After Jae’s massive rally passed through the area, the only people remaining were motorcycle club members. Their attack on the run had failed, and some of them had damaged their motorcycles. Ambulances raced in and carted off the injured. Seungtae parked his overheated Harley, squatted on the pavement, and watched the roaring mass move farther away. His lower back throbbed from the pummeling he’d received.
The dermatologist’s BMW stopped near him, and he asked Seungtae, “What are you doing? Did you get hurt?”
“No, I’m fine.”
He got out of the car and offered Seungtae a cigarette.
“I don’t smoke.”
“They’re a bit frightening, seeing them close-up like that.”
“It’s because they’re fearless. How do you win with guys who aren’t scared of dying?”
Seungtae had also been afraid. When the pipe had come down on his back and head, he’d been helpless. Thankfully, the kids had been steering their bikes while attacking, so the hits were softened. Still, if he hadn’t instinctively lifted his arm and blocked them, he might now be rolling on the pavement. Within the police force, Seungtae held the most moderate views on the bikers. He had opposed cracking down on them because he knew too well that catching hundreds, no, thousands of them wouldn’t stop them. His theory was that the largest crews would slowly shrink in number with guidance and preemptive crackdowns, and after that, controlling them with traffic laws would be sufficient. Above all, Seungtae knew that they weren’t the scum they were made out to be on the Internet. When you actually met them, they really were just kids. Innocent and easily frightened. If they received a text that scared them before a large rally, many didn’t even show up.
But Jae was different. Normally when Seungtae approached a boy, even if he was a leader, he would shrink back. He would be intimidated just by the fact that a police officer knew his name. But Jae’s crew had actually attacked Seungtae, and they had shrugged off an attack by heavyweight motorcycles.
This kid was dangerous.
Over the past few months, Seungtae had collected more information on Jae. He now knew where Jae was born, how he had grown up, and his current living situation. Seungtae had spoken to the director of the orphanage and received relevant documents, and had even more paperwork concerning Jae piled up on his desk. He’d recently acquired evidence suggesting that Jae wasn’t just a rebellious kid but someone with ambitions toward political and spiritual leadership, like Malcolm X.
It was no easy task leading thousands of motorcycles across the city. You needed an animal’s instinct and an intimacy with the city’s roads and sudden curves, and, on top of all this, you needed to anticipate police action. Jae managed to accomplish all of this with basic methods like flag and hand signals and text messages.
Seeing Jae close up, it was hard to continue thinking of him as a teenager. Even Seungtae, who had encountered countless numbers of gangs, felt awe the moment he approached Jae and the yellow flag attached to his pitiful 125cc bike. The baptism of steel pipes that had flown at Seungtae directly afterward felt like the punishment he deserved for being disrespectful. Of course that feeling faded as soon as he left the rally. It was like waking up from a spell. An unbearable emptiness replaced admiration; it was like an emotional hangover.
“Block them at the Han River, you bitches!” Shouts from the National Police Agency situation room nearly burned out Seungtae’s walkie-talkie. Commissioners with ranks and names he didn’t know were yelling at him while watching the CCTV images transmitted on screen.
“If they reach Gangnam, just wait and see what happens to all of you!”
His superiors kept repeating that the motorcycle rally must be stopped, clueless about its size. It was three or four times bigger than any motorcycle rally Seungtae had known. Even if you cut off its tail, the riders merely took detours then rejoined the main body. Jae had kept security tight up to the rally, and then once it began, lithely crossed the city, which he seemed able to read. It was enough to make you suspect that someone was helping him by watching the road conditions from a control room.
Seungtae drove down to the Itaewon neighborhood where a task force was on standby. Itaewon was a strategic area in Seoul where foreign forces were stationed. The Qing military had based itself there during the Sino-Japanese War, and after the Korean War, the American army did so as well. From here, you had a bird’s-eye view of the Han River, with easy access to both north and south.
As soon as Seungtae joined the Special Response Team, he sent a text message: “Which bridge will they cross? That’s all I need to know.”
A response came promptly back: “Hannam.”
He asked Pyo, “Where are the kids right now?”
“They’re in Daehangno.”
“Then we’ve got less than ten minutes. It’ll be Hannam Bridge. Tell them to set up a barricade. Divert the traffic, and block Banpo Bridge. Dongho Bridge too.”
The task force members drove to Hannam Bridge. One squadron of the conscripted police force had already arrived on the scene.
Seungtae hustled to the front. “In groups of two, attack with batons. Go at them from both sides. They’ll slow down around this point, so don’t be scared to just pull them down. There’ll be a bike with a yellow flag attached to it—don’t let that guy get away. He’s a wanted man. He’ll be up front. Catching him is your goal. Whoever brings him in gets a bonus vacation, commissioner’s orders.”