Though this site was considered a base of the Zoo organization, it hardly lived up to the name—it lacked discipline, structure, and professionalism. In truth, it looked more like the private residence of one of their higher-ups.
There was no shortage of guns and cash piled throughout the house, but Gin and his team had no interest in those. Instead, Vodka was instructed to rip the hard drive from the central computer.
"Speak! Have you seen the woman in this photo?! Did someone from your group take her?!"
Tequila barked furiously, pressing the photo of Shirley against a trembling man's face and jabbing his gun into the man's temple.
The captive's face glistened with cold sweat as he stammered, "Y-Yes… yes…"
Vodka stepped in, voice low and laced with threat.
"You'd better not be lying just to save your skin. Last chance—have you really seen her?"
"Kill him," Gin ordered flatly.
The gunshot echoed through the hall. The bullet tore through the man's skull, painting half the wall behind him crimson.
Two or three more were dragged in by Vodka and Tequila. Each was shown the photo and interrogated separately. Each one claimed they vaguely remembered her—but not a single one could give meaningful details.
They all died under Gin's gun.
"They're telling the truth, brother," Vodka concluded grimly. "Looks like Shirley really was rescued by these guys!"
Gin didn't deny it. After all, despite separate interrogations, the stories were consistent.
And this planted serious suspicion in his mind—the Zoo may have taken Shirley.
Of course, that was exactly what Hayashi Yoshiki wanted.
Thanks to his participation in the raid, he had access to the identities of various foot soldiers. That was more than enough to use the Death Note to craft a network of planted memories and synchronized lies. With just a little scripting, the entire organization's attention would be drawn deeper into this red herring.
"But the ringleader listed in the intel—he's not here," Tequila said.
"He may have hidden in a secret room… or used a secret passage to escape."
Yoshiki checked his watch.
"If I had to guess, the hidden space would be in the collection room."
"You figured that out already?" Vodka blinked.
"Judging by the building's layout, it's the most logical choice."
"Let's check it," Gin decided.
The room was cluttered and chaotic—decorated with antique swords, suits of samurai armor, and faded calligraphy scrolls. Vodka and Tequila combed every inch, pulling scrolls off the wall and checking under displays.
"It's behind this case!"
The large, heavy display case shifted aside, revealing a recessed wall panel that slowly slid open.
Behind it—a narrow, unlit staircase leading downward.
Gin tossed a light stick inside. The greenish glow disappeared down into darkness.
"It's a tunnel," he said coldly. "Not a safe room—an escape route."
"Gin, the situation's changed," Chianti's voice crackled over the comms. "Cohen and I spotted several vehicles moving toward your location."
"Not that we can see."
"Brother, should we pursue through the tunnel?" Vodka asked, looking down the passage.
Gin didn't even hesitate.
If the tunnel was a trap, and they were ambushed from both sides—it could be catastrophic.
The four quickly retreated into the courtyard.
Tequila jumped into the passenger seat of the Hummer. Vodka took the wheel, strapped in, and gunned the engine.
The Hummer roared to life, reversed hard, spun around, and tore through the gates. As they fled, a hail of gunfire chased them—bullets pinging off the armored shell.
"These bastards are fast," Vodka muttered, checking the rearview mirror.
"Outta my way!" Tequila yelled, sticking a machine gun out the window. He let off a burst, only to hear a jam.
He flung the weapon away and barked over his shoulder:
"Brother! Give me the spare!"
Yoshiki calmly passed over the second weapon. Tequila caught it and was back out the window, laying down cover fire.
"Cohen, what's your status?" Gin asked into the comms.
"We're retreating. I'm retrieving Chianti."
"Head toward the train station," Yoshiki interjected quietly.
Gin turned to look at him, brow raised.
Yoshiki simply glanced at his watch and smiled faintly.
"Can't let me just sit here, can you?"
"…Drive toward the station."
Vodka obeyed without question, swerving down the road.
More enemy vehicles appeared behind them, engines roaring, passengers firing madly.
Bullets struck the Hummer's hull, casting sparks into the night. At the next intersection, three cars boxed them in—cutting from both sides and the front.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
An SUV slammed into the Hummer's left side, rocking it. Vodka gritted his teeth and counter-steered, narrowly dodging another crash.
"Goddamn!" Tequila cursed, blood streaming from his arm.
His gun dropped from his weakening grip.
Gin, calm as always, leaned out his window and fired twice.
The driver of one pursuing vehicle collapsed, his head bursting like a melon. Without hesitation, Gin pulled two grenades from his coat and yanked the pins.
The Hummer surged forward.
Behind them—two rolling grenades clinked against the pavement.
The concussive blast rippled through the street.
Yoshiki, seated in the back, could feel the tremor through the seat. In the rearview mirror, flames engulfed two chasing vehicles.
But there were still more.
Yoshiki calmly looked at his watch, calculating the distance and time.
"Next intersection—turn right."
Without hesitation, Vodka veered right.