Bargaining in Front of the Cement Barrels

The nauseating, pungent smell of cold, hard, dull pain, rust, and fish, like a rough hand, shoved into Walton's drowsy consciousness, violently dragging him out of the dark mire.

My head was throbbing, as if an electric drill was churning inside my skull. There was a constant, low buzzing in my ears, mixed with a kind of monotonous mechanical rumbling.

He tried to raise his hand to rub his temples, but found his arms too heavy to lift, and were tightly bound behind his back by something rough and digging into his flesh. Not only his arms, but also his ankles felt the same suffocating restraint.

He suddenly opened his eyes.

My vision blurred at first, then slowly focused. Above me were rusty steel beams covered in cobwebs and condensation.

Dim light streamed in from a few dilapidated, dusty windows high up on the side, forming several murky beams of light in the air, within which countless dust particles danced slowly. The air was damp and cold, carrying with it the salty, rotten stench unique to harbors.

He twisted his neck, trying to see his surroundings. Then, boundless fear, like a cold, venomous snake, instantly coiled around his heart, almost stopping his breath.

He found himself stuffed into a huge, dirty, industrial blue plastic oil drum! The drum walls were cold and rough, pressed against his back.

The rim of the bucket was wedged right under his armpits, his arms were tied behind his back, and his feet were also bound. He was trapped in this container, which reeked of chemicals and engine oil, in an extremely humiliating and immobile position, with only his head and shoulders exposed.

He struggled violently, his body slamming against the inside of the oil drum with dull thuds, but it did nothing to help except cause stinging pain from abrasions and a deeper tightening of the rope. He turned his eyes in terror to the side.

There were at least four or five identical blue oil drums lined up in a row. Inside each drum was a familiar face—his most trusted bodyguard! Jack, along with five other team members.

They, like him, were tightly bound and stuffed into the barrel, their mouths gagged with rags, their faces filled with shock, anger, fear, and disbelief. Jack's eyes met his, revealing deep despair and a hint of regret. They tried to struggle, the barrel swaying slightly, but was clearly held firmly in place.

"Waaah! Waaah!" Walton tried to shout, but found his mouth stuffed shut with a musty-smelling rag, and could only manage muffled whimpers.

The rumbling sound came from not far away. He turned his head with difficulty and looked in the direction of the sound, and was immediately terrified.

Just a few meters away, a dusty cement mixer truck, its tank stained with dried cement, was parked. The massive drum was turning slowly and heavily, emitting a monotonous and terrifying rumble. The discharge chute at the rear of the truck pointed obliquely to the ground, like a silent, steel behemoth waiting to be fed.

Around the cement mixer truck stood seven or eight burly men in black suits, their faces expressionless. They stood with their hands folded in front of them, like lifeless sculptures, coldly watching the "cargo" in the oil drums, their eyes devoid of any emotion. This was clearly an abandoned dock warehouse, and in the distance, through the broken roller shutter door, one could see the gray sky and the outline of a rusty gantry crane.

It's over.

The thought, like ice water, instantly chilled Walton to the bone. Lee Byung-hun! That bastard who kept calling him "brother"! He wasn't interested in cooperation at all; he was after money! No, he was after money and murder!

After the extreme fear subsided, a surge of rage at being betrayed and fooled rushed to his head, temporarily overpowering the fear. He struggled and twisted even more frantically, banging his head against the barrel wall with dull thuds, and letting out a trapped beast-like roar, suppressed by the cloth.

Money! They want money! He still has money! Given the chance, he can buy his way to his death! He has funds scattered in various places, and secret accounts! Lee Byung-hun, that greedy bastard, just wants more!

Just as he was struggling in vain and almost suffocating, a clear, unhurried sound of leather shoes tapping on the concrete floor came from deep within the warehouse.

"Da... da... da..."

The sound echoed in the empty, silent warehouse, carrying a playful and unhurried quality, like a cat Rat.

A figure slowly emerged from the shadows and stepped into the dim light.

Walton's pupils suddenly contracted.

It was that young man known as "Director Bai"! Lee Byung-hun's confidant! At this moment, he was wearing a crisp, pure white suit that seemed out of place in this dirty environment. His hair was slicked back and perfectly combed, with a pair of gold-rimmed Glasses perched on his nose, and a toothpick casually dangling from his mouth.

With a half-smile on his face, he strolled over slowly, finally stopping in front of Walton's oil drum. He leaned down slightly, examining the once arrogant United States "chairman" inside with great interest.

Walton stopped struggling and, with all his might, tried to convey a message through his eyes—negotiate! I can negotiate! I have money!

The man in the white suit seemed to understand his gaze, and the curve of his lips widened. He reached out and gently tapped the cold plastic bucket with his index finger knuckle, making a soft "tap-tap" sound. Then, he suddenly leaned closer, almost pressing his face against Walton's.

Walton could smell a faint scent of cologne on him, mixed with a colder, metallic, and deathly aura.

Immediately afterwards, the man in the white suit opened his mouth—

"Pooh!"

A thick, tobacco-smelling saliva was spat precisely onto Walton's terrified, contorted face. It was sticky, warm, and utterly insulting.

Walton's body stiffened abruptly, and his stomach churned violently.

The man in the white suit straightened up, took out a snow-white handkerchief, and slowly wiped his mouth, as if he had just done something insignificant. Then, he turned his head and lazily said in Korean to a younger colleague who understood English:

"Damn it, what the hell is this United States muttering? Did he pee his pants? Translate this for me."

The underling immediately stepped forward, bowed respectfully, and said to Walton in flat, emotionless English, "Director Bai is asking you what you were saying."

Walton, as if grasping at a last straw, shook his head desperately, gesturing with his eyes to the gag in his mouth.

The man in the white suit tilted his head, seemingly amused, and nodded to his underling.

The henchman stepped forward and roughly ripped the rag out of Walton's mouth. Walton immediately gasped for breath, then, ignoring the filth on his face, he cried out in a hoarse, trembling voice, filled with fear and pleading:

"Money! I have money! Lots and lots of money! Let me go! Let me and my people go! I'll give you money! All the money! Switzerland banks! Cayman Islands! Many accounts! Just let me go, I'll tell you the passwords! I'll give you everything! Please!"

He screamed until he was hoarse, tears and snot streaming down his face, the image of the once-powerful business tycoon completely gone, leaving only an ugly, trapped beast desperately trying to survive.

The younger brother translated his words into Korean without any expression.

Upon hearing this, the man in the white suit seemed to have heard the funniest joke in the world. He suddenly threw his head back and burst into laughter. "Hahaha! Damn it! This United States, does he really think we're uncultured country bumpkins?" He laughed so hard he was doubled over, but there was no smile in his eyes behind his gold-rimmed Glasses, only cold mockery.

He chuckled a few times, then suddenly stopped, his expression instantly turning as cold and venomous as a snake. He stared at Walton and said slowly and clearly in Korean, "Tell him. Make him hand over all his money, now, immediately. If that happens, perhaps I might consider sparing his life."

The underling immediately translated, his tone still icy. "Director Bai said, hand over all your money, now, immediately, all of it. That way, you might be spared."

Walton's heart pounded, as if it would leap out of his throat. He saw hope, even if that hope was built on the other party's greed. "Fine! Fine! I'll hand it over! I'll hand it over!"

He cried out urgently, "But... but there's a lot of money to be processed! There are passwords, two-factor authentication, and lawyer's authorization! Some accounts require me to connect in person or through a middleman I designate to access them! Let me out! I promise, as soon as you let me out, I'll immediately take action and give you most... no, two-thirds! No, all of it! All of it! Just let me out!"

He spoke rapidly, trying to buy time and space with complicated procedures and huge promises of benefits, even fantasizing that he might find a glimmer of hope in the process, or at least leave a spark for a comeback.

The younger brother translated his words. The coldness on the white-suited man's face gradually turned into an extremely impatient, disdainful look that showed he had seen through the trick. He slowly raised his hand and reached for the back of his white suit jacket.

Walton's words came to an abrupt halt, gripped by an even stronger, more ominous premonition than before.

When the man in the white suit pulled his hand out from behind his back, there was something extra.

A silver, sleek handgun, gleaming coldly in the dim light. Walton couldn't recognize the model, but the dark muzzle was pointed directly at him.

The man in the white suit stepped forward, his left hand gripping Walton's perfectly intact right ear like an iron clamp! The action was brutal, carrying an undisguised cruelty.

"Ouch!" Walton cried out in pain.

The man in the white suit grabbed Walton's ear, yanked his head to the side, and simultaneously raised his right hand, pressing the cold muzzle of a gun firmly against Walton's earlobe! The hardness and coldness of the metal pierced through his skin, striking his nerves.

"No! No! I'll give you the money! I..." Walton's pleas turned into a desperate scream.

Bang--!!!

Deafening gunfire erupted in the empty warehouse! The echoes crashed and reverberated wildly between the steel and concrete walls!

"Ah--!!!" Walton let out a scream so shrill it was inhuman! A violent, explosive pain suddenly erupted from his right ear, instantly engulfing half of his head! Warm, viscous liquid, along with bits of flesh and bone fragments, sprayed out, smearing half of his face and splashing onto the snow-white cuffs of his white suit.

His right ear was almost completely blown off, with only a little skin and flesh connecting it. It was a bloody mess, and blood gushed out like a stream, instantly staining his neck and shoulder red.

The excruciating pain made his vision blur, and his body convulsed and writhed wildly and uncontrollably inside the oil drum, emitting gasping sounds and suppressed, bestial groans of agony. In the nearby oil drums, his bodyguards, their eyes bloodshot, roared in fury and struggled frantically, but to no avail.

The man in the white suit released his grip on the mangled ear, letting Walton convulse in agony. He disgustedly shook his blood-stained hand, glanced at the bloodstains on his cuff, and frowned. Then, he turned to the translator, his face regaining its mocking smile, and spoke loudly in Korean, as if sharing a brilliant joke:

"Did you hear that? This United States, 'personally handling' it? 'Designating an intermediary'? What the hell does he take us for? Three-year-olds? Or those stupid kidnappers from Hollywood movies?"

The translator lowered his eyes, not daring to respond.

The man in the white suit scoffed, no longer looking at the underling, and turned his gaze back to Walton, who was in the oil drum, pale-faced, trembling, and on the verge of fainting from the pain and blood loss.

This time, he didn't use his younger brother to translate.

He stepped forward and, with his left hand stained with Walton's blood, roughly grabbed Walton's chin, forcing the man to lift his face, contorted with pain and fear. Then, he raised the silver pistol, still faintly smoking, and pressed it steadily and coldly against Walton's bleeding right temple.

The skin could clearly feel the circular outline of the muzzle metal and the lingering warmth.

Walton's screams abruptly stopped, leaving only heavy, trembling, blood-frozen breaths. His remaining left eye, wide open to its limit from extreme fear, stared intently at the cold, ruthless face of the man in the white suit so close to him.

He could smell the tobacco in the other person's breath and see the cold, cruel, and impatient light in the other person's eyes behind the gold-rimmed Glasses.

The man in the white suit tilted his head slightly and spoke slowly and clearly in Korean, word by word. His voice wasn't loud, but it was like the whisper of death, piercing through the ringing and excruciating pain in Walton's ears:

I'll count to three.

The translator immediately stepped forward and, in equally cold, flat, but slightly trembling English, translated in unison. "Director Bai said. He counted to three."

The man in the white suit began counting, speaking slowly, with suffocating pauses between each number, while the gun pressed against Walton's temple:

"하나.(Ha-na. 一.)"

My translation. "One."

Walton was stiff all over, his blood seemed to be flowing backward, and the excruciating pain in his ears seemed to have gone numb. All that remained was the deadly coldness on his temples and the frantic screaming will to survive in his mind.

"둘.(Dul. 二.)"

"Two."

No! I can't die! I can't die like this! Money! I still have money! I'm still useful! Walton's mind raced in despair. He still had a sum of money! A sum hidden in Switzerland, held in a special trust structure, but accessible immediately with an emergency code and a single authorization—his "lifeline"! It was his last, true trump card, originally intended for bribing key figures or hiring top mercenaries to turn the tide in the most extreme circumstances! The amount was... fifty million US dollars! Cash! Almost instantly transferable!

"셋...(Set... Three...)" The man in the white suit parted his lips slightly, the third number about to be uttered, and the finger on the trigger seemed to begin to exert a little force.

"Fifty million!" Walton roared, his voice shrill and distorted by the last breath in his chest, "Dollar! Cash! Union Bank of Switzerland! Secret account! Code is XXXX-XXXX-XXX! Authorization password is Alpha-Seven-Zulu-Niner! Transfer it now! Immediately! Right now! All of it! Please! Don't kill me!"

He shouted so urgently and clearly that the translator was momentarily stunned before quickly translating his words, especially the string of code and password.

The man in the white suit, about to utter the word "three," stopped. The pressure from the gun barrel pressed against Walton's temple seemed to ease slightly.

He tilted his head, looking at Walton's left eye, which was almost bulging out of extreme fear and pleading, for a few seconds, as if assessing the veracity of the information and the final value of this dying old dog.

Inside the warehouse, only the rumbling of the cement mixer truck and Walton's heavy, desperate breathing remained.