The anxiety made Rentaro’s blood vessels tense.
“Here it comes!”
An intense barrage of flashes came as the bullets from the Browning tore through the porous concrete in front of their car like a pile of dirt. The holes forced the vehicle to swerve, and left ugly scars on the road.
But Hotaru wasn’t out to lose. Even nimbler and more accurately than before, she leapt from vehicle to vehicle. The .50-caliber Browning gunfire, missing them by an instant, instead thudded through the engine block of the previous car, triggering an explosion. With a screamlike screech, it spun out and off the road.
With superhuman skill, Hotaru continued her leapfrog act. The heavy machine gun traced her path in the air, turning her footholds into scrap one by one. The unending torrent made the rain evaporate in midair, with Hotaru and Rentaro threading the needle in between. A bullet brushed by Rentaro’s cheek at supersonic speed, making a twing sound as it did—but all he could do was fight off the g-forces tugging at his body, gritting his teeth until they were nearly in pain.
“There’s too much fire! I can’t get close!”
Finding herself running short on footholds to jump on, Hotaru was rapidly cornered. The rows of cars behind them were a pockmarked hellscape.
Rentaro’s mind raced, trying to find a solution—then the sight before him drained the color from his face.
“Hotaru! Tunnel!”
The tunnel through the low hill in front of them was no more than three and a half meters tall. They couldn’t execute any flying leaps in there—and once that advantage was taken from them, they were dead.
This is it, thought Rentaro as he shut his eyes tight.
But then, like a bolt of lightning, an idea ran across his brain:
“Hotaru, can you run on the ceiling?”
Hotaru shot him a look, mouth agape. But she must have grasped the question a moment later, because she turned forward again, jaw determined.
“Just three seconds. Make them count.”
The rapidly approaching tunnel entrance loomed, looking like the hideous maw of a demon roaring in laughter.
With a loud whoosh, they were in. For just a moment, the curtain of rain lifted, clearing the scene around them. The machine gun swiveled and locked on to them. But Hotaru jumped just a blink in advance.
Immediately afterward came gunshots, followed by an explosive shock wave. But they didn’t look back. They didn’t have time to.
Ignoring the scene behind her, Hotaru leapt up and landed on the ceiling, running horizontally across it.
“Rentaro!”
Now upside down, Rentaro released his hands from Hotaru’s midsection and—as if swinging on a flying trapeze from his feet—took a position inverted from the ceiling. His hands free, he gripped his Beretta handgun and held it up—or down, in this case. The truck was in his sights. He quieted his breathing, closed his eyes—and unleashed his eye. A geometric pattern emerged in its iris, performing calculations at lightning speed. The hems of his clothing flapped impatiently in the wind, all but expressing the panic within Rentaro’s own mind.
Look at what you did, you bastards. All those civilian victims.
Seeing Rentaro size him up with the look of an enraged beast, the enemy gunner must have been scared witless. His whole body trembled as he tried his best to turn the gun’s muzzle toward him. But it was too late.
Rentaro fired three times. He was aiming next to the gunner—at the rear left tire.
The moment the hole opened in the nitrogen-stuffed tire, it immediately burst, the high inside pressure seeking an escape. The truck lurched, its driver misjudging his steering, then collided against the right-hand tunnel wall. He had applied the brakes, but the force of nearly 120 kilometers an hour against the wall lifted the truck up into the air, sending it to its side and spewing metallic shrapnel on the ground as it bounced and rolled another thirty meters or so. The gunner was thrown clear of the vehicle, striking the ground.
But Rentaro, from his less-than-ideal firing position, was facing some recoil of his own. It was one thing for a lightweight Initiator to run across the ceiling. It was quite another for her to support Rentaro’s weight at the same time.
Just as the floaty feeling of being thrown by something flashed back to his mind, he found the asphalt down below rapidly approaching his head.
He balled himself up, taking the impact at the top of a shoulder as he bounced up into the air. Pain seared across his brain as he was sent spinning off by the force.
Ensuring he was no longer in motion, Rentaro shakily pulled his body up, hands on the road as he tried to keep from ejecting the contents of his stomach. With unsteady steps, he ran toward Hotaru, who had fallen from the ceiling in similar fashion.
“Hotaru! Hey, Hotaru!”
He kneeled down and slapped her cheek. She must have fallen headfirst. There she lay on her back, fresh blood dampening the side of her head. She was motionless.
After repeatedly calling for her, Rentaro saw Hotaru’s eyelids blink a few times then groggily force themselves open.
“You are so stupid. I can regenerate myself, remember? I’m a lot more solidly built than you are.”
Rentaro breathed a sigh of relief.
“That’s not the problem,” he said, “you idiot.”
Because she healed faster than most, she failed to realize that the sight of a wounded child lying on the ground was what concerned Rentaro.
“What about the van?”
He turned around, startled. “I’ll check it out,” he said, picking up the Beretta on the ground before advancing slowly on the vehicle. It was on its side, now blocking all lanes of the tunnel. The traffic behind it was stopped, the chaos on the other side already clear to his ears.
One of the jumpsuited processing managers was hurt and bleeding from his head. The other two were bruised and dazed but not seriously injured. After a crash as spectacular as that, Rentaro was surprised nobody was killed. Only one was conscious, and just barely, but the injuries would prevent resistance for the moment.
Going around back, he found two Gastrea corpses thrown from the rear of the chilled container.
Finally found you.
There was the Gastrea that he drew the fake pentagram on, and next to it, the Gastrea in the picture he’d found at Dr. Surumi’s home.
It was an impressive sight. At nearly six meters long, its extended proboscis made for an eerily eye-catching silhouette. It had wings like an insect, its rib cage exaggerated and basket-shaped. Rentaro couldn’t guess what biological elements clashed against one another to create this.
“That’s definitely the one Kihachi and I killed a month ago,” Hotaru said, clearly put off by the Gastrea at her feet.
This was what started this whole mess in the first place. When Dr. Surumi discovered the star marking on this Gastrea and conducted an autopsy—she found something. And that something erased both her and Suibara. There had to be something on this Gastrea body that linked it to the Black Swan Project, still a total mystery to Rentaro. It had to, or else it’d be the end of the road for him.
Snapping on the nitrile-rubber gloves that he borrowed from the morgue, Rentaro ignored his sense of disgust as he examined the stomach area, the surgical scar easily noticeable across it. When he opened the incision, he was greeted by a sharp, acrid stench that permeated deep into his eyes, battering his mucous membranes and making him turn his face away.
But there was no time to linger. The police must have known by then about the gunfight on the expressway. He needed to wrap this up in around two minutes if he wanted enough time to flee.
So he stuck his arm in. Through the thin layer of rubber, he could feel the slippery flesh around the stomach on his fingertips as he brought the heart into view. It was the whole, translucent organ, like the innards of some giant squid—and the star mark he was seeking was right nearby.
He removed his knife from his waist. Slowly, carefully, he cut out a square of surrounding tiss
ue and put it inside a film case he had along with him. He also took a sample of the epidermis, the outer skin layer, just in case.
The squishy heap and its samples were already decomposing on him. He thought about, and simultaneously dreaded, the idea of ducking into a nearby grocery store for some dry ice. But he still had some other business to handle.
Moving to the driver’s side of the truck, he opened the door and grabbed the still-conscious processor by the collar, setting him down on the ground. He had a cut on his cheek, a bloodstain on his jumpsuit at chest level, and a look of sheer animosity in his eyes as he silently glared upward.
“You got nowhere to run,” the man warned.
“Where were you going to take this Gastrea?”
The processor did not reply.
“Why did your group try to take the Gastrea away?”
The man was silent.
“What’s the Black Swan Project?”
“……”
“Answer me, you asshole!”
The anger was clear in his voice as he lifted a fist into the air. Something grabbed at it.
It was Hotaru, and she was shaking her head.
“It’s time.”
His temper made him fail to notice, but if he strained his ears a little, he could hear the sirens. Rentaro gave the jumpsuited man another vengeful glare. There was so much he wanted to ask him, but it wasn’t like he could kidnap him and run. Damn it.
“Where to next, Rentaro?”
Rentaro brought the film case up to Hotaru and lightly shook his head. “We need access to a facility where we can have this tissue sample analyzed,” he said, his voice low. “I dunno if it’s something any old lab could help us with, but there’s one person I think we can count on.”
He took one more half turn toward his prisoner.
“Relay a message to Hitsuma and Dark Stalker for me. Tell ’em I’m gonna get Enju, Tina, and Kisara back.”
Then he turned back ahead and fled with Hotaru.
4
Tsurayuki Kimishima tightened his jaw, checking the sturdiness of his stool as he sat down on it. He had been silent for three hours already, his eyes transfixed on the floor.
Suddenly, a pair of hands slapped down on the steel desk in front of him.
“Look, will you just talk already? Huh? How long d’you think you can get away with that?”
The tiny room they were in made the body of the detective, his crew cut making him look the very picture of a high-school gym instructor, seem to loom even larger than normal. The passing shower had grown stronger, making the humidity in the interrogation room intense.
Tsurayuki lifted his face slightly from his jumpsuit, stained with blood and soot. “I’m using my right to remain silent,” he steadfastly said. “Get me a lawyer. I’m not saying anything until then.”
It was a more than effective way to apply further fuel to the detective’s anger.
“What’s with that attitude you got? Huh? Do you have any idea what kind of situation you’re in right now? That gunfire you and your pals sprayed all over the expressway killed people. Why was there a machine gun mounted on your truck in the first place? Where did you obtain that from? Where were you going to take the Gastrea bodies?”
The detective glared at Tsurayuki, crawling back into his shell of silence. He found himself drawing his lips back in anger—perhaps a perverse smile at the futility of it all.
“All right. Once I’m done raking your ass over the coals, I’m tossing you into lockup. I hope you don’t miss the outside world too much, because you ain’t gonna be breathing fresh air for a while.”
Two soft knocks came from the room’s single door.
“Feh,” the detective spat out as he stood up and stormed to the door. “Who is it now?”
And then:
“Oh, hello, um…!”
Suddenly the detective seemed intimidated. Tsurayuki looked over, wondering what was up.
“But…,” he continued. “But that’d…” Then he fell silent.
Tsurayuki was left alone in the interrogation room for a while, but when the door opened again, someone new stepped inside.
It was a younger man with a long face, adorned by a pair of silver-framed glasses that gave him an air of intelligence. He had to be a detective if he was in there, but who was he? The suspense made Tsurayuki swallow nervously as he looked up.
The man stopped in front of him, then suddenly spread his arms wide.
“I’m here to protect you.”
The man before him rolled up his suit and the shirt sleeve underneath. On his upper arm was a five-pointed star, three of the points adorned with ornately designed wings.
A shock ran across Tsurayuki’s spine. He shot to his feet and bowed.
“Please pardon me, sir! I wasn’t expecting a three-wing in here.”
“My name is Atsuro Hitsuma. Don’t worry. There’s no surveillance in this room.”
“How are my friends doing?”
“They’re undergoing treatment at a hospital. Under police observation, of course. Tell me what happened.”
“Y-yes, sir! I managed to burn the two Gastrea at the last minute before the police could seize them…but they took a tissue sample from it.”
“Where do you think they went?”
“They’re getting closer to the plan. I’m sure they’ll look for someplace where they can analyze that sample. A lab facility as high-level as that…”
Hitsuma steeled his eyes behind his glasses.
“Shiba Heavy Weapons?”
Getting out of the car, Tadashima used his suit jacket as an umbrella, scurrying through the rainstorm toward Magata Station. He ignored those around him as he thundered into the building, his pace quickening as he passed right by the office with the specially assigned investigation team he was supposed to be leading.
Instead, he went straight under a sign reading CRIMINAL AFFAIRS. It was quiet, devoid of detectives at the moment. They were all out pursuing leads in the Rentaro Satomi fugitive case.
Once it became clear to everyone that Rentaro Satomi was alive, the investigation team, previously figuring they’d be disbanded before long, reverted into a hive of activity. Now they had another incident to cover—a messy crime scene covering a fairly hefty stretch of freeway.
Hitsuma was just on his way out of the interrogation room.
“Superintendent Hitsuma! What’d you do with the suspect?”
“He’ll be put in custody at the main HQ for the time being, Inspector.”
“What?” Tadashima groaned. “Sir, with all due respect, that’s complete bullshit! The taxi driver’s in critical condition. We’ve got four people dead, shot by that heavy machine gun. I couldn’t even tell you how many casualties there are. It’s like a goddamned field hospital right now, where they were taken to. I have no idea what’s going on here. For the sake of the victims, at the very least, someone needs to pry open the suspect’s mouth with a pair of pliers—and that’s my job, sir! Let me through, please!”
“That’s a commissioner order, Inspector.”
The response came point-blank. It put Tadashima over the edge.
“Superintendent, you know as well as I do that I’m not one to talk when it comes to ignoring orders…but what you’re doing right now is textbook interfering with a police investigation! What are you trying to do, deceiving the commissioner like this? Please, sir, I want to be on your side here, but…”
Hitsuma did not answer. He simply looked down at him with a cold, lifeless stare. Looking at those eyes, Tadashima could feel the full depth of the chasm that now yawned out between them. Even if the entire world turned upside down, there would be no changing his mind any longer. That was all too clear now.
Tadashima spun around. “We’re done working together. I’m taking action on my own from now on.”
“We were told by the investigation headquarters that we are to operate as a two-man team. If you decide to take action on your own volition, I
reserve the right to report that to my superiors.”
“You’re the one acting on your own volition! If you don’t like it, feel free to rat on me or punish me or whatever you like.”
Tadashima started walking—right out of the police department. He never looked back. Hitsuma, watching him go, made sure he was firmly out of sight before sighing and shaking his head.
“We have to get rid of him now,” said a new voice. “Otherwise it’s just gonna get worse.”
Somewhere along the line, Dark Stalker—Yuga Mitsugi—had sidled up next to him. The operative shot a sharp glance at Tadashima.
Hitsuma shook his head again to stay him. “No. If my partner gets killed, I’d have to personally answer to that. Leave him. We’re acting just as shady as he is.”
With effort, Yuga relaxed his gaze and shrugged. “So what’s the plan then, Mr. Hitsuma? ’Cause this isn’t really going too well right now, is it? Like, three of our members arrested for a mass shooting?”
“It won’t be a problem,” Hitsuma said as his middle finger propped up the bridge of his glasses. “The two unconscious suspects in the hospital are going to go into cardiac arrest. We’re planning to have Tsurayuki Kimishima write a note in his cell and hang himself. No leaks, no nothing.”
“Not a stone left unturned, huh?”
“Not a one. You make a mistake, you pay for it.”
“If you seriously want to eliminate Rentaro Satomi, you need to use me.”
“The decision’s already been made. He’s been assigned to Swordtail. You’re on standby.”
Yuga gave him a cold, sideways glance, then silently disappeared down a station hallway, sulking.
There was no doubting his skills in battle, Hitsuma thought to himself, but there was something unfathomable about Yuga still; it was hard to read what he was thinking at any given point. In the end, it was easier to control a pure, unadulterated warrior over someone with a few threads dangling loose.
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