I swore to her I would be there with her when the baby’s gender is revealed, and I refuse to not be true to my word.
An hour into the drive, my phone buzzes.
Nam Joo-wan’s name flashes on the screen. I answer with a clipped, “What?”
“Jin-tae,” he says, voice strained. “I, uh, I have bad news.”
I close my eyes, a headache building at my temples. “Tell me.”
“The drug shipment from Masan. It’s… it’s gone.”
For a split second, I’m sure I’ve misheard.
“What do you meangone?”
“The ship carrying our philopon was attacked as it came into port. An unknown vessel intercepted it and set it aflame,” he explains tensely. “We believe it was the Bulgeomhoe. The attacking ship bore their marking—a reversed crimson taegeuk.”
If I were a more impulsive man, I’d explode in rage. I’d roar and use my fists to break something. I’d be on the warpath.
I’ve always been the opposite. Always a more composed, disciplined man.
But even I have my limits.
Our drug shipment full of philopon—Korean for methamphetamine—has gone up in flames because of a gang that should be cowering in fear after the message we sent.
It took weeks of planning. Weeks of coordination to get the next shipment into the country undetected.
“How?” I grit out. “How did this happen?”
“I don’t know yet. We’re still gathering?—”
“I’m surrounded by incompetence!” I snap suddenly. “This was a standard shipment! A routine operation! Yet you allowed a smaller, weaker gang to destroy it? To assert dominance over us?”
“Jin-tae?—”
“Find the Bulgeomhoe boat. Find the bastards who did this. Slaughter them all. I don’t want to hear from you again until it’s done. Should you fail,youwill be the one suffering the consequences.”
I hang up before he can respond.
Silence returns to the car, except even heavier and tenserthan before. Min-gyu keeps his eyes forward, wisely choosing not to speak.
I’m left puzzling over the information I’ve received. It seems this could be by design from the Bulgeomhoe.
It’s possible there is no Black Shell at all. It’s nothing more than a misdirection from the pesky smaller gang as they wage this war and play mind games.
Whatever the case, I’ve had enough. It’s time to squash every last one of them.
No more warnings or messages. The violent payback will speak for us.
My terrible luck continues as we reach Busan. The traffic is jammed even worse than usual. There’s been a huge accident that’s turned the highway into a parking lot, brake lights stretching as far as I can see.
I check my phone obsessively, watching the minutes tick by, my stomach tightening at the thought we’re cutting it close.
By the time we finally break free of the congestion, it’s obvious I’m not going to make it on time.
“Faster,” I say. “Disregard the speed limits if you have to.”
Min-gyu presses the gas, weaving through traffic to the frustration of the drivers he cuts off.
