I follow his gaze to an elevated platform on the far side of the room. An older man sits there, bald and heavyset, watching the fight with the bored expression of someone who’s seen it all before. Two bodyguards flank him, their eyes scanning the crowd.
“I’ll speak with him,” I say, rising from my seat.
Joo-wan moves to stand. “We’re good acquaintances. I’ll come with?—”
“No. You stay here.” I glance at Park Min-gyu, who’s been sitting quietly on my right, sober and alert. “Min-gyu. You’re coming with me.”
Joo-wan’s expression sours, but he sinks back into hischair without protest. I don’t miss the look he exchanges with Do-gil as I walk away.
The conversation with the commissioner is brief and productive. He’s a practical man, more interested in profit than posturing, and we reach an agreement fairly quickly. Favorable terms for both sides, with the Baekho offering new clientele for their betting markets and the commissioner willing to compensate us generously.
By the time the match ends—Gwan the Hammer victorious and Viper carried out on a stretcher—I’m ready to leave.
We exit the arena to even chillier temperatures than when the night began.
My men spill out onto the narrow side street where our vehicles are parked, their laughter too loud, their gaits sloppy and unsteady. The lieutenants are still drunk, leaning on each other for support. Only Min-gyu and a handful of the younger hubaes seem fully alert. They’ll be the drivers for the night.
Except I’ve driven in my own car, the Genesis G80 Sport I’ve had for a few years now.
Most men would splurge on a brand-new vehicle after a promotion as big as mine. But I’m not most men. I’m much more practical and have never cared about being flashy.
I’m reaching for the door of my car when rumbling engines disrupt the scene.
They come on fast, two vehicles pulling up on either end of the side street, boxing us in. Black sedans with tinted windows, tires screeching with purpose.
“Get down!” I shout, but the warning comes a split second too late.
The windows roll down and gunfire erupts.
Bullets hail through the night, riddling our cars with holes, shattering shop windows, and sparking off concrete.My men scatter, diving for cover behind vehicles and dumpsters and anything else solid enough to stop a bullet.
I hit the ground and roll behind the engine block of my Genesis, the only part sturdy enough to provide real protection. Gunfire roars in my ears, making them ache.
Beside me, Min-gyu howls in pain and goes down, clutching his arm. Blood seeps between his fingers, dark and slick.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the shooting stops.
The silence that follows is almost louder. We’re left with ringing ears and racing heartbeats. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wail on approach.
One of the men leans out of the sedan’s window, his face half obscured by shadow.
“The Black Shell sends his regards, Baekho-je Seo Jin-tae! It’s been so long since you’ve seen each other. But never worry—you’ll meet again soon.”
The vehicles peel away, tires screeching against asphalt, disappearing around the corner before any of us can return fire.
I push myself to my feet, glass crunching under my shoes. Around me, my men are groaning and cursing and checking themselves for wounds. Joo-wan and Do-gil look pale and shaken, their drunkenness faded and replaced by adrenaline and fear.
“What the fuck was that?” Do-gil sputters. “Who the fuck?—”
I hardly pay mind to any of their confused ramblings.
I stand in the middle of the street, staring after the vanished vehicles, tension cording its way through my entire body ’til I’ve curled my hands into fists.
The Black Shell.
The name means nothing to me. I’ve never heardit before or encountered anyone who uses it. Yet the message from the shooters claimed it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.
What does that mean? Who the fuck is this person, and why do they speak as though we have history?
