cup.
“More coffee?” The smiling young Korean waitress seemed pleased to be able to practice her English.
Gunner nodded. “
Ano
,” he said, taking a stab at the most basic word in his limited Korean vocabulary.
The woman smiled and half bowed, then poured more coffee into his mug.
Gunner’s thoughts focused again on the resumé of Jackrabbit Davenport, the man who could make the difference between failure and success in the next few days. Special Forces. Green Beret. Multiple kills in Afghanistan and Iraq before transferring to South Korea. Met a Korean woman. Married her. She died. He stayed. Mercenary work in Myanmar and Thailand. Then back to South Korea.
But for what? His wife was gone.
Maybe professional killers don’t talk. Jackrabbit barely said a word on their drive into Seoul. This odd-looking man, though American by birth and by appearance, seemed distant. Angry …
Gunner took another swallow of the hot coffee.
“Ready to roll, Commander?”
Gunner turned and saw the expatriate, dressed in his signature tight black T-shirt and black pants, a leather jacket plopped over his shoulder, making quick strides toward him.
Gunner stood. “Just need to pay. Then I’m good to go.”
“Make it fast,” Jackrabbit barked. “Jung-Hoon Sohn doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“You bet.” Gunner swigged the rest of his coffee.
He stepped to the counter and handed a credit card to the clerk to pay for his meal. As the clerk swiped Gunner’s Visa, the smell of beer breath made Gunner turn to see the source.
The familiar tattooed bicep brushed against him. “Truck’s out front,” Jackrabbit announced, then headed toward the revolving door at the hotel’s entrance. “Like I said, the man doesn’t like waitin’.”
Gunner rushed back to the table, grabbed the black leather jacket he’d left draped over the chair, put it on, and jogged out the front door. Already behind the wheel of the black pickup, Jackrabbit was staring straight ahead.
“Ready, Commander?” Jackrabbit revved the engine, and the truck screeched through the circular driveway, nearly striking a bellman, who jumped aside just in time.
“Strap up, Commander. We got thirty minutes to make it through this traffic.”
T he church was huge. They parked on the sixth floor of the garage, descended to ground level in a fast-moving elevator, then rode up three escalators to reach the church lobby.
The room was enormous, three stories high, with a row of chandeliers hanging down from the arched ceiling. Only a few men and women were milling about, watching the activity on six large video screens mounted on the walls. The screens, all showing different angles, displayed live images of a sea of people packed into the seats in the sanctuary, all gazing up at a middle-aged man standing behind the pulpit, waving his hands as he spoke.
Gunner didn’t understand a word. “That’s some conference. There must be two thousand people in there,” he said.
“The place seats four thousand,” Jackrabbit said.
“Jung-Hoon said your wife went here. You ever go with her?”
“Nah. She came all the time. She dragged me with her once in a while. I didn’t go very much. Easter. Christmas. You know?”
Gunner glanced back up at a screen. The conference appeared to be over. One camera showed a dozen conference attendees gathered around the pastor near the pulpit. He patted some on the shoulder and leaned over to perhaps whisper in the ears of others.
“You know him?”
“Quite well,” Jackrabbit said. “Met him through my wife. He’s tried to get me to come to church, especially after she died. But I never bothered.”
“He must be a good speaker. What’s his name?”
“Lee. Pastor John-Floyd Lee.”
“Hmm. I understand the Lee part. But John-Floyd doesn’t sound Korean to me.”
“His granddaddy was American. Married a Korean lady working at Osan. He’s named for his granddaddy.”
“So he’s one-fourth American,”
“More coffee?” The smiling young Korean waitress seemed pleased to be able to practice her English.
Gunner nodded. “
Ano
,” he said, taking a stab at the most basic word in his limited Korean vocabulary.
The woman smiled and half bowed, then poured more coffee into his mug.
Gunner’s thoughts focused again on the resumé of Jackrabbit Davenport, the man who could make the difference between failure and success in the next few days. Special Forces. Green Beret. Multiple kills in Afghanistan and Iraq before transferring to South Korea. Met a Korean woman. Married her. She died. He stayed. Mercenary work in Myanmar and Thailand. Then back to South Korea.
But for what? His wife was gone.
Maybe professional killers don’t talk. Jackrabbit barely said a word on their drive into Seoul. This odd-looking man, though American by birth and by appearance, seemed distant. Angry …
Gunner took another swallow of the hot coffee.
“Ready to roll, Commander?”
Gunner turned and saw the expatriate, dressed in his signature tight black T-shirt and black pants, a leather jacket plopped over his shoulder, making quick strides toward him.
Gunner stood. “Just need to pay. Then I’m good to go.”
“Make it fast,” Jackrabbit barked. “Jung-Hoon Sohn doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“You bet.” Gunner swigged the rest of his coffee.
He stepped to the counter and handed a credit card to the clerk to pay for his meal. As the clerk swiped Gunner’s Visa, the smell of beer breath made Gunner turn to see the source.
The familiar tattooed bicep brushed against him. “Truck’s out front,” Jackrabbit announced, then headed toward the revolving door at the hotel’s entrance. “Like I said, the man doesn’t like waitin’.”
Gunner rushed back to the table, grabbed the black leather jacket he’d left draped over the chair, put it on, and jogged out the front door. Already behind the wheel of the black pickup, Jackrabbit was staring straight ahead.
“Ready, Commander?” Jackrabbit revved the engine, and the truck screeched through the circular driveway, nearly striking a bellman, who jumped aside just in time.
“Strap up, Commander. We got thirty minutes to make it through this traffic.”
T he church was huge. They parked on the sixth floor of the garage, descended to ground level in a fast-moving elevator, then rode up three escalators to reach the church lobby.
The room was enormous, three stories high, with a row of chandeliers hanging down from the arched ceiling. Only a few men and women were milling about, watching the activity on six large video screens mounted on the walls. The screens, all showing different angles, displayed live images of a sea of people packed into the seats in the sanctuary, all gazing up at a middle-aged man standing behind the pulpit, waving his hands as he spoke.
Gunner didn’t understand a word. “That’s some conference. There must be two thousand people in there,” he said.
“The place seats four thousand,” Jackrabbit said.
“Jung-Hoon said your wife went here. You ever go with her?”
“Nah. She came all the time. She dragged me with her once in a while. I didn’t go very much. Easter. Christmas. You know?”
Gunner glanced back up at a screen. The conference appeared to be over. One camera showed a dozen conference attendees gathered around the pastor near the pulpit. He patted some on the shoulder and leaned over to perhaps whisper in the ears of others.
“You know him?”
“Quite well,” Jackrabbit said. “Met him through my wife. He’s tried to get me to come to church, especially after she died. But I never bothered.”
“He must be a good speaker. What’s his name?”
“Lee. Pastor John-Floyd Lee.”
“Hmm. I understand the Lee part. But John-Floyd doesn’t sound Korean to me.”
“His granddaddy was American. Married a Korean lady working at Osan. He’s named for his granddaddy.”
“So he’s one-fourth American,”
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