Officer Pyo stirred in his seat. “Will we have a helicopter today? They said no, didn’t they?”
It was a sweltering day and the sewers stank.
Seungtae sighed. “The answer’s no. They just don’t get it. No matter how many times you tell them you can’t follow the rally’s path without a helicopter, guys at headquarters smirk and say, ‘You want to send a helicopter late at night chasing after a bunch of bitches on motorcycles? You think this is Los Angeles?’ Assholes.”
Seungtae had guessed they’d respond that way. But today’s motorcycle rally was different from previous ones. You got an idea of how big it would be from watching the numbers rise and fall on the rally’s online forums. Even Seungtae’s spies seemed excited. Like soccer fans anticipating the World Cup every four years, the motorcycle gangs eagerly awaited the rally. The difference was that no one knew when a “genuine” gigantic motorcycle rally would happen. But word was quickly spreading that the upcoming Liberation Day might be the big day that all the gangs had been waiting for.
“How many do you think will show up?” Pyo fiddled with a camera.
“How many do you think?” Seungtae asked back.
“I’m guessing around five hundred?” Pyo looked as if he might have overshot.
“Multiply that by ten.”
“Five thousand? Hey, that’s taking it too far.”
“Just watch. You’ll know why I said we absolutely need a helicopter.”
What would five thousand motorcycles sound like? Seungtae had never seen such a sight. And what if the motorcycles were customized to be even more deafening during the rally? The thought excited him as someone who rode a bike, even if he had to maneuver through them to arrest the leader and disband the ranks. The motorcycle was inferior to the automobile—no matter how classy your bike, it was a second-class citizen on the road. You could say that the only time this order was reversed was during a major motorcycle rally, but each time it was Seungtae’s fate to be opposing it. As soon as he thought this, he could hardly bear the stocky detectives’ stifling Hyundai Accent. Their breath smelled of cigarettes and spicy beef soup; and the air conditioner couldn’t handle the midsummer heat, the four men’s body heat, and the boiling asphalt.
Seungtae grabbed his walkie-talkie and checked on the progress. It was nine in the evening and there was no sign of movement yet. In the alleys he saw kids smoking by their motorcycles, and though he knew what they were waiting for, he couldn’t do anything about it—not yet. He felt his powerlessness, and for him this emotion inevitably grew into self-hatred. He struggled to escape the sordid muddiness of his feelings. Only violence could expel the inner darkness.
Seungtae reassured everyone. “It’s going to be an incredible night.”
He rolled down the window and let in the humid heat, which flicked across his cheek like a cow’s tongue.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he said, and lurched out of the car. “I’ll go on my own. It’s too suffocating in here.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll get my Harley from the station.”
Pyo, annoyed that the cool air was seeping from the car, slammed the door shut.