(It's time to start preparing to run.)
Disguised with a cold, sharp face, Amuro Toru sprinted down the ruined corridor of the bombed-out building, dust and debris clinging to his clothes and hair.
He was finally approaching ground level.
The explosions triggered by Vermouth had collapsed multiple passages, burying personnel and creating chaos throughout the structure. Navigating through it was nearly impossible.
A soft sound from his earpiece broke the silence.
Still alert, Amuro spoke first:
"I almost got caught in your fireworks show. Next time, I'm not doing a mission with you."
"Hmph. You sound lively enough," Gin's sarcastic reply came through coolly.
Having reached the first floor, he looked around for a getaway vehicle. Given the confusion, no one should be paying attention to him—at least in theory.
The bullet grazed Amuro's shoulder. He had ducked just in time.
He snapped his head toward the source—
A tall, broad-shouldered man with a deep scar across his face was standing near the wreckage, a smoking pistol in his hand.
"Sharp little rat," the scar-faced man growled.
"...So you found me out, huh?" Amuro said, narrowing his eyes.
"You think your disguise was that good? I've had my eye on you for days."
Amuro took off his mask, revealing his youthful face and smirked.
"Then I have to ask—how's it feel now? If you'd outed me sooner, maybe your bosses wouldn't have lost half their compound."
The scarred man's expression darkened.
He had known Amuro was suspicious. But he'd waited—thinking he could uncover the entire network. In doing so, he'd underestimated just how ruthless their opponents could be.
"Don't get cocky. You're not getting out of here alive."
Amuro tensed. This man was no ordinary grunt—and Amuro was deep in enemy territory. Backup could arrive at any moment.
"Mr. Bourbon, are you in the middle of a confrontation?"
A voice—unfamiliar, cold, emotionless—echoed through his earpiece.
"Just a suggestion. Take exactly three steps back."
"Or not. Your choice."
"Time's ticking. Five... Four... Three..."
Something primal tightened in Amuro's spine. He didn't know how, but he trusted his instincts.
He observed the scarred man, whose finger had begun to squeeze the trigger—
A massive slab of concrete broke loose and came crashing down—right where the scarred man stood.
The man jumped back instinctively. Amuro reached for his own weapon, but more debris rained down. He had no choice but to retreat.
A concrete wall thundered to the ground inches in front of Amuro. The dust was blinding.
When he looked again—
The scarred man was gone.
Crushed, maybe. Or escaped.
Amuro didn't care. He bolted for a vehicle.
Vermouth was racing through the city's highway system.
Her grip on the wheel was tight, eyes darting between lanes as bullets whistled past.
"Too many," she hissed. "Chianti has pulled away, and I've got no firepower left."
She dropped another bomb behind her—boom!—hoping to delay the killers gaining on her.
The unmistakable sound of rotor blades.
A gray helicopter approached from ahead.
The same emotionless voice from before.
"Lower to 120. Rightmost lane."
Vermouth gritted her teeth. From behind, cars approached rapidly. From ahead, the chopper's chain gun swiveled toward her.
Bullets riddled the road.
Vermouth swerved—hard right. Rubber shrieked.
"You have seven seconds. Seven... six... five..."
What the hell is Cointreau playing at?
But she followed the countdown.
As the chain gun began to spin—
A van behind her exploded. A tire, on fire, flew like a comet into the air.
It smashed into the helicopter's nose.
The Apache dipped. Gunfire raked the side of the road just beside Vermouth.
"Two... One... Zero—"
The enemy chopper hit a billboard—blades snapping, metal twisting—before sliding to the ground and exploding in a fireball.
Vermouth gripped the wheel, stunned.
What... just happened?
The timing, the explosions, the debris... every detail had aligned.
No. It was too precise. It was... calculated.
Tequila slammed the wheel left. The Hummer smashed into a sedan trying to cut them off.
In the back seat, Ireland was still firing like a madman.
"This is insane!" he yelled. "I'm going numb from the shooting!"
He leaned out to fire again—
A bullet grazed his arm. His gun fell.
"Got it!" Tequila shouted, having just received orders.
He jerked the Hummer into the right lane.
"In eleven seconds, enter the oncoming lane. Stay in the second left lane."
"Eleven... ten... nine..."
Tequila's focus narrowed.
When the countdown hit one, he swerved hard.
The Hummer hurtled into the opposite lane—honks and screams erupting as traffic parted like the Red Sea.
A massive truck came at them head-on—Tequila barely dodged.
"Keep speed. Change lanes in five seconds."
Overhead, Chianti adjusted her sniper rifle.
The tanker truck's tire exploded. It tipped—
Tequila changed lanes again—just in time to slip past the collapsing truck.
The shockwave lifted the Hummer into the air.
Behind them, enemy vehicles were swallowed in flames.
Ireland stared out the back window—eyes wide.
Above Osaka Port, in a hovering chopper—
Hayashi Yoshiki removed his headset. He turned to Gin.
"Mission accomplished."