17

Magdalena pushed a cup of tea into Minho’s hands as he sat nervously at the edge of the threadbare armchair she insisted he wait in. Aloysius had sent word that he wished to speak—about the robbery gone wrong, no doubt—but ever since Minho entered the caravan he had been paid as little mind as the piece of furniture he sat in.

He sipped it. It tasted like dust on his tongue, but that had nothing to do with Magdalena’s skills as a hostess.

Aloysius cleared his throat delicately to get Minho’s attention. He peered over the tortoiseshell glasses that were perched at the end of his nose with an expression of irritation, as if offended Minho didn’t instantaneously teleport himself the few feet to his desk as soon as it became his whim.

Minho winced when the stool in front of the desk creaked under his weight. Aloysius folded his hands on top of his desk and stared at Minho unerringly. 

He swallowed, but it did little to dislodge the lump of unease clogging his throat.

“It, uh, was a trap, I think. Too many men for a merchant , too well-armed. The cargo was a chest of bricks,” offered Minho as succinctly as he could. Aloysius did not tolerate time wasted.

Aloysius took off his glasses and stowed them away in an inner pocket of his jacket. “I’m assuming your companion managed well enough despite this,” he said.

“Yeah, Taemin was great,” Minho tried another unsuccessful swallow. “I’d be dead without him, honestly. I’ve told you already, but, uh, he’s one to keep around. I’ll vouch for him.”

Aloysius let out a hum, signaling the end of that particular conversation. From a drawer in his desk he delicately extracted a piece of parchment, then he placed it precisely in front of Minho. A glance was all he needed to know he was meant to read it. 

Mr. Horace Grimley, the letter began. That was the name they used for all their inter-gang correspondence, a nom de plume of sorts to keep their identities secret. Minho’s heart quickened at the mention, and his name darted to the end of the letter for some kind of signature, but there was only a quickly scrawled “X” where it would be. He resumed reading where he had left off.

I am being held at the Territorial Prison at Deer Run on numerous charges, chiefly among them murder. My identity is yet unknown to them, but they are well aware of whom I associate myself with, and therefore I have bribed a guard to smuggle out this letter as a warning. Do not pay the price on my head. They have no plans to spare me, and are using me only as bait to lure you and the others out. I hold no blame for you in my heart, and I urge you to forsake me for the good of the rest. This is likely the last time my words will reach you, and so I bid you a solemn goodbye.

“M—Minseok?” Minho stammered. “Is this from—”

“Undoubtedly,” answered Aloysius. “Turn to the other side. Something is scratched there in that language of yours. What does it say?”

Minho had never lied to Aloysius, chiefly out of fear of the consequences if he was discovered, but also because he never really had a reason to. After the briefest scan of the words on the back of that page, he knew he would have to.

He cleared his throat and began to dodge the truth. “Uh, he says that he misses us… Rose and Kibum and me, I mean—though I’m sure he misses—”

Aloysius waved his hand like a conductor bringing a song to an abrupt halt. “If all it is is sentimental drivel, I don’t need to hear it.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Minho answered, and he folded the paper over in half. “Can I, um…”  He gestured to the pocket of his jacket.

“I suppose I have no use for it. Go ahead.”

Minho tucked the piece of paper away, relieved to hide those dangerous words away from Aloysius. If anyone could instantly learn a new language from sheer perseverance, it would be him. Minho then sat there awkwardly, unsure what to do or say. He knew he wasn’t yet dismissed.

Magdalena placed another cup of tea in front of him, and he was thankful to have something to pretend to be interested in while Aloysius ignored him for the next quarter hour.

“We’ll be heading to Missoula in a week,” Aloysius began casually as if the conversation hadn’t lapsed into uncomfortable silence. “Mr. Kim managed to locate these schematics on a reconnaissance mission. I trust that with them you’ll work out a way to get this open quietly.”

Another document was placed in front of Minho, one of multiple folded panels on delicate tissue-like paper. Minho’s brows furrowed in early concern as he inspected them.

“A vault, Aloysius? A bank vault? I can’t crack these with my tools. We need the keys or we need explosives. Only way that door is opening without permission is if we blast it off.”

What they needed was Minseok—explosives were his area of particular expertise—but he assumed there were no plans for a quick jailbreak before they attempted this robbery. 

“Too much noise has already been made in this area. We will be taking a subtle approach. You’ll need to sort it out.”

Minho leaned back in his chair and let out an exasperated exhale. “I don’t know if I can, honestly. This is beyond anything I’ve ever done. It’s like complex clockwork inside there. Isn’t this too much for us right now, anyway? Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but we struggled enough to hold up a train. What makes you think we can pull this off?”

“Whether or not we are properly equipped to tackle this right now isn’t of the highest importance. We need a large boon of cash, and only a job like this will suffice.”

“Yeah, but this soon? If I’m going to do this, I need more than a week. I need to speak with Kibum, figure out if there’s a way we can get copies of the keys… This is a months-long project.”

“We don’t have months,” said Aloysius sternly. There was a hint of a warning there, a subtle intimidation for Minho to fall back in line. “We only have two weeks.”

Minho was growing increasingly frustrated. “‘Til what? What happens in two weeks that’s so urg—”

Aloysius raised his voice to interrupt. “It’s Minseok’s execution date. What, you didn’t think I would seriously consider leaving him there to rot? He is worth the lot of you, and as his brother, you are honor-bound to come to his aid. I don’t believe there’s anything left to discuss. Take those, speak with Kibum, and leave me to my own work.”

Biting his lips to hold back a sigh or another argument, Minho rose from the chair with the schematics clutched in his fist. He was able to remember his manners enough to give Magdalena a parting nod, but as he stepped outside into the camp, his finger itched with the overwhelming urge to punch the nearest tree.

In the distance, he spotted Kibum playing a round of dice with Annie at the table. His friend let out a yelp as Minho grabbed him firmly by arm and dragged him away, knocking over the bench in the process.

“Ow!” Kibum complained, yanking his arm out from Minho’s grasp. He rubbed it with a frown. “No need to manhandle me!”

“We need to talk,” replied Minho sternly.

“Great. That’s cool, that’s fine, but can we do it with less physical violence? That’s my personal preference.”

Annie cleared . “So, uh, are we done then?”

Kibum let out a sigh. “Annie, my dear, you know it’s rare for us to finish a game without interruption. This camp simply can’t run without my intervention.”

“Oh, of course,” she responded dryly. “How lucky we are to have such