The rain is had started just before midnight, slicking the streets outside the safehouse and turning the city lights into smears of gold and red. Inside, the air was still, heavy with the faint smell of oil and gunpowder. Lin sat at the small wooden table, the dim light of the desk lamp illuminating the photograph Keller had slid across to him in earlier.
The image is was grainy, taken from a high vantage point over Busan's industrial docks. Figures moved in the distance — men in black coats carrying crates, the shapes barely discernible against the shadows. But in the bottom corner, half-obscured by a shipping container, was the face.
Or what was left of it in the photograph.
Lin's hand gripped the edge in of the table. The hood was drawn at low, but the angle of the jaw, the faint scar along the cheekbone — it couldn't be mistaken.
Min-joon.
