Sam’s eyes widened when he saw the owner of the voice which addressed him. In front of the fireplace stood a slender, older-looking Asian man. He had a plastic smile and a sharp gaze. Without the guard prodding behind him, Sam would not have been able to take a seat.
“Su Jin,” he uttered with empty amazement.
The plastic smile faded, “Yes, that was the name given to me by my family. I suppose Interpol has continued to use it in their effort to catch me. I am known simply as “The Shaman” now.”
Sam was at a loss for words. He simply stared placid-faced at the Asian man.
“How is law enforcement treating you these days, Sammy? Are you considered a hero for what you did in Seoul? I’m sure you’re happy to be in London again, half a world away from all that horror.”
“You died,” Sam stated. “I watched you burn alive.”
“Indeed you did. Maybe if you cooperate I will tell you how I escaped, and how I came to be in London.”
Sam bolted up, only to be cut off by the burly guard.
The guard pushed Sam back into his seat. He instinctively felt for his gun, but only grasped the back of his shirt.
“Fast reflexes,” The Shaman observed. “No doubt the British Special Forces made good use of you.”
“I refuse to cooperate.”
Jin’s plastic smile returned, “And that’s exactly why I’m in London. You see, it’s much easier to deal with an enemy when you have such easy access to all of his moving parts.”
The words lingered in Sam’s ear for a moment before he made the connection.
“You will not lay a finger on my family.”
Jin shook his head, “I would never. But I cannot speak so assuredly for Karl, here.”
The burly guard chuckled darkly behind Sam, breathing a swath of cigar smoke onto the back of his neck. The Shaman strode over to Sam and leaned over so that the two were looking face-to-face.
“I know you are close with Victor Cordaro. You two did many missions together in the east.”
Sam snorted, “So what? That was years ago. I haven’t seen Victor since Seoul.”
“Then perhaps it’s time for a little reunion,” Jin suggested, straightening himself. He produced a cell phone from his pocket and offered it to Sam.
“Grant?” spoke the gruff voice of Claus Cordaro, CEO of Far Reach Weaponry.
“Where the hell have you been?” hissed Grant, “Victor and I had to take care of the hackers ourselves. Their corpses are lying in the cubicles where they worked. Are you happy? Most of them were innocent.”
“This is not the time to argue about such things. Where is Victor?”
Grant gritted his teeth. “Victor ran off. He thinks he’s leaving the country.”
His father uttered several choice words in Italian. “Listen to me. We need to find your brother and get to the safe house. I’ve hired a few extra hands to help clean up this mess.”
“You couldn’t have done that earlier? Ya know, when we had to kill those 16 people?”
“It had to be done,” Claus replied curtly. “The mob was going to use them to take control of the company. I still don’t know who’s behind this, but whoever he is, he better carry a damn big stick. Do you have any idea where Victor might be?”
“Probably the motel we staked out by the crime scene to pick up his money and shit.”
“Like you said, ‘emotion and gusto.’”
“And an extra helping of stupidity.”
Grant chuckled, “Tell me about it. How far away are you?”
“Not far. I’ll have someone pick you up. Hopefully Victor has not left the motel just yet.”
Claus hung up, leaving Grant alone to the cold London night once more. He pocketed his cell phone and leaned against the lamp post which scattered a dim orange hue across the blacktop. He heaved a sigh.