Page 2 of Brutal Surrender

His words lift the huge weight off my heart.

“But the election is over a week away, so you have time to reconsider,” he says.

I know I won’t change my mind.

After lunch, I get into the Bentley with my chauffer and bodyguard, Cho, who had managed to swim across the Yalu River in the dead of winter from North Korea into China. China normally deports illegal immigrants back to North Korea, but luckily for Cho, he fell in with the Black Dragon before being found by authorities.

In my lap is a small music box. I open it to release the melody Mo Li Hua, which means Jasmine Flower. The folk song, dating back hundreds of years, is Irene’s favorite.

“Did you know that the Italian composer Puccini liked the song so much, he incorporated it into one of his operas?” I once told Irene.

She was fascinated and had never heard a Western opera before. I promised to take her to one.

I place the music box back into its velvet pouch before stepping out of the car in front of Irene’s apartment building.

But something’s not right.

“My wife and kid are in there!” says a man outside the building.

A friend or relative of his holds him back. “We don’t know if it’s safe to go inside. Let’s wait for the police to show up first.”

Dread like I’ve never felt before fills me. Rushing into the building, I skip the elevator and take the stairs several steps at a time to the fourth floor, well ahead of Cho.

Irene is a little superstitious and doesn’t feel comfortable living on the fourth floor because the Chinese word for “four,” Sì, is too similar in sound to the word for “death,” Si. My plan was to move her out to a much nicer apartment once I quit the Black Dragon.

The hallway is eerily quiet except for some kid crying in one of the units. The door to her apartment is ajar. Not a good sign.

Stuffing the music box into my jacket pocket, I draw out my Mark 23, flatten myself along the wall, and creep towards the doorway.

At first I don’t hear a sound coming from the unit. But then I hear a gasp. Irene’s gasp.

Without thinking, I shove the door open before Cho can advise better.

I could have been shot then and there, but there’s no one in the apartment except Irene, lying on the floor, riddled with holes and blood.

The gun drops from my hand as I rush over to her. Her eyes are wide open, and her breaths are shallow.

Shit! SHIT!

“Call for an ambulance!” I bark at Cho, who’s making sure there isn’t anyone else in the apartment.

Gathering Irene into my arms, I tell her, “It’s going to be okay. An ambulance is on its way. It’s going to be okay.”

But she doesn’t acknowledge me. Her breaths slow.

“Stay with me!” I exclaim as I suppress the violent trembling in my body.

I look over her body to see where I should stop the bleeding, but it’s everywhere. She has bullet holes in her chest, her arms, her abdomen.

Maybe it’ll be faster if I drive her to the hospital myself?

“Boss, I called the ambulance, but we should go,” Cho says.

“Fuck you, there’s no way I’m leaving,” I say.

We both catch the sound of sirens in the distance.

“That could be the cops,” Cho says. “If they find you here, you’ll be their first suspect.”

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