you cry, you die. chapter 7

Minutes later, he sat huddled in a dimly lit noodle shop, his mind racing. He kept replaying what had just happened, and Bronson’s final, dying word: "Jackdaw."
What was he trying to tell him? And who were the two men in the house? They didn't move like locals, but were they Brits? CIA? Triads? Whoever they were, Vic had just led them straight to Bronson—and straight to his execution.
Shaking, Vic reached into his pocket for coins to pay for his drink. Instead of loose change, his fingers brushed against a small, folded scrap of paper. He pulled it out and unfolded it:
“If you’re reading this, then I’m dead. I’ve been triple-crossed. The information I have is safe for now, but they won’t stop searching for it, and God help anyone who steps in their way. You’ll know where to look. Find it and give it to someone you can trust, so they can bring my killers to justice.”
Bronson must have slipped it into his pocket just before the end. Vic remembered—it must have happened when he was kneeling beside Bronson's dying body. What did he mean, “I’ll know where to look”? If it was that obvious to him, the others were going to figure it out too. Damn it, this was already giving him a headache.
He walked into Jenson’s tea shop. The moment Jenson saw him, any trace of his usual humour vanished.
“It’s been all over the TV and radio. Big news,” Jenson said, keeping his voice low. “Three men dead in a house. No known cause, but the police are tearing the place apart. Has that got anything to do with you, Vic?”
Vic didn't flinch. “Only one of them. They killed Bronson, but before he went down, Bronson managed to finish off the second guy.” Vic leaned in, his eyes dark. “Bronson left me something that’ll bring the world crumbling down around their heads. Now all I have to do is stay alive long enough to deliver it.”
Jenson walked over, his expression tight, and placed a hot drink on the table. “So what did he leave you?”
Vic stared into the steam rising from his cup. "Fuck knows. But I’ve got to find it—and damn fast."
Jenson pulled a chair out and sat across from him. "Did Bronson leave any clues to where it is?"
Without a word, Vic slid the note across the table. Jenson flattened it out and read it over and over again, his brow furrowed. Finding nothing, he looked back up. "Did he say anything else to you before he died?"
Vic rubbed the tender lump on the side of his head, searching his memory. A sudden flash of white noise.
He was back in that first house, waking up surrounded by splintered glass and a ring of shattered photo frames—every single one of them picturing birds.
"Jackdaw," Vic breathed, the memory snapping into sharp focus. "Jackdaw is a bird. And I know exactly where to find it."
He locked eyes with Jenson, his tone shifting to a dead-set urgency. "I need a favour. Can your guy fix me a new passport? Because the second I get my hands on it, I need to vanish—and vanish for good."
Jenson leaned back in his chair. "He can, but there's one condition: I vanish with you. They know we're friends, which means I'm a marked man now. So, Wing Commander, you're stuck with me whether you like it or not."
Vic turned on him, his expression hardening. "For fuck's sake, Jenson, this isn't a game. But I don't have a choice do I—you'll have to come. Only you do what I say or do. You shit when I say so, you fart when I do. You understand me?"
Jenson clicked his heels together, a sharp grin cutting through the steam of his tea shop. "Yes, sir, Wing Commander," Jenson murmured, leaning in close over his cup. "I’m right on it. One passport, coming up."
Across the narrow street, Khao San Road buzzed with life, but their focus was locked entirely on Apartment 41-B. Vic didn't blink. The stakes were too high. That apartment was Bronson’s old place—and his ex-girlfriend was still squatting inside.
"We need her cleared out," Vic said quietly, eyes fixed on the building opposite. "I need to get in, secure whatever Jackdaw is hiding, and then we vanish."
Jenson tapped his chopsticks against the table, a calculating gleam in his eye. "Right. So... you got any idea how we actually get her out of there?"
Vic picked up his drink and took a sip. "She has to work. And if she’s working from home, she still needs food and drink. So, we wait for her to leave the building—either for supplies or for an errand. Then we go in."
"We?" Jenson asked, frowning. "What's with the we bit? You got a mouse in your pocket? You’re not going in. I need you here on the outside, keeping eyes on the place. You got your mobile phone?"
Jenson nodded.
Vic continued, "We’ll use the phones for comms. If you see or hear anything, tell me."
"By the time I’ve dialled your number, and the time it takes for you to answer, the danger will already be on top of you," Jenson pointed out.
"Ring me a minute before I go in and keep the line open," Vic said. “Speak only if you see or hear something. Use only one earpiece so you keep contact with me at all times, but leave the other ear free, make sure the phone is fully charged. I’ll only be in there thirty minutes max, so the battery will last.”
Jenson nodded. “Understood.”
Vic slid a photograph across the table. “This is the ex-girlfriend. We’ll sit here for an hour, and if she doesn’t show, we’ll move over to the bar two shops up. We’ll still have eyes on the building. There’s one way in and two ways out—the front entrance and the fire door—so keep your eyes open on both, okay?”
They split up at the intersection—Vic heading toward the neon haze of the night market, and Jenson seeking out his fixer friend in the alleys behind it. Two hours later, they rendezvoused at the Golden Bowl Noodle Bar.
They slid into a corner booth and immediately plugged both burner phones into a portable power bank on the table.
"The passport is going to cost you six hundred American dollars," Jenson said, leaning in. "I’ve also been told two of the bodies were American. The local police are calling it a botched house burglary."
Vic let out a dry breath. "I figured as much. Right, first lesson in spy craft: you have to look like you're here for a reason. Sitting in a bar or a noodle shop for an hour without food or drink on the table looks suspicious. The rule for this kind of work is always look like you're meant to be there. If you're in a bar, you drink. If you're in a noodle shop, you eat. Is that clear?"
Without breaking eye contact, Jenson flagged down a passing waitress and ordered two bowls of noodle soup and a pair of cold beers.
They sat back in the cramped booth, nursing their drinks in silence, and waited for the girlfriend to leave. Thirty minutes later, they saw her leaving. Vic got up and walked over to the building, answering his phone as he walked. Inside the building, he took the stairs. He heard Jenson’s voice: “Shit mate, she’s coming back, wait-wait, she’s passing. She’s going into the Blue Paradise Bar, she’s now ordering, you’re clear.”
The apartment front door was easy to open. Vic used his lock-pick to open it. He walked straight over to the hallway and started checking the framed bird photos until he came to the Jackdaw frame.
He carefully extracted the photo from its frame, slipping out a small, cold key and a tightly folded piece of paper. Before he had a chance to pocket the key or unfold the note, a chilling voice cut through the silence.
“I’ll take those, if you please.”
Vic froze, his muscles tensing as he started to reach out to hand them over.
Suddenly, the door exploded inward, slamming violently against the plaster wall. The intruder spun around, weapon already raised, but he was too late. Standing in the shattered doorway was Jenson.
With a flash of motion too fast to track, Jenson flicked his wrist. Before the man could even level his weapon, a heavy silver throwing star buried itself deep into his forehead.
An hour later, they sat in the Fighting Tiger bar. The key and the note rested on the sticky table between them.
"I don’t understand what the note is telling us. Read it again," Jenson said.
Vic picked it up and read aloud:
“This key has killed me, and will probably kill the finder too. The secret the key holds must not fall into the wrong hands. Vic, I really hope you’re the finder. I know they will eventually send you after me. Do you remember karaoke night? That’s when you tried to sing 'A Poor Man's Son' by the Rocking Berries. That guy in the chip shop. He was 37 and twenty years older than you—did you really have to go tangling with him?”
Vic put the note down and shook his head. "Not a clue. I can’t remember ever singing 'A Poor Man’s Son.' I’ve been tangling with guys all my life."
Jenson turned to Vic, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. "I think I know what he’s telling you," he said, leaning forward. "You say you never did sing a poor man’s son? You say you never had a tangling with that guy aged 37 and twenty years older than you?"
Vic picked up his pint, raising an eyebrow. "Okay, Sherlock Holmes, what’s he telling me, then?"
Jenson chuckled, ticking the clues off on his fingers. "Listen to the phonetics, Vic! Sing a poor man’s son... say it out fast. That’s Singapore!"
"Next, tangling with that guy aged 37 and twenty years older than you. Add 37 and 20 together—that gives you 57. Combine that with tangling, and you get 57 Tanglin Road Singapore!"