Chapter 51
Chapter 51
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 51
Chapter Title: Are We Looking at the Same Thing, or Not? (3)
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As the gunsmith watched, Kanghyeok walked toward the door.
Click.
Just inside the door was a staircase.
The lights were off.
Being stairs leading to a basement, one might expect a damp smell, but there was none at all.
It was probably because the staircase was short.
Or perhaps it was meticulously maintained.
Click.
Opening the door at the bottom revealed a completely different world.
Bright, pale lighting filled a space so immaculate it was reminiscent of a casino. The air carried the luxurious scent of an air freshener and the faint smell of oil.
The smell of gun oil.
Kanghyeok gave a slight bow to the white-haired gentleman at the far end of the room.
A white suit and white gloves.
And plain, snow-white arm guards.
The man, who had the air of a typical elderly British gentleman or a master craftsman, smiled brightly at Kanghyeok.
“It’s been a while, Kanghyeok.”
Who would have imagined that an old gentleman with a thick British accent would be in the basement of some backwater place like this?
“I heard a rumor that you were working with the company again and have been eagerly awaiting your visit. It’s good to see you.”
Kanghyeok spoke with as much formality and courtesy as he could muster.
“It’s just a subcontract.”
“The formalities aren’t important. We can’t celebrate a reunion without a drink. Your usual?”
“No, thank you.”
“Have you sworn off drinking?”
The old gentleman asked with a hint of regret, and Kanghyeok replied with a soft laugh.
“I’m driving.”
“And your partner?”
“I’m alone.”
“Then I’ll make it a non-alcoholic one for you.”
With practiced skill, the old gentleman retrieved a glass and a bottle filled with a golden liquid from a shelf beneath the table.
Gurgle.
The glass, filled a third of the way, was placed in front of Kanghyeok.
Despite this, a dignified yet distinct aroma tickled his nose. Kanghyeok tilted the glass as if to wet his lips and then spoke.
“Thank you for the welcome, Master.”
The old gentleman, addressed as the Master, smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up.
“I hope it’s to your liking.”
“More than enough.”
Few people, even within the company, could receive such treatment from the Master.
And even fewer within the company could visit the Master directly.
Identifying the origin of enemy equipment acquired during a mission.
Repairing or customizing an agent’s gear.
Or supplying new weapons.
These were the services the Master provided to the company, but he was not a company employee.
He was an arms dealer who did business not only with the company but with various other organizations.
This was the Master.
It was unlikely anyone would try, but to harm the Master, one would have to be prepared to make an enemy of the entire world.
That was the kind of position he held.
Clack.
Kanghyeok placed Nobody’s detonator on the table next to his glass.
“Do you happen to know anything about this?”
“Pardon me for a moment.”
The Master put on a monocle and began to slowly examine the detonator.
Then he placed the detonator back down in front of Kanghyeok.
“Where did you acquire this item?”
“I obtained it during a mission. More importantly, what did you find out?”
“It was manufactured about a year ago. However, given the low level of wear and the sharp indentations, it seems to have been deployed in the field only recently. The person who used this appears to be quite a violent individual.”
He wasn't sure about the first part, but the assessment that Nobody was a violent bastard was spot on.
“Do you know who made it?”
“I might be able to tell if I look inside.”
“Then please, go ahead.”
The Master took out a thin, delicate screwdriver and various tools that looked like they belonged in the repair of a fine Swiss watch, and began to disassemble the detonator in front of Kanghyeok.
Click.
The casing opened smoothly, and the Master carefully examined the detonator’s exposed circuitry.
“This is a difficult one. The PCB, the wiring, and the other chipsets are all commonplace.”
“Does that mean it can’t be traced?”
The Master smiled like a benevolent grandfather.
“Just because the ingredients are the same doesn’t mean everyone can make the same cocktail.”
Kanghyeok’s eyes glinted with hope. The Master set the detonator down as if there was nothing more to see.
“It’s of Mexican origin. I’ve seen similar items from there before.”
Kanghyeok looked at the Master in silence.
He held onto the hope that since the country of manufacture had been identified, perhaps the creator could be as well.
“Unfortunately, for now, this is as much as I can tell you.”
Kanghyeok sucked in his lips and nodded.
“I understand.”
It couldn't be helped.
Even the Master wasn't a psychic.
Still, he had found out where it was made.
That alone was a significant gain.
“However, I do have a person in mind. No, it would be more accurate to say an organization.”
Kanghyeok, who had been about to push back from the table and stand, turned his gaze back to the Master.
“You know something?”
“There are people who have been active in Mexico for at least twenty years. They create and distribute items like this. Rumor has it they’re a large-scale operation, but no one knows their true identity.”
“Is that possible?”
“If I hadn’t seen the items they produce myself, I would have dismissed it as an urban legend.”
Kanghyeok gnawed on his lip, his eyes shifting.
Large-scale operations.
Yet they remained completely veiled in secrecy.
The pieces didn't fit, and the stench of suspicion was overwhelming.
But the coexistence of these seemingly contradictory elements gave rise to a strange certainty.
They had to be connected somehow, in some form.
Connected to Nobody and the organization he refused to name even as he was dying.
“Anything, no matter how trivial.”
Something decisive, please.
The sincerity filling Kanghyeok’s eyes and voice reached the Master, who smiled brightly and met his expectations.
“I don’t know their real name. But I do know their operational name.”
“What is it?”
“They are called Máscara de Hierro, or Iron Mask.”
Kanghyeok silently mouthed the name the Master had given him.
*‘Máscara de Hierro.’*
The name didn't ring any bells.
“Is it the name of the organization? Or…”
“That, I do not know. I apologize for not being of more help.”
“You’ve already given me more than enough.”
Kanghyeok took out his wallet.
He then took out a check and placed it on the table.
“I would appreciate it if you kept my visit a secret.”
“Privacy is of the utmost importance, of course.”
If the Master said so, it was so.
Clink!
Without even checking the amount, the Master placed the check in a small safe inside a drawer, and Kanghyeok stood up.
It was right after that.
“Kanghyeok, you’ve paid me quite generously.”
Kanghyeok shifted his eyes to look at the Master. The Master then spoke, his eyes and expression indicating he had more to say.
“I assume you won’t be taking any change, so in celebration of our reunion, would you mind if I paid you in kind?”
Understanding the Master's intention, Kanghyeok nodded slightly and gave a faint smile.
“Is there something suitable that won’t be too much of a burden?”
“As always, and always will be.”
Clatter.
With a gesture similar to when he had served Kanghyeok the drink, the Master placed a pistol on the table.
Kanghyeok picked up the pistol and examined it near his face, as if exchanging glances with a lover.
A German-made pistol, delicately tuned by a master craftsman.
Its noticeable features were a slightly shorter barrel and its single-action mechanism.
This was a thoughtful gesture from the Master, who had clearly realized this business was separate from the company.
“It can’t compare to what you’re used to, but still…”
Clack.
Kanghyeok pulled back the slide and replied.
“Not bad.”
With a satisfied smile, the Master began to speak.
“It takes 9x21mm IMI ammunition. The grip is coated with urethane, and I’ve replaced the cylinder and spring with your preferred German-made parts.”
Click.
He ejected the magazine and saw that it was thankfully full of bullets.
He would have liked to test-fire it, but he couldn't pull the trigger in front of the Master, so Kanghyeok quietly tucked the pistol away.
“I’ll take it with thanks.”
“I hope we’ll see each other often in the future.”
“I’ll be sure to visit again.”
“I shall look forward to it with pleasure.”
Kanghyeok gave a deep bow and left the room.
He went up the stairs, exchanged a brief greeting with the gunsmith, and left the shop, walking toward his car parked nearby.
Just as he reached the point where he could stretch out his hand and touch the car, someone blocked his path.
Clack.
The white man, who didn't even shoulder his double-barreled shotgun, was the same guy who had been watching Kanghyeok intently in front of the gun shop.
“I heard everything. Hand over everything in your pockets. If you don’t want your head blown off.”
He must have remembered what the gunsmith said when he cleared the customers out of the store.
The muzzle of the gun moved threateningly close to his face.
But Kanghyeok didn’t even glance at him, moving one hand to the driver’s side door and the other to his coat.
“Don’t move! Ching-cha…”
Bang!
Before he could finish his sentence.
Blood spurted from his shoe, right where his big toe should have been.
“Aaaaargh! Ughhh! Fuuuck!”
The man clutched his gushing foot, letting out a torrent of tears and screams.
Thump.
Getting into the car, Kanghyeok started the engine and examined the pistol in his hand.
The feel of it wasn't bad.
*‘More than enough for temporary use.’*
It was a bit of a shame it took 9x21mm IMI rounds, but it was also a good thing.
For one, the ammunition was easy to find.
Kanghyeok tucked the pistol away and put the car in reverse, looking in the rearview mirror.
Rrrrrumble!
The tires churned up the unpaved dirt road, and the man who had been screaming and clutching his foot nearby scrambled back in a hurry.
“Aah, aaaaaah!”
Vroooom.
Kanghyeok started driving toward Mexico.
He had to go to Mexico.
But with a pistol too good to throw away, he couldn't use the airport.
That meant he'd have to cross the border illegally, but he figured he could manage somehow.
Kanghyeok put a cigarette to his lips and lit it.
Click.
“Hooo!”
Exhaling smoke, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the man with the bleeding foot yelling his head off, but he couldn't hear what he was saying.
***
Crack, pop! Crackle.
The logs in the fireplace crackled pleasantly as they burned.
It was a fireplace in a room as spacious as a living room, its walls and ceiling adorned with red wallpaper patterned with gold leaf.
A room that was lavish and extravagant, but not vulgar.
That was the kind of room it was.
Classical music drifted from a phonograph.
The carpet on the floor.
A large mirror that was clearly made during the Renaissance.
The suits of iron armor displayed on one wall exuded a majestic presence, like valiant soldiers.
Everything in the room had a distinct presence, but the most powerful presence of all was not the art, the decorations, the wallpaper, or the music.
Creek, creak.
It was the white-haired old man sitting in a rocking chair, enjoying a book.
The face of the old man, reading in his robe, was covered in age spots and wrinkles.
A man who looked to be at least seventy years old.
But the eyes fixed on the book were as sharp as a young man's, and the life within them was as intense as the sun.
Creek, creak.
The old man seemed dozens of times more alive than the young man pushing the rocking chair from behind him.
“Too fast.”
The young man pushing the chair froze in fear, stopping his hands. The old man furrowed his brow and turned a page.
“I didn’t say stop. You truly can’t do a single thing right.”
Creek, creak.
The rocking chair began to move again.
Slower this time, and much more cautiously.
“Tsk.”
The old man twisted his lips as his eyes moved to the next page.
“Imbecile.”
At the old man’s voice, thick with deep-rooted contempt, the young man’s face hardened miserably.
Just then, a knock came from the massive door that nearly touched the ceiling.
“It’s me.”
The old man made a guttural sound, his eyes still fixed on his book, and the young man behind him walked toward the door.
Groooan.
The door opened with a heavy groan, and a man with a brutish face, completely out of place in the room, entered.
“What is it?”
“I’ve brought Maximo.”
The man gestured toward the space beyond the door.
Thud!
A young man with his hands and ankles bound was thrown into the room.
It was Maximo, and he was terrified, as if he had been cast into hell.
His face pale, Maximo immediately prostrated himself on the floor and opened his trembling lips wide.
“M-my life! Please, spare my life! Máscara de Hierro!”
Thwack.
The old man closed his book.
Then he turned his face toward Maximo, who had called out to him.
Befitting his moniker, ‘Máscara de Hierro,’ his face was that of an iron man, devoid of any emotion.