirit. People age as much as they fall behind the times."
"……."
Soo-yeon shut her mouth, looking like she had no idea how to respond. Making the taciturn one pull such colorful expressions was a talent in itself.
Joke or not, Kyung-tae's predictions always rang true. Korea having more chicken joints than McDonald's worldwide made sense—chicken was the everyman's grub. But soon, we'd need attuned awakeners with sharp senses just to sort chicks. Frequent accidents would nix battery cages, mass rearing, and mechanical slaughter. When that hit, prices for all factory-farmed meat would skyrocket. Franchises wouldn't thrive like now.
The market was already showing signs. Yeouido Kim's Q3 investment report covered it in detail.
Ding-a-ling! The bell chimed clear. A clerk tidying the counter greeted us with a smile.
"Hola."
"Hola."
Kyung-tae showed the clerk the feed name scribbled on a note. The clerk nodded with an "aha" and jerked his head toward the back of the spacious store. One of my security guys followed.
The clerk, back turned, openly carried a pistol in his cart holster. Meanwhile, I scanned the newspapers on the counter and the posters on the corkboard wall.
One poster stood out smack in the middle—a recruitment notice for a local militia.
"Old River Tau-Militia Recruiting New Members!"
Printed in English and Spanish, it welcomed any local with "Tau-Power" to apply.
Here, "Tau-Power" was the local lingo for superpowers, naturally.
The Tokyo Olympics—shut down without even a closing ceremony amid the anomalies—marked humanity's full wake-up to the world's changes. There'd been signs before, but nothing matched the Olympics' fallout.
Soo-yeon's London op amplified it too.
'Exeter Marquis, Wiltshire Earl, Uxbridge Earl, Lord Boyle of Derby, Plymouth Earl's second daughter……'
A list of nobles the Round Table Cabinet would likely tap to seize the magical world order. Based on the names I fed her, Soo-yeon exposed Round Table masters' communications with the House of Lords via spy networks infiltrating London. Eight million dollars well spent.
The hacker crew that pocketed over half was probably toasting in some third-world luxury resort by now.
It helped that intel agencies worldwide had already sniffed it out. Even on the "dark web" or "dark net"—Tor hidden services—requests for priced info circulated freely. The bounties screamed serious backers.
Round Table leadership infighting had spilled over to Lords attendees, surfacing publicly. The Lords might be honorary, but still a slice of UK politics. Expecting secrecy amid such open bickering was arrogant.
Greedy old imperialists, robbed of first-mover advantage. I sent deep thanks for their blunder.
"Found it."
My guy returned with a bag of dog food under his arm and set it on the counter. I grabbed the local paper, Houston Chronicle, from the rack and paid for it with the feed.
Back in the car, I started reading. Print was rare these days; the paper-and-ink scent felt special.
True to a local rag, the Houston Chronicle brimmed with incidents. Chaos everywhere, even regionally. Still, page one's top story: the largest armed heist ever at the Bank of France.
"Serves 'em right."
"Pardon?"
"The Euro chinks."
"Ah."
Kyung-tae caught on instantly from "Euro chinks." Every outlet worldwide was plastering it since dawn.
From the rearview, he shot a frustrated glare. "Daring to outdo even this Kim Kyung-tae. I'd love to see those punks' faces."
"Outdo you?"
"The haul, hyungnim—the haul. Human hunting vs. heisting, different sports, but they topped my 1.9 trillion record. I've held the world champ spot for years. Factor in costs? Total defeat for me."
"……."
Soo-yeon pinched her brow at his competitive nonsense.
The Bank of France lost 1.52 billion euros in gold and cash—over 2 trillion won. Previous record: 2009 Bank of England, 53 million pounds (~90 billion won). Inflation-adjusted, France ate twenty times the loss. Media frenzy justified.
I inwardly cheered the thieves Kyung-tae wanted to eyeball.
'Bugs ate shit proper.'
Without Round Table bad blood, France—not Britain—would top my hate list. These bastards ran Africa's sole 21st-century colonies. "Independence" was nominal. I hoped the loot was pure French gold and bills—no fun if tied to "Colonial Pact" African currencies.
In a world where chosen humans neared upright mechs, old security was doomed to evolve or die.
The ranch entrance veered off the highway, winding 600 meters through green pastures. Even my unhindered eyes spotted few buildings within kilometers. Just windbreaks marking property lines and stained utility poles here and there.
Low-traffic private road, dust from sea and plains caking it gray. Our convoy kicked up clouds, swaying nameless wildflowers knee-high. Peaceful, reassuring—even made me think I'd want a quiet retirement spot like this someday.
With no people, ideally.
We stopped. Kyung-tae hopped out first, door open.
A massive Yagi-Uda antenna loomed like avant-garde art in the front yard. Eye-catching too: a snowman of baled hay.
I waved off everyone but Kyung-tae and Soo-yeon.
The ex-cartel exec, leaning on a pillar by the door, tipped his hat at me in greeting.
"Mucho gusto. Long trip—well done."
His wife-type stood beside him. Most security lingering by the cars visibly eased her.
I approached the exec, ignoring her shotgun angled ready, and offered a gloved hand.
"Chief mentioned, but: Hwang."
"Hwang."
He echoed my alias, shaking. "You look younger than I expected—Eastern thing? Call me Ricardo. This is my better half, Araceli."
Ricardo and Araceli. Real or fake? Didn't matter—even real, cartel exiles had backups. US authorities cared little if taxes flowed and past stayed buried. Mexicans used first names for anonymity anyway—too many saints and sinners overlapped. Official calls used surnames; private, nicknames (Apodo). Cartel bosses' monikers stemmed from that.
The exile took the feed bag from Kyung-tae, set it by the door, thanked curtly, crossed arms, and probed casually. "Saw a drone buzzing afar earlier—yours?"
Yep. Standard: advance security team scouted blind spots.
I nodded. "Sharp eyes. Routine recon. Offended?"
"Nah. Caution's good—especially a partner's."
Ricardo grinned easy, nodding to his wife. "So forgive dragging you out here, and her shyness. Even with Chief's intro, meeting someone with business at my old job unarmed? Unnerving."
"Understood. Life's the best collateral for courtesy."
"Haha! Nice turn of phrase! Starting to like you. Come in."
He opened the door, gesturing ahead. Steps creaked faintly on the wood-plank floor. I entered the negotiation space, scented with dry firewood and lavender.