Chapter Text
Kim feels something unpleasant clench in his gut when his ringtone wakes him at an unholy hour. He normally wouldn't pick it up, but Khun hates calling. His brother usually sticks to double (triple, quintuple) texting and blowing up his phone until Kim replies. So Kim picks up, despite the awful hour, and he stays on the line when he hears the tense tone of Khun's voice.
"They can't find him. They- they keep looking but they're not going to find him," echoes a staticky mumble.
“Who?” Kim’s throat constricts. Please don’t say Kinn.
“Porsche,” Khun hiccups. Kim can’t tell if that’s worse. He can feel heat clawing at his shoulders. “Porsche. And Kinn. They keep looking but they’re not going to find him. It’s been too long,” comes the wailing in his ear. Kim’s shoulders drop, but he can’t shake the dread still pooling in his stomach.
If it’s not Kinn or even Porsche, who has his brother like this? Taking a deep breath, Kim slowly asks, “Phi, who is missing?”
That earns Kim his first sobs, “My littlest brother! They took him from me! The littlest brother is missing and they’re not going to find him!”
“Phi, I’m here. Your littlest brother is at his home, talking to you right now.” Kim tries to keep his voice gentle, soft. He balances his phone between his shoulder and his left ear as he pulls on a pair of boots and grabs his keys. His brother needs to see him physically when he’s like this, if this episode is bad enough that he’s calling.
There’s wordless squawk as Kim’s just reaching the door before Khun’s voice comes in louder than he’s been. “Not you– My littlest little brother! N’Chay. They took nong Chay!”
Kim hangs up. He’s dialing Kinn’s number as he races back through the apartment for the pistol in his kitchen drawer. It picks up on the fourth ring.
“Hello, nong. Not that this isn’t pleasant, but I have something I need to–”
“Tell me everything you know, starting with when.”
There’s silence, and then a sigh from the other end. Kim feels like static, barely kept in place.
“Khun called you.”
It’s not a question. Kim doesn’t answer.
“Okay, nong.” A deep breath. “Okay.”
—
The compound is a hive of activity when Kim pulls up, tires screeching and door slamming as he launches himself out of the driver’s seat and tosses his keys in the general direction of the door guard. Through the glass front door is a wall of churning suits and colorful print shirts alike, bustling across the atrium like spilled marbles. The shoal parts for the shark as Kim races to the golden elevators across the room.
The conference room is in chaos as Kim bursts through the door. The bodyguards in the room jump and look at him before resuming what they were doing, drawn guns holstered at the sight of his face. Kinn’s at the head of the table, hands spread wide against the wood. He’s more unkempt than Kim has seen him in years, his blazer thrown haphazardly over the back of his chair, eyes dark. There’s a coffee stain on his shirt. Porsche is next to him, hair disheveled and suit wrinkled, a wild sheen to his eyes as he harries orders on the new head bodyguard.
There's papers scattered over the table, a depressing confetti of manila and white as suits shuffle through packets of tax records and invoices, scrambling to find the line in the numbers that will tell them who could possibly be desperate enough to target the minor family. Arm is set up at a corner desk surrounded by a small china cabinet's capacity of empty coffee cups and enough bright monitors to make Kim's eyes feel dry in sympathy.
Kim feels invisible in a way he hasn't felt in this house since–Well, it's not a feeling he's used to anymore. Kim clears his throat. “Kinn.”
That invisible feeling is ripped away, though paranoia is quick to fill the void as Kinn's gaze snaps to meet his.
Kim doesn't have a moment to blink before Kinn's across the room standing in front of him.
“Kim,” a hand heavy with gold falls on his shoulder with a firm squeeze. “I'm glad you’re here.”
—
Traffic streaks past his windows like colorful headstones, tempting Kim to engrave himself on them as he tests the limits of his reflexes dodging through Bangkok traffic. Thirteen hours left. Kim regrets ever learning that statistic as he brings his foot down harder on the gas pedal of his BMW. Twenty-four hours after you’re abducted, your chances of being found drop to nearly zero percent. The chances are probably a little higher when you have the resources of a mafia empire and don’t have to deal with negligent law enforcement. Still, Kim’s knuckles are white on the wheel.
His phone’s robotic voice grates against his senses as it informs him to take the next exit. Dodging through vehicles and blaring horns alike, Kim mentally reviews what he knows.
First, Chay had been on his way home from university when he was taken. Chay's last lecture ends at 3:45 p.m., so the estimated time of abduction is 4. Chay wasn't reported missing until 12:22 a.m., when a housekeeper informed the security team that Chay hadn't touched the meal delivered to his room when he missed dinner.
How an untrained teenager slipped his personal bodyguard retinue, Kim doesn't know. What he does know is that said guards admitted (after extensive questioning) that they didn't report Chay missing for fear of punishment by the minor family head. They had hoped to find Chay before he was noticed missing.
All they'll find when this is over is Porsche's bullets between their eyes.
The second thing Kim knows is there was no sign of struggle, suggesting a quick abduction. There was only one piece of evidence left at the scene– Chay’s phone. Kim’s teeth ache from how hard they clench.
Chay’s phone had been the only piece of evidence on the scene. No struggle. Just one cracked phone, playing music from tinny convenience store earphones. Playing a song. Kim’s song– their song. Left on the street for anyone to hear. Arm found it, when he went with the first team to Chay’s GPS location. Porsche was with him, too. Kinn didn’t have to elaborate much more than that, his expression had said enough.
Whatever conclusions Porsche has drawn, whatever questions his brothers have, they can wait until they find Chay. Kim doesn’t want to know what Pa would’ve thought, now that all the pieces are back on the chessboard. But that line of thinking can follow the old man to his grave.
Kim bites his cheek as his phone chimes at him to turn. Refocusing, Kim goes over what Kinn told him about their leads.
“There’s a bit of security footage from the ATM across the street from where Chay–” Kinn’s voice had gone thin, like he didn’t have enough air to finish speaking.
Chay grew on all of them like moss– quickly and deeply, leaving softness wherever he rooted. “Arm followed some cameras until he got a clear shot of the plates. The van’s registered to a dry cleaning business on the edge of our territory. Arm will send you specifics.”
As far as intel goes, it wasn’t great. No hints as to the organization behind the abduction, no clues for the number of grunts in Kim’s way, just the Woggle Maps address of what is likely a shell company and the pistol digging into Kim’s lower back. Again, not great.
Kim pulls over just a few blocks from the storefront his phone is directing him to. After a moment of fumbling with his phone to turn off the robotic voice still telling him his destination is ahead, Kim takes a deep breath. He pulls the pistol from its holster under his jacket, drops the magazine and counts the bullets, then reloads. Ten. He shouldn’t need more than that. Guns are best for speed and intimidation in his experience. The real dirty work is up close and personal. Besides, Kim’s always been good with his hands.
Double checking that the safety is on, Kim tucks his gun back into its holster and hops out of his car onto the vacant soi. He knows the lack of foot traffic is likely accredited to the odd hour– it’s still a bit too early for anyone but the most dedicated of joggers to be out in the first dark blues of dawn, but instinct still has Kim’s awareness pulled tight. Nothing for it but to walk the last few blocks to the storefront, Kim sets off.
The front of the building isn’t what Kim expected. Even after a lifetime of this, he still expects on some level the dingy warehouses and abandoned buildings stereotypical to the mafia. Those aren't uncommon, sure, but in most cases the front is normal, like this one; the sign over the door is a few years old, but the vibrant graphic of smiling bubbles still grin sinisterly down at Kim as he approaches.
The storefront is well-kempt, windows clean enough that the silhouettes of clothes, hanging like bodies on the carousel, are just visible in the dim light.
The only thing amiss, if you know what you’re looking for, is the man leaning up against the front of the building.
He’s taller than Kim, clearly fit but not enough to scream hired muscle!, but Kim knows better. He's dressed down in non-descript greys and blacks, but the man’s shoes are military surplus, and his hair is close-shorn in a way that only monks and military-types sport.
The man has a cigarette dangling casually from two fingers, but he hasn’t taken a drag in the handful of minutes Kim's been watching him. It’s clearly a cover for him to be loitering outside. It's also Kim’s way in.
Kim sidles up to the man and flashes him his most awkward I’m-definitely-just-some-underage-rich-kid smile, “Hey, do you mind if I bum a smoke? Forgot to buy more and I’m getting shakes.”
The man looks less than impressed. "Fuck off, man."
Kim raises his hands in supplication, “C'mon, 500 baht for one. Just one.” The man sighs and Kim knows he's won.
Kim pulls the bill from his wallet as the man begrudgingly fishes another cigarette from the pack. The man makes a show of taking the money first, Kim just rolls his eyes and flings the bill towards him. The man shoves the smoke none too gently towards him and Kim zings with adrenaline as his ploy comes to fruition.
Kim's smile is catlike as he reaches for the cigarette, but at the last moment he sidesteps, grabbing the man's wrist and yanking him forward, pivoting his body so Kim comes up behind him. The man barely gets out a grunt of surprise before Kim's hand claps over his mouth, his other arm circling his neck in a tight choke hold.
Large hands fly up to scrabble at the arm around his neck in a futile attempt to pull it away. Maybe the man's less trained than Kim thinks. It's far easier to go for an attacker's weak points while being strangled than to try to release the hold. Legs try to kick back at Kim's but he holds firm as the man's eyes begin to bulge and his face goes red, then purple. Ten seconds. Fifteen. The man slumps in Kim’s hold.
Kim pulls the unconscious form into the alley between the laundry and the shell of some long foreclosed boutique. He double checks that all limbs are folded neatly behind the overflowing trash bags and discarded boxes conveniently placed near the mouth of the alley before dusting off his hands. Amateurs.
The street is still surprisingly clear when Kim emerges, no one has come to check on the lone guard or seemingly heard their exchange. Weird. Even for how apparently inexperienced these thugs are, this is too easy. The animal in Kim feels like he’s about to be caught.
Kim’s gut has never led him astray. The first time he didn’t listen to his instincts… Kim doesn't have time for stray thoughts.
Following the routine of his training, Kim circles the building. Standard front entrance, a small window about three meters from ground level, and a simple back door leading into the alley he stashed the goon in. No guards at all. The feeling in Kim’s gut worsens.
Doubling back, Kim takes another look at the window. It’s about in the middle of the wall, maybe a bit closer to the front than the back of the building. Kim walks backwards until his back heel hits the wall of the building behind him. He hits it sooner than he’d like, but he's always liked a challenge. With a roll of his shoulders, he breaks into a run– one leg up, two– Kim latches onto the sill with a grunt, the front of his torso slamming none too pleasantly against the white brick. Pulling himself up to hang by his forearms, Kim strains to see through the glass into the dark room.
It’s really not Kim’s day.
The window offers him no vantage into the building, the clothing carousel Kim spotted from the front windows now obscures any information he hoped to gain. With a huff, Kim drops back down to the concrete.
Nothing for it then. Kim draws his pistol, rechecking the number of rounds, ten, before flicking off the safety and rounding to the front door.
Show time.
With a push, Kim is slipping through the door before the surprise of it being unlocked leaves him. Inside it’s quiet, dust dances in the early morning sunbeams, only disturbed when Kim brushes through the bodies of clothes, silent footsteps deafening.
Sleeves of forgotten jackets and blouses brush over his raised pistol and hands with foreboding reverence as Kim sweeps through the main room. Beyond the crowd of fabric, he spots a set of white double doors set into a windowless wall.
Sliding out of the cover of clothes and into the scant empty space between the wall of fabric and the sterile white wall before him, Kim checks his magazine one last time, 10 rounds, and flicks off the safety. Positioning himself against the wall of the left door, he takes a breath.
And exhales.
Shots ring in the air as the door hits the wall with a BANG.