by Chris Kale
He hurried downstairs and quickly sat in Ron’s car.
“Where are we going?” Thomas asked.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Ron said with a smile. “You brought money, right? Cash?”
“I have some, yes,” he said.
“I’ll stop by an ATM,” Ron said. “If you really want to do this, we’re not going to buy you a permit, you’re going to be paying three times the normal price.”
“That’s fine,” Thomas said.
Ron looked over at him with a stern gaze. “If you’re not telling me something, I’d recommend you tell me now. This isn’t a normal request, even if you’re a special agent.”
Should I tell him?
“No, it’s just for protection,” he said, fighting the urge to bite his lip.
“Well, I could lose my job for this, so if you get caught with it, it's on you, man. And when you’re leaving Korea, you give the gun to me, and no one else. Understand?”
Thomas nodded.
He drove them to an ATM where Thomas withdrew the equivalent of $1000 USD in won, which was over a million. In total he had around $1600 now.
Ron drove for around fifteen minutes, heading out of downtown to a ‘rougher’ area, where the commuters looked less like wannabe YouTube stars and dressed to impress, and more toward the scene where women of the night walked during the day. He stopped the car in front of a tobacco shop, at least from the Marlboro neon sign in front and the strong smell of cigars wafting out of it.
They walked in, and the elderly man sitting behind the narrow place hardly greeted them. He was watching an old boxy tv to the side from behind the glass counter with boxes of cigars, varieties of incense and sunglasses. Behind him were the packs of cigarettes. . . it made Thomas think even more about Freyja.
Both now at the glass counter, mere feet from the old man, Ron tapped his fingers on the glass, which quickly garnered the attention of the man, who had a strong receding hairline, and wore rectangular shades.
Ron said something to the man in Korean, and after he did so, Thomas noticed the subtle motion of the man’s head toward him. Behind the shades, he was inspecting him. The man said something back in a raspy voice, clearing his throat after. Ron simply nodded.
“All right, come on,” Ron said to Thomas, turning and walking back toward the front door.
Ron was already halfway to the door in the tiny shop. Thomas turned back to the old man curiously. What just happened? Are we not getting a gun now? Did I do something wrong? Freyja. . .
But he followed Ron, and they were soon back outside in the bright sunlight.
“What was that?” Thomas asked, with his hands out wide.
“That wasn’t the shop,” Ron said. “We have to go around to the back. Follow me.”
A calm washed over Thomas as he followed Ron back around the two shops to the right and trailed around into the alley behind the shop. At the back of the shop was a metal gate and fence with a frantically barking small dog caged on the side. It was some sort of mutt with perhaps chihuahua and collie breeds Thomas thought.
The old man came and unlocked the gate from the inside, letting them in, all the while the dogs barked as if there were two demons entering its owner's shop. He bowed his head as he let Thomas and Ron enter before him. The backside of the shop looked similar to the first, but much dimmer—with no windows—and splendidly bright LED lights. The owner walked behind the counter and with a flick of a switch on the side wall, a dull light lit up beneath the counter that was draped in thick burgundy cloth, almost like a blanket. The man’s leathery hands reached to the front of the cloth and pulled it back, folding it neatly before laying it on the floor next to him.
Thomas wasn’t sure what to expect when they got to where they were going but being here now gave him an anxious feeling—he had the sudden urge to get anything and get out as quick as possible. He realized this wasn’t the type of place people went to buy guns for self-protection. This was a place people bought guns because they needed a gun but couldn’t get one. The guns here were bought to be used.
Beneath the glass counter, under strings of bright white LEDs were only six guns, but each looked like it had a story to be told about it. Thomas wasn’t that familiar with guns in general, but he knew enough to get by, and enough to know what an AK-47 was when he saw one. There was a Beretta, an SMG, a six-barrel pistol he didn’t recognize, the AK, a long-range rifle with a scope, and a pump-action shotgun. Oh, and a bulletproof vest on the side.
Thomas looked over at Ron, who was grimacing with dark eyes and a wrinkled brow. He didn’t like being here any more than Thomas did. I need to get a gun and get out of here. I need to find Freyja.
“That one.” Thomas pointed to the Beretta handgun.
The man pulled it out from behind the glass and held it up to him. Thomas took it in his hands, he could feel the cold steel on his clammy hands, and he first ejected the clip, which was empty, and then checked the chamber—empty too. He held it up against the side wall and peered down the sight. He could imagine pulling the trigger and hearing the thunderous boom, sending chaos flying at whatever it was pointed at. This would be fine; this would be all he needed. Thomas nodded to the man, who then said something to him, which he didn’t understand.
“One and a half million won,” Ron said, “even. It included two boxes of bullets. Do you think you need two boxes for your self-defense?”
“Absolutely I do,” he said, setting the gun on the counter and getting his wallet out. He fumbled through the bills and counted out the correct amount. It was a large stack of bills.
The man took the money, bowed his head, and reached behind him, grabbing two boxes of bullets in yellow cases and lay them on the counter. He then stood there as if nothing left was to be done. No paperwork, no receipt, no computer. He gave him the money, and the man gave Thomas a gun.
Thomas now had a gun.
“Let’s go,” Ron said, turning to leave, and Thomas followed. The dog’s barking erupted as they left the back of the building, and the bright sunlight reminded Thomas of where he was. That had been such a quick, surreal experience, he’d almost forgotten it was daylight still.
He’d put the Beretta in the back of his pants—unloaded and held the two boxes in his right hand.
They walked around the building and back to Ron’s car.
Getting in, Ron simply said, “When you leave, this comes to me and me only, right?”
“Got it.” Thomas hoped the two boxes of bullets would still be full when he did so.
Once Ron had driven him back to his hotel, Thomas was eager to get out of the car, after all, his cell had been in his pocket the whole time, and it didn’t buzz once. Something was definitely wrong; he could feel it. Freyja was in trouble, and there was only one place to look for her. He didn’t even know where she was staying in Seoul.
“Off in a hurry, eh?” Ron said, leaning into the passenger seat as Thomas left the car.
“Yeah,” Thomas said, walking backward toward the front doors of the hotel. “Got a lot to do today, important online meeting and all. I’ll call you later, thanks.”
“Liar,” Ron said under his breath.
Thomas knew that him leaving so urgently after getting the gun was a bad sign to Ron, but he had gotten what he needed. Now he needed to move out again, and with as much as he trusted Ron, he knew he couldn’t endanger her life even more by involving the police. Freyja now needed Thomas, and Thomas alone.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A terrible, yet familiar taste was on her lips, it tasted of old motor oil and bandages. Freyja’s sight was hazy in the dark, only now coming back to consciousness. A dim kerosene lamp lit the room to the side. Old cement walls loomed around her, and a dark, damp cloth was strewn to one of its corners. There were no windows, only a wooden staircase that lay at the far side of the room, that seemed to be the only way in or out of this new hell. Freyja’s hands were bound behind her on the chair with what felt like
strong zip ties, and as she made her best effort to yell out, the duct tape covering her mouth muffled the sound.
Freyja was trapped.
Panic was the first emotion to set in. A deep panic, an overwhelming fear that took over her entire body. It was the kind of panic a diver may experience when running low on oxygen and too many meters down to get back to the surface in time. It was the kind of panic that may be like falling off a boat into crocodile-infested waters. ‘Don’t panic, don’t flail in the water, it will only make things worse’ perhaps someone would say.
She twisted her wrists and flailed in the metal, folding chair until her skin broke and she could feel the blood dripping from her fingers. Then, thinking of the crocodiles that slowly approached under the dark waters, she made an attempt to calm herself. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. This isn’t it; you’re not going to die here. You just need to figure out where you are and how to get out of here before he comes.
She told herself that, and her body relaxed a bit, as she could feel the biting pain of her bindings lessen. But as much as she told herself that, deep down inside, she did feel as if she was going to die down here. Picturing the photos of Joon’s death, she imagined a similar fate for her, torn apart with a knife, left to bleed to death. Then she leaned forward and looked beneath her, and there it was, just like she hoped it wouldn’t be—a drain.
Goddamnit. I am going to die here.
She’d sent the message off to Thomas, but she had no way of knowing if she was at that address or not. It was possible, but she wasn’t even certain that it was Niklas that took her, and if it wasn’t, who knew who it was, but she could be certain whoever it was wanted what was in her head. She felt now as if she was in Joon’s shoes, and she wondered, would I give my life to protect all that Bitcoin?
To her, as was the case with the late Joon, Bitcoin represented more than money, it represented freedom from the constructs of society. Banks and taxes were not a law of nature, they were an idea from man to take, and take, and take. This would be the old world someday, she thought. And with this much Bitcoin gone, she may be the only one to find it, otherwise it would be gone forever. Was a life ever worth money to her? No. Was a life worth the security of this asset that would only be created one time ever? An asset that could change the world for the better? Possibly.
Wars were fought every day for money—fiat currency that could be created and printed more and more until the end of time. Where is the value in that? Wars were fought for oil. Fucking oil! Given enough time that can be reproduced. Shit, they even make synthetic oil now.
She heard the floorboards creak above her under heavy sounding boots. The anxiety rushed up through her stomach and chest again, and she could feel the hairs on her arms and neck stand up straight. Her eyes shot around the room again, looking for something—anything sharp to cut her bindings. Her legs were zip tied to the chair legs as well, but she was nimble enough she could scoot the chair around in the room. Just don’t fall over, she thought.
The sounds of the creaking floorboards moved ever so slowly closer toward the stairwell.
Freyja saw the lamp, she could try to knock it over and start a fire, but the cement floor wouldn’t help with that regard so much. Upon the desk next to the lamp was a hammer, a flathead screwdriver, and a rectangular mirror. The thoughts immediately came to her of the pain she may be inflicted with those two objects—blunt and powerful—but she didn’t want to know what the mirror was for, but she could guess. The man upstairs wanted people to see their pain.
Gathering her wits, she thought, OK, break the mirror and cut the bindings. Get the other weapons and fight him off. Get upstairs and out in the sunlight. And run. She began to inch her way toward the table. She’d have to stand up quite a bit to get her hands high enough to reach the mirror, or perhaps she could scoot it off the table with her nose, but then she’d have to fall on her side to reach the glass. But it was the only way she could think to break free.
She was only a foot over when she heard the squeak of the rusty hinges of the door at the top of the stairwell. Freyja paused. She was too late, and as one black boot after the other made their way down into the cellar, a pair of empty blue eyes glared into her from the muscular, bald head of the tall man. He was shirtless, with his wet muscles and black tattoos glistening in the lamplight.
It was like staring into the predatory eyes of a shark or a crocodile. There was no reasoning with these creatures. The look contained in this type of eye was that of one’s instinct, to kill. There was no hesitation in the eyes of a saltwater crocodile if you were in the water with one. Freyja now felt as powerless as she ever had in her whole life. She was terrified, absolutely, undeniably terrified.
A monster had entered the cellar.
Help me Thomas. . . please help me. . .
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Feeling the cold steel in his hand from the Beretta, he loaded the full clip into it, hearing the satisfying click once it was fully inserted. Thomas set the gun on the table and moved to the phone by it.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Merten,” the friendly woman’s voice on the other end said.
“I need a car please,” he said.
“There are taxis already ready, if you want one now,” the voice said in a thick Korean accent.
“No, a rental car now please,” he said.
“We will arrange this for you. I will call you back when it is here, and we will have the paperwork at the desk. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. Just call me as soon as it is here, please. I’m in a hurry,” he said, hanging up the phone after.
After, he caught a look of himself in the mirror as he walked back toward the gun. His hair was disheveled, his eyes were fraught with dark bags underneath, he was wearing yesterday’s shirt and pants, and his tie lay loose, hanging low.
Thomas cared little for the way he looked, but he figured he would use the time before the car got there to tidy up. Walking into the bathroom, he didn’t care for a shower, but he changed into a pair of light-colored jeans and a white T-shirt. He combed his hair and brushed his teeth, and for a flicker of an instant, he thought he looked vaguely like one of the Outsiders. After all, now, he had a gun—one of the defining moments of the film. He only wished he wasn’t going to end up like Matt Dillon’s character Dally who gets gunned down by the cops, who was holding a gun himself. If he was found with this gun by the police, he would most certainly be arrested, even if he was an American agent—especially because he was an American agent with an unlicensed gun. He needed to be careful.
Bringing up cold water and splashing it on his face, he wondered if he was doing the right thing, but that thought was quickly overrun by the thought of a terrified young woman in the hands of a cold-hearted killer.
He stared at his own brown eyes in the mirror, only inches away from its perfect reflection. He wondered if that was the last time he’d see his own reflection.
What am I doing? I need to call the police. I’m not a cop. This is madness.
Thomas took the towel from the side of the counter and covered his face in it, shaking his head back and forth.
“I don’t even know if that address is where she is,” he said to himself in the mirror.
I can only hope it is though. Because if she’s not there. . . I don’t even want to think of the other option.
Then the room telephone began to ring. He ran to the phone, picking it up, eager to hear the woman’s voice.
“Mr. Merten, your car is available whenever you are ready,” she said.
He hung the phone up, running to the door, but just as he was about to turn the handle and leave, it occurred to him that he was forgetting something. The gun.
Running back to the table, he grabbed the Beretta, the mostly full two boxes of bullets, and a plaid shirt to conceal the gun at his back. After that he was quickly out the door, and down in the lobby. He greeted the receptionist with a forced smile, and quickly filled ou
t the paperwork. She pointed him to a blue Hyundai parked just outside the front doors of the hotel. He swept the key off the counter, and ran to the car, causing many eyes to fall upon him as he did so.
Starting the car, he’d already had the address ready in his phone, and he started the GPS. He looked and saw the destination was over a half hour away. He sped out of the parking lot and made his way south. Fishing the other phone from out of his pocket, he pressed a button, and said, “Call Wyatt.”
The phone rang a dozen times until it was finally picked up.
“Thomas, how’s it going?” he said. “Getting on a plane soon?”
“Wyatt, listen to me, I need you to do something for me,” he said, his voice stern and as collected as he could muster.
“Thomas, what’s going on? You sound different,” Wyatt said.
“I’m not getting on the plane, not yet,” he said.
“You’re what? That wasn’t a request, you’re going to have to explain yourself when you get back,” Wyatt said, his voice growing sterner now. “I can only do so much to defend you, if you’ve decided to stay on the case. . .”
“This isn’t about the case,” Thomas said, making a hurried left turn at a busy intersection, honking the horn to get the pedestrians to move out of the way. They gave him annoyed looks. “Well, it kind of is, but, it’s more important than that. OK, listen, I need you to do this for me. You know the officer Ronald who is here with me?”
“Yes, I know him,” he said. “What about him?”
“If I don’t call you back in the next hour and a half, I need you to geolocate this phone and send him its coordinates. I may need his help, and honestly, he may not be that surprised.” Thomas could hear that Wyatt had stood up from wherever he was.
“Thomas, what the hell is going on? Are you in trouble? You know I’m going to call him the second you aren’t on the line.”
“Wyatt, we’ve been friends a long time now. Please, just do me this one last favor. Ninety minutes, that’s all I need.”
