“I’ve taken various security precautions. Should there be more trouble, I’m prepared to move immediately.”
“We would hate to lose you.”
I would hate to lose myself, Shin thought but swallowed it and answered, “Thank you, Major.”
“I believe it best not to disturb the Supreme Leader at this time,” Roh said. “Until we have more hard intelligence.”
“A wise decision. I concur,” Shin said.
“Which we await you passing on, without delay. Until then, good luck and goodbye.”
The line went dead.
Shin realized, not for the first time, that the major’s terse—even arrogant—tone had always annoyed him. Still, he put up with it since they shared a common cause: the reunion of Korea as a single state. Neither had any love for the Supreme Leader, though Major Roh was forced to play the daily role of a supporter without limits.
Their plan, if it succeeded, called for the dictator’s elimination and replacement by a president whose sanity was not in question but who still maintained the ultranationalist fervor of the DPRK’s communist regime. That combination, Shin felt certain, would astound the world, particularly when he bent his special genius for commercial triumph to the cause and used his global journalistic empire to promote it.
Great things were about to happen.
All Shin had to do was to make it through the next few weeks alive.
8
Omega Congregation Headquarters
When Bolan mentioned whipping up another batch of Molotov cocktails, Chan Taesun had surprised him. From the safe house armory—oversupplied with ammunition, but with only two guns on the premises—she’d offered half a dozen Model 308-1 hand grenades instead. Made in the States, for use by US Navy SEALs, the M308-1 packed a thermite napalm filler that could melt steel once it blew. Because it used iron oxide as its oxidizer, rather than straight oxygen, the flames would also flourish under water.
Perfect for the SEALs at war, but was it overkill when facing the Omega Congregation?
“One of these should do the trick,” Bolan had said on receiving them. “We’ll save the rest for Shin’s place, if we need them.”
Now they sat in Bolan’s Kia Visto, two blocks north of Soongsil University, a private Christian school, with weapons holstered on their belts and cradled in their laps, spare magazines contained in canvas bandoliers. The M308-1 grenade was clipped to Bolan’s belt, as well. His Daewoo K-1 carbine was loaded with a pair of magazines taped end to end for easy switching in the heat of battle.
Coming any second now.
“Okay,” he said, “repeat the plan.”
“We’ve already been over it—”
“Once more. Call it for luck.”
“You don’t believe in luck,” she said, recalling something he’d said at the safe house.
“So? Repeat it, anyway,” he ordered, sounding gruff.
“Fine. We go on foot, in from the rear. You carry the grenade and use it when you think it’s safe for the civilians.”
“Because?” he challenged her.
“We want no harm to befall innocent civilians. No collateral.”
“Collateral damage.” His voice was softer now as he corrected her. “We won’t win any friends tonight, but you don’t need a whole new raft of enemies, either. Battle is chaos, and it gets your blood up. We demand fire discipline.”
“And what about the other side?” she asked.
“We’re not responsible for them,” Bolan replied. “If they start chopping down their own, so be it.”
“You can be a ruthless man,” she said.
“Comes with the job,” Bolan replied.
He could have said “Comes with the calling” just as easily, because the war he waged had never been a simple job to Bolan, something he completed, got through and then forgot about until the next battle that came along. It was a calling, though he’d never liked that term because of its religious overtone and the implication that an outside force was moving him like a chess piece on some universal board.
The trigger for his war was personal—the slaughter of his family—but Bolan had repaid that blood debt long ago. He fought now because duty and his own personality compelled it, winnowing the predators who threatened so-called civilized society around the clock, around the world.
It was a struggle he could never win in any human’s normal span of years on Earth, but he could hold the line wherever danger found him and be satisfied with that. It was a thankless job, as well, no kudos from the public when he stopped a terrorist attack or blocked the progress of a growing syndicate. Ideally, John Q. Public wouldn’t even know what was going on, nothing to fret about as daily lives went through their paces without jolting interruption.
But the scars of Bolan’s war remained, not only on him but in the places where he fought: incinerated buildings, walls pockmarked by bullet holes and, yes, inevitably, there were friendly casualties.
Bolan kept the number down as low as possible, but random chance kicked in from time to time, along with utter ruthlessness displayed by Bolan’s enemies. Once he had joined the game, there was no leaving it and he was forced to play by its rules, although sometimes with a twist.
This night, he’d have to wait to see how it went down with the Omega Congregation, who lived and who died.
And Bolan hoped he would not be among the latter.
* * *
CHOI KYUNG-WHA BELIEVED with every fiber of his heart and soul in the Omega Congregation’s message. Prior to his conversion, at the age of thirty-two, Choi had been a homeless methamphetamine addict, his prospects for survival through the next twelve months extremely limited. Shin Bon-jae had saved him from the cruel streets and from himself, replaced his craving for the drug with an unending thirst for knowledge, self-fulfillment and repose.
He was a new man now, and gave all credit to his master, Shin, the living, earthly conduit for words from Jesus Christ.
The killings in Los Angeles had shocked him with their revelation that three members of the Congregation were involved. Choi had discussed the matter at some length with Master Shin and came away convinced that Shin knew nothing of the crimes beyond what he had seen reported in the media. When Shin blamed Lee Jay-hyun for straying from the straight and narrow path of their beliefs, Choi had led a prayer service at Congregation headquarters, trying to rescue Lee’s benighted soul.
Whether it worked, who knew but God above?
The building’s fire alarm shocked Choi out of his reverie. He rushed out of his office, sniffed the air in the adjacent corridor and instantly smelled smoke. Startled screams, not very far away, told him the fire was on the ground floor, facing a normally quiescent residential street.
But not tonight.
Already, members of the Congregation were evacuating headquarters, spilling onto the lawn, sidewalk and street beyond. Choi saw them from his office window over decorative hedges, just before the first sharp notes of gunfire echoed through the house.
Startled, Choi rushed to the cabinet wall-mounted to the office’s east wall, where he kept weapons stored against the days of persecution forecast by his Master Shin. Those days now seemed to be upon him without warning.
Choi snatched a Daewoo K2 rifle from the cabinet. The 5.56 mm weapon was the standard-issue battle rifle for Korean troops, acquired “through channels” on the country’s thriving black market, along with extra magazines and ammunition by the pound. Once Choi had slapped a magazine into the K2’s receiver and chambered a round, he felt better, nearly prepared to fight for his Lord and the church that had saved him.
Nearly... But something held him back, prevented him from charging out to meet his nameless, faceless enemies.
Not fear of Death. He’d conquered that a long time hence.
Bu
t fear of failure in support of his adopted, holy cause.
Quite possibly.
The only way to fight that was to act. Face set in grim determination, Choi Kyung-wha went out to meet his foes, calling for help along the way from Congregation members designated to provide security. They flocked to him, forming a line behind him as he marched through smoke to find its source and find out what—or who—had set his house, God’s house, on fire.
But when he saw the flames at last, Choi felt his bowels go loose from fear.
* * *
THERE WAS NO fenced-in yard behind Omega Congregation’s headquarters, just access through an alleyway designed for vehicles to pass, reaching garages at the rear of stylish homes or picking up the trash from cans and Dumpsters ranked along its sides. With gravel crunching underfoot, Bolan and Chan Taesun approached the “hive,” their second pass after a drive-by several minutes earlier.
As on their first run, there was no one in the backyard, around the pool or patio. A children’s swing set served as a reminder of the risk to innocent civilians when they hit the place, but Bolan was committed now and Chan was marching with him into war.
A truly ruthless killer might have called the kids fair game, brainwashed by a cult philosophy that somehow made them less than human, stripping them of normal basic rights. To Bolan, they were victims of the cult—specifically the adults who manipulated it and them for profit and for politics. They were not Bolan’s enemies—although they might grow up to act as such—but he did not believe in condemnation of the young based on what they might do someday.
He planned to leave a message for the cult and, more specifically, its founding leader, Shin Bon-Jae, alerting him that he was in a struggle for his life and forcing Shin to choose the final battleground. This end of the conspiracy hatched in Pyongyang was going out of business with a bang.
It was a tribute to the Congregation’s trust in other people—or the law enforcement in Seoul’s ritzy neighborhoods—that Bolan found the hive’s back door unlocked. With Chan Taesun he stepped into a modern kitchen that could easily have handled traffic for a small café. The massive range was cold and silent now, the various appliances all standing idle, no one presently in sight.
Freeing the M308-1 grenade from his belt, Bolan pulled the pin, dropped it in the stove’s deep oven, closed the door and herded Chan out of the room. When it went off, the kitchen would be trashed, their exit through the back door barred by smoke and flames. He was confident they could find another way out of the hive. The fire would spread, alarms would sound, if there were any set in place, and so began the countdown to the arrival of the first-responders Bolan wanted to avoid at any cost.
They were in the outer corridor and moving toward the hive’s heart when Bolan’s grenade went off, demolishing the kitchen, burning swiftly through the wall behind the former stove and spreading flames along the passageway. No matter, since Chan’s sketch of cult headquarters showed at least four other ground-floor exits.
What mattered now was finding Choi Kyung-wha and grilling him before he turned into a well-done cut of meat. As for security...
A klaxon started blaring through the hive, presumably the fire alarm, though it would also roust any personnel assigned to guard headquarters from attack. Ahead of him, Bolan saw men, women and children rushing down a flight of stairs, evacuating rooms above and pouring through the tall front doors onto the street. Neighbors presumably could hear the loud alarm, as well, some of them likely dialing 1-1-2, the South Korean version of America’s 9-1-1.
How long before the first responders reached the scene? Reaction times for wealthy neighborhoods in Seoul, as elsewhere in the world, were no better than any other district’s under law, but fact and theory rarely intersected where Big Money was involved. Cops knew which side their bread was buttered on; firefighters counted on appropriations, just the same as any other public servants in the modern age. The cop shop nearest the hive was located by Soongsil University, together with a firehouse half a block away. Ten minutes max for uniforms to scramble and arrive on-site with all the gear required to douse a fire or quell a minor insurrection.
“Upstairs!” Bolan snapped at his partner. “We have to hurry now!”
* * *
CHAN FOLLOWED HIM UP the stairs, shoving aside the cultists still descending and trying to evacuate. Before they got halfway, they were intercepted by two men with shaved heads, automatic rifles leveled from the hip.
Chan was about to cut loose with her submachine gun when her partner’s carbine stuttered, ripping short bursts into both of them and tumbling them down the gently curving staircase. Chan hopped over one who literally would have swept her off her feet, and started climbing once again in Cooper’s wake. Along the way, her shoes crunched hot brass cartridges.
On two, another pair of guards was standing fast, firing as soon as they saw Cooper, with Chan closing up behind him. She was unprepared when Cooper dropped and rolled, already firing, taking down the gunmen while they tried to readjust their aim to fix their sights on her.
So close and yet again she had not fired. Instead she covered the two dead men with her SMG and followed Cooper as he swam upstream against the tide of fleeing cultists, moving steadily in the direction of a room marked Office on the hive’s floor plans.
If Choi Kyung-wha was fleeing, Chan felt confident he had not passed them on the stairs. There was no exit from the mansion’s third floor, meaning they had him trapped on two—that was, unless he had a few tricks up his sleeve.
They had nearly reached the office when a head peeked from its open doorway, made a kind of squawking sound and ducked out of sight. A heartbeat later he was back, reaching around the doorjamb with an automatic rifle, squeezing off a burst that made them both drop to the floor.
“That’s Choi!”
“Doesn’t seem he’s in a talking mood,” Bolan replied, worming his way closer to the open office door.
When Choi popped out to fire again, the big American ripped a ragged Z across the door with automatic fire.
From where she lay, Chan heard the little “Oof!” Choi made, then saw him drop back out of sight.
Wounded?
She rose when Cooper did, and rushed behind him to the office doorway. There she saw a blood trail leading from the threshold to a desk inside, where Choi sat slumped against the large, square desk front, his rifle lying on his outstretched legs. Blood stained his light blue shift from upper chest to waistline.
Cooper moved in close, keeping his target covered, reaching down to take Choi’s rifle, flinging it across the room to smash against a wall. Crouching in front of Choi, he asked, “Where’s Park Hae-sung?”
Choi shook his head and made a little mewling sound, blood draining from his mouth.
“He isn’t here?” Bolan interpreted. “All right, where is he?”
Choi’s attempt to shrug defeated him. He started sliding sideways, smearing blood across the wide front of his desk, until Cooper grabbed a corner of his shift and pulled him upright.
“What’s the deal with Park and Shin Bon-jae?” he asked, to Choi’s blank stare.
Chan tried the question in their native tongue. “Gong-won eun Sin Bong-jae wa hamkke mueos eul hago issseubnikka?”
There was no reply and she saw Choi’s eyes glaze over as he died. A sigh escaped his bloody lips, confusion in Chan’s mind for an instant with the wailing of a distant siren.
“Time to go,” Bolan said, rising and moving from the office, back along the hallway toward the stairs.
There was no crowd to grapple with this time, only the bodies lying where they’d fallen when he’d cut them down.
Another five dead, but at least Chan had not added to the count this time.
To which her mind answered, Don’t worry. There are more fights yet to come.
Apgujeong-dong,
Seoul
PARK HAE-SUNG HEARD someone coming. Even with the hallway’s thick shag carpeting outside his suite, he caught the sounds of footsteps drawing near then stopping at his door. A key turned in the outer lock and Shin Bon-jae appeared. A houseman trailed him, his hand tucked inside his jacket near the bulge of a hidden pistol.
Shin launched the conversation, saying, “Major Roh sends his regards.”
“You told him I was here?” Park asked, surprised Shin would mention it.
“Why not? I knew he must be wondering if you’d returned from the United States on schedule.”
“And does he want me back in Pyongyang to brief him?” Park inquired.
“I’ve taken care of that,” Shin told him, smiling as he crossed to occupy one of the easy chairs placed randomly around the sitting room. His houseman stayed near the doorway, right hand only inches from his gun.
“I can’t imagine he approved of you holding me a prisoner.”
“On the contrary,” Shin replied. “He’s given leave for me to deal with you as I see fit.”
A little chill shot down Park’s spine on hearing that, but he maintained his poker face, showed nothing to the ally who had seemingly become his mortal enemy.
“And what should I expect from that?” he asked, striving to sound blasé.
“That your survival now depends on my good will and what you do for me,” Shin said. “If, for example, you have led our common enemy to Seoul, I would deal harshly with your negligence, perhaps regarding it as treason to the cause.”
“I flew from the United States to Seoul,” Park said. “Approximately half the passengers were round-eyes, none of whom I recognized. There’s nothing more to say.”
“Ah, but there is,” Shin contradicted, face turning dark as if with rage. “I’ve just been on the phone to one of my employees with the National Police Agency. It seems that my Omega Congregation’s headquarters has come under attack. Choi Kyung-wha is dead, along with four members assigned to house security. All shot with automatic weapons and the house in flames, perhaps a chemical grenade, my contact says.”
Omega Cult Page 9