Gunshots, explosions, screeching brakes—
In a blur, a corner of Osaka's port district had turned into the set of a full-blown action film. Amid the rising flames and roar of engines, a heavily armored Hummer burst from the heart of the explosion and tore across the streets toward the highway.
More than a dozen vehicles gave chase, swarming like hornets in pursuit.
This was no minor skirmish.
For once, Zoo's security force had deployed with real intent to kill—bringing out heavy weaponry despite being in the middle of downtown Osaka.
The 11th floor, where their critical data was stored, had been completely destroyed.
The higher-ups had given up hope on recovering it—now they only wanted blood.
Bullets hammered the Hummer's rear fender, sending up showers of sparks.
Noticing a group of enemies lying in wait at the left turn up ahead, Tequila jerked the steering wheel and swerved right instead, cutting hard into a narrow street. The Hummer's massive tires clawed the asphalt, and the pursuing killers lost ground.
In the back seat, Ireland flung open the door, one hand gripping the roof rail, the other lifting a grenade launcher.
With a deep breath, he pulled the trigger.
The explosive shot arced through the air.
A fireball erupted behind them. One of the pursuing black sedans was blasted into the air, its frame flipping sideways in slow motion before slamming into the pavement.
But the remaining killers? Still accelerating.
When the Hummer surged up the overpass, a red car broke formation and darted through civilian traffic to close the gap.
A deafening rotor beat roared up from beneath the viaduct.
A helicopter rose into view.
Its nose leveled just in time with the red sedan. In one breath, the windshield shattered, and a geyser of blood exploded from the driver's seat.
The red car veered wildly, spinning out of control.
In the helicopter's cabin, Cohen adjusted the scope on his sniper rifle, calm and deliberate.
Another clean headshot.
As the aircraft climbed higher—dodging the hail of return fire from the streets below—Cohen refocused on the next vehicle in his sights.
On the opposite side, Chianti was doing the same.
She dropped another gunman trying to hide behind cover.
But her tone was less composed.
"Tch! Why am I the one covering this bitch!? Shouldn't Calvados be doing this!?"
From the entrance of the crumbling Company building, Vermouth strolled out, winked toward the sky, and blew her a kiss.
"Screw you! I'm gonna put a bullet in that smug face!"
"Hehe~ By the way, they're bringing out rocket launchers."
Almost as if on cue, Chianti spotted a heavy rocket tube aimed her way.
The chopper veered sharply.
The incoming rocket sliced through the air, narrowly missing them—before erupting into a brilliant fireball that sent the entire helicopter shuddering midair.
Chianti gritted her teeth.
Before she could scream bloody murder, Vermouth was already gone—burning rubber in a black coupe.
Having lost the FBI in car chases more than once, Vermouth's driving skills were terrifying.
And she wasn't done yet.
One hand on the wheel, she reached into her chest, pulled out a remote detonator, and pressed the red button.
In the rearview mirror, the building behind her ignited—flames tearing through the floors in a violent chain reaction.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!!!!!!!
Smoke towered into the sky like a volcanic eruption.
In Vermouth's earpiece, the channel switched.
"Good job," said Gin's cold voice.
"Hmph. I thought those new explosives would pack more punch," Vermouth replied with a lazy smirk.
She noticed several vehicles closing in from multiple directions.
Bullets punched through her windows. Vermouth ducked—glass slicing across her shoulder.
No answer. Gin had cut comms.
Meanwhile—aboard the Apache
Vodka was weaving madly through the sky, dodging enemy fire as Gin rained death from the M230 cannon.
In the rear cabin, Hayashi Yoshiki monitored real-time feeds on multiple laptops, his eyes scanning every angle of the battlefield.
"Tequila, turn right at the next junction. You have two minutes tops."
"Got it!" came the gruff reply.
"Chianti, cover Tequila."
"Bourbon hasn't reported back."
"Doesn't matter," Gin replied flatly. "If he died in there, that's on him."
There was zero emotion in his voice.
The building had already been torn apart by Gin's bombardment—then obliterated by Vermouth's charges.
Even if Amuro had survived that, the chaos inside made it unlikely.
"Brother! Something's flanking us!"
Vodka yelled, eyes wide.
Gin had already noticed.
Several helicopters had crept in from the sides—unmarked, but clearly hostile.
Three peeled off in other directions, but two closed in fast—one from each flank.
Gunfire erupted from the distance, and the air filled with streaks of tracer rounds.
"They brought helicopters too!?"
Vodka shouted in disbelief but kept the Apache steady, dodging incoming fire.
"Wipe them out." Gin's voice was steel.
The Zoo's helicopters were no match for an Apache.
Their craft was more maneuverable, better armed, and flown by professionals.
And Gin was about to prove it.