20.Make Quick Money

After the night's revelry, Lee Tae and Ding Qing slouched back on the sofa, exhaling clouds of smoke. "What did you want to talk about?" Lee Tae asked.

"Oh, come on, can't I keep a bit of suspense?" Ding Qing replied with a smirk.

"Am I the fool, or are you?" Lee Tae shot back. Ding Qing wouldn't call him out in the middle of the night just for fun. He knew Ding Qing well enough now to sense there was business involved.

"It's not really a big deal. We just need to make a slight change in direction." Ding Qing paused. "Soon, we may need to return to Seoul."

"Hey, kid, at least try to act surprised," Ding Qing muttered, disappointed. "You're making this way too easy for me."

"Whatever." Lee Tae stood up. Seoul, huh? The Benz roared down the street like an arrow. He hadn't expected this day to come so soon. He didn't have much in the way of assets right now, but once in Seoul, he'd have a golden opportunity. He needed to secure his first major cash flow before heading there.

The next day, in the manager's office of an arcade, Ding Qing, dressed in a loud floral shirt, barged in.

"Where's your boss?"

Seok Mu quickly stood up. "He's out handling some business."

"Who's with him?" Ding Qing asked suddenly.

"Not sure, boss."

"Mmm." Ding Qing muttered under his breath, not making it clear if he was talking to Seok Mu or himself. Hands in his pockets, he strolled through the three arcades. Not spotting Zhang Qian anywhere, he had a sudden realization—was his buddy out making money?

Busan, South Korea's second-largest city, boasts the country's busiest port and one of the world's busiest as well, where untold wealth passes through daily. In Sasang District's Moda-dong, amid the bustling streets, a blacked-out van crept into an alley behind the Nova Bank.

"Stick to the plan," a voice cold as ice rang out from the van. "If something goes wrong, every man for himself."

"Yes, boss."

With a zip, a snakeskin bag opened to reveal an arsenal: an M4 fitted with a grenade launcher, a shotgun, an M249—all enough firepower to clear a street. The three men silently grabbed their weapons from the bag.

"Move." The van door slid open, and three men in clown masks and black trench coats leapt out, moving like panthers through the back entrance into the bank lobby.

Boom! Shotgun pellets tore into the ceiling, blasting a hole through the plaster as dust and concrete rained down. The sudden chaos caused seven or eight customers and a few tellers to scream.

"On the ground!" A voice with an almost hypnotic authority boomed. "The money's the bank's, but your life is your own." The crowd immediately dropped, hands clasped over their heads.

The three men moved with precision. One controlled the lobby and locked the main door, another stormed into the monitoring room, destroying the cameras and taking the hard drive, while the third pressed a gun to the manager's back, guiding him to the private vault. Ruthless and silent, they wasted no time.

In the private vault stood a massive safe, towering over them. "Open it," the man with the shotgun growled, pressing it to the manager's head. "Unemployed or dead—your choice."

The manager, knowing when to comply, shakily entered the code, unlocking the safe. A blinding golden glow spilled out, reflecting off the three stacks of neatly organized gold.

"Number 3," barked one of the men. The hulking figure charged in, quickly filling three duffel bags with as much gold as they could carry. The bags were soon overflowing, and, without a second thought, they headed back out. In just two minutes and fifteen seconds, they were ready to leave.

"Move!" One man held his M4 toward the lobby, covering their escape, while the other two dashed out to the waiting van. The bags were thrown in, and within moments, they sped away.

At two minutes and forty-eight seconds, the van merged into traffic, blending seamlessly into the flow. In a port city like Busan, a black van attracted little attention. Three minutes was all it took to pull off the job.

As they drove, one of them glanced back, spotting police cars speeding toward the bank. He checked the time—three minutes and five seconds. Precise.

The van turned into a deserted park, where dead leaves covered the ground. A nondescript Hyundai was parked nearby. The three got out, threw the duffel bags into the sedan's trunk, and after a short distance, the van exploded, splitting into pieces and sending a fireball into the air. But it wasn't time to celebrate yet. Until they made it out to sea, nothing was certain.

The three men sat in silence as the engine hummed, the car cutting through the streets. Occasionally, police cars sped by, searching without direction. From under his clown mask, one of the men let out a low chuckle. These cops were like headless chickens, hopelessly rigid within their system, and had no chance of catching them.

The car continued unimpeded, eventually arriving at a small dock where a speedboat awaited them. With dozens of small docks around Busan—and plenty of hidden ones for smuggling—this spot was well-hidden. One of the men got out, scanning the area before saying, "Clear, boss."

The others got out, loading the duffel bags onto the speedboat. "Let's go." The boat sped off, slicing through the waves. Behind them, the car erupted into flames, lighting up the night.