El Maestro (3)
As late afternoon wore on, the British army's drive hunt corralling the knight order reached its final stages. Armored vehicles in the mobile unit sealed off the south, while another special forces team on foot along the mountain streams to the north blocked escape routes. The main pursuit force herded the prey relentlessly westward. With just a few hundred troops sealing off such a vast area, it was easy to gauge how exceptional their surveillance capabilities were. This was the conclusion drawn from piecing together various circumstantial evidence obtained through Suyeon's measures. Her simple initiative as my chief of staff had yielded results far beyond expectations.
Those who received offers from the "Korean broadcaster" had passed the work on to folks they knew at cut rates. Deep in the valley, the mountain lodge owner, arboretum caretaker, ranch hands, and even locals netting fish by the stream to scrape by in the broken economy—all of them, plus tips pouring in from places so absurd you'd wonder why anyone was even there. 'Gotta be farmers growing illegal cash crops.' In these remote hellholes where no one ever came, they'd sporadically plant marijuana or coca bushes, climbing the mountains daily to tend them and dodge thieves. At the bottom rung of the drug pyramid, scraping by on a measly hundred-some pesos a day, Suyeon's bounty offers were irresistible bait. It also helped that the British were hiding their tracks so meticulously. Otherwise, would any farmer in their right mind climb those mountains now? Not with cartel knights and foreign superhumans blasting away at each other.
This unfolding scenario was somewhere between best-case and acceptable for me. The 11 km by 9 km ridgeline where Templar Cartel knights were being driven sat just 20 km from Puerto Vallarta's outskirts—a spot I could reach in half an hour at full throttle. Hold on just a bit longer, you cartel small fry playing at knights. I sent a fervent cheer in my mind to the pretenders.
6:18 p.m. Beyond the terrace, the sea took on sunset hues, the sky's edge turning violet. The moment I'd awaited—the hunt—was nearly here. Already shed of my businessman guise and geared in hunter's kit, I popped one more awakening pill and slung the hunting rifle I'd left on the bed over my shoulder. The security team's discreet delivery. The rest of the gear to move was already handled—like the jar holding the crazy ant queen.
"Kyung-tae."
"Yeah, hyungnim."
"Time to check out."
At my word, Kyung-tae nodded to his men. The hunting dogs filed out first.
"Huh?"
Tat-tat-tang! A muffled burst of gunfire echoed indoors. The two city cops guarding the top-floor suite dropped dead. Officially protecting Hwang, but really Chelino's watchers in case I changed my mind. I could've snapped their necks, but my boys used pistols on purpose. Per the plan, we needed to leave signs of Hwang's abduction.
I stepped over the cops' staring corpses into the hall. The CCTVs lighting the corridor were already powered down. As we hit the stairwell, the blaring fire alarm kicked in, every sprinkler on the floor spraying water with sharp tak-tak bursts. My magic fires on multiple floors were the cause. The cascading streams slid harmlessly off us and our gear, repelled by invisible force. No need to drench ourselves in that rotten-egg stench.
"Hold up a sec."
I peered through the floors below. "Kill anything coming up, then we bounce."
The elevator climbers were El Fuego's sicarios—official armed crew—from the hotel lobby. Mayors and cartel barons play the same games. Ding—the arrival chime barely sounded before the doors shredded open in a frenzy. Hundreds of rifle rounds in seconds. The riders were minced meat before they saw our faces. Three looked underage. Cartels don't care about age for killing. Point a gun at a man, and you're in. I despise child soldiers, but ones aiming at me? Far more.
Krik-krik... The bullet-riddled doors creaked shut, the car descending laden with bodies. Idiots stomping buttons on every floor would faint at the blood-soaked reveal.
"Let's move."
At my nod, the vanguard dropped a floor ahead. From here, anyone witnessing my checkout died without exception. The early alarm, waiting out the sicarios, unshielded gunfire—it was the utmost mercy I could spare the innocent.
"P-please, spare—"
Thwung! One subordinate dropped a hotelier with a single shot. Too scared to flee the sirens and blasts, cowering in the stairwell corner—end of a pathetic life. Idiot. If you're hiding, at least look up. Broom and dustpan soaked in blood and brains. If there'd been just one fool like that, I'd have telekinetically knocked him out. But no natural awakenings beyond body reinforcement yet—too many unnatural KOs would raise flags. So, kill 'em. I just hoped the splattering blood wouldn't rust my boys' resolve.
Nine kills by the time we hit the ground floor. Leaving the sprinkler-free stairs, humid air and rotten-egg reek assaulted us again. Hydrogen sulfide from bacteria corroding the pipes.
"Come on in."
Kyung-tae's radio to the outside. The revolving door exploded inward with a crash of glass. Amid the wave of shards, the mangled frame tumbled inside. Vehicles barreled through the entrance, skidding on wet floors before whipping around to halt.
Click. Kyung-tae opened the nearest SUV's rear door.
"Hop in, hyungnim."
The interior had bolted-in ballistic panels—our organization's go-to conversion kit. Versatile for most vehicles, decent demand in security circles. Before boarding, I eyed Suyeon.
"You take command post."
She acknowledged with a curt nod. No more worrying about escape routes in a pinch. If she couldn't hold them with this setup, blame rotten luck.
My co-riders stripped the rear seats en route, grabbing hidden weapons and ammo. Hotel guns couldn't match the ones we'd use next. Specifically, no overlapping rifling marks. Those microscopic barrel grooves are a gun's fingerprint. Deceiving the British demanded that precision.
I packed extra mags, explosives, a combat ruck of supplies. 'Pricey hunt.' Unlike the Zeta cartel northeast faction's cargo, our gear came via top-tier aviation contractors. Three grand per full mag in fees. Pilots landing on dirt strips, mixed nationalities—elite independents in this trade.
The naval base's green fence blurred past. Military setup right by my incoming ship's dock. The convoy veered right off the main drag into poverty-soaked alleys, passing cops armed like infantry. They ignored our battered rides—sicarios with autos lurked nearby, and wrecked cars were Mexico's norm.
We halted near the military-police cordon blocking city exits. Obscure enough spot. An underground drain dumped into the river here. The Ameca River, natural border between Jalisco and Nayarit, was the upstream stream the British blocked—and a covert path splitting north or south to the drive site.
Krik—the rusted drain grate's padlock ground open on its own. I relocked it after everyone passed. No prints, no traces.
"Good spot. Dump 'em."
At Kyung-tae's order, subordinates chucked the hotel guns into the trash-choked sludge. Even if fished out soon, corrosion would erase the rifling. In a country seizing ten thousand guns a year, that sufficed. Smashing them telekinetically? Suspicious evidence.
The drain spat us into the stagnant, dark river. No lights along the poverty-flanked banks after dusk, just water-loving trees lining a stealthy route.
"From here, we run till we drop."
I warned them. "Don't disappoint me."
Stragglers became mangled corpses. 64 kph. Science's theoretical human limit. Muscles can't exceed it, they say—species cap on contraction speed. Our pace? Purely animal. GPS reverse-calc put us near 70 kph, laden with 50 kg kits, stepping roots and rocks to minimize tracks.
But we could go faster. I telekinetically towed the laggards. My circuits handled extra spells amid maxed reinforcement. Heat in my skull, skyrocketing pulse, burning muscles, mind-numbing fatigue—just distractions.
Ten minutes in, a crash behind. My telekinesis faltered; a subordinate tumbled, ricocheting like a skipped stone from momentum.
"Get up! Right... now!"
Damn. Breath too short for full words. No time for blame—the hunt waited. I hauled the groaning man up myself.
"Can you run?"
He tested his feet, panting a nod. A normal man would've died; stretched ligaments and scrapes only, thanks to reinforcement and tumble training. Gunfire, blasts, roars mingled from clearer upstream valleys.
I wiped sweat, checked coords against memorized ones.
"Four klicks more."
Then slow for thermal evasion—frenetic sprint just minutes left. So.
"Move."
They snapped to. The river fork loomed. All streams here flowed from the battlefield.