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A convoy of over a dozen SUVs stormed into the compound of the research institute.
Gin's gaze turned icy as he surveyed the courtyard littered with corpses.
It wasn't sorrow for the dead that chilled his expression, but rather the audacity of whoever had dared to invade one of the Organization's facilities so brazenly. Beyond that, there was the gnawing frustration that Shiho—Snowflake—might have perished in this massacre, denying him the satisfaction of killing her himself.
"Boss!"
Vodka stood beside Gin, his eyes wide with shock at the sight of the bodies scattered across the ground.
Though members of the Black Organization, and despite having killed before, their operations were usually covert assassinations. This blatant, almost terrorist-like assault left even Vodka trembling with unease.
At that moment, Gin's instincts flared. A strong sense of impending danger caused him to swiftly push Vodka's head down, barking, "Hit the deck!"
The next instant, the suppressed crack of assault rifles echoed through the air. Bullets sliced through the atmosphere like rain, cutting into the group of Black Organization members.
The mercenaries brought by Fujiwara had already secured high vantage points, raining down cold-blooded fire on Gin and his men. In an instant, several Black Organization operatives fell amidst cries of agony.
The members accompanying Gin, like him, were highly paid mercenaries with extensive combat experience. The moment they realized they were under attack, they all took cover behind the SUVs.
The leader of the mercenary squad occupying the high ground felt a chill run down his spine. He cursed under his breath, "Damn it, I knew this mission wouldn't be simple."
"Be careful! These guys have battlefield experience—they're not just ordinary security personnel. Don't die here!"
By now, the mercenary captain was already considering retreat.
They numbered only six, while the enemy had at least thirty or forty. Moreover, the Black Organization's forces were armed with rifles as well, making the disparity in firepower minimal.
Although they'd managed to take out a few enemies with their surprise attack, wiping out the entire opposing force given the numerical disadvantage was nothing short of a pipe dream.
'If only we had rocket launchers or landmines planted in advance…'
But such thoughts were futile. All they had were rifles and sniper guns.
"Suppress them! Don't give them a chance to counterattack!"
The mercenary captain calmly issued orders, and together with his team, began firing at the Black Organization members. Any attempt to peek out was met with a hail of bullets.
From behind the SUV, Gin listened silently to the gunfire. Bullets struck the vehicle in front of him, yet he remained unfazed.
Gin sneered, "Not many of them—only six distinct gunshots. Counterattack!"
With that, Gin pivoted from his position by the car door, propping his M16 against the vehicle. With calm precision, he unleashed a rapid burst of fire toward the source of the earlier shots.
His marksmanship was extraordinary, far beyond that of an ordinary man. In an instant, one of the mercenaries was pinned down, unable to raise his head.
With Gin leading the charge, the other hired members of the Organization weren't about to sit idle. Dozens of guns opened fire simultaneously, and Vodka joined Gin, unleashing a barrage of bullets.
The scene resembled a chaotic New Year's celebration, with the relentless sound of gunfire filling the air. The courtyard of the research institute had become a battlefield. Bullets struck the concrete walls, sending shards of stone flying.
The CIA-backed mercenaries were immediately forced to retreat, cowering under the intense counterfire. Their squad leader shouted urgently:
"Retreat! Retreat!"
"Their firepower is too overwhelming—we can't win this!"
Special forces might excel in specialized missions, but when exposed to a larger force, their limited firepower was rendered useless.
Now, this elite squad faced an opponent whose firepower far exceeded their own. Worse still, the Black Organization's mercenaries were battle-hardened soldiers who had emerged from countless conflicts. Against such overwhelming firepower, this elite unit stood no chance.
The mercenary captain couldn't help but curse inwardly. Where had that suspected CIA operative disappeared to? Had he sold them out?
Knowing the CIA, they were fully capable of such betrayal!
"Thinking of running? Kill them all!"
Gin sneered. If they had the guts to attack the Organization, they should've been prepared to die.
He was thoroughly engrossed in the fight now.
Though his hands were stained with countless deaths, opportunities to engage in such battlefield-like chaos were rare. He was determined to wipe out every single intruder who dared to violate the Organization's facility!
The wailing sirens of police cars echoed in the distance as Tokyo's law enforcement finally arrived on the scene.
But Gin paid no heed to these Japanese police officers. If they dared to enter, he would simply mow them down.
Fortunately, the Japanese police weren't fools. Hearing the deafening roar of gunfire and witnessing the battlefield more intense than a fireworks display, they quickly abandoned their vehicles and took cover behind them, trembling with fear.
"Inspector Megure, is… is this what you call a shooting incident?"
Officer Takagi crouched behind a car, his revolver trembling in his hand. He glanced at his suit, then at the uniforms of his fellow officers.
None of them wore bulletproof vests. And what about the enemy? Every single one of them wielded M16s—fully automatic rifles. If it came to a firefight, they would all be slaughtered.
After all, they were merely police officers, at best detectives, while their opponents were clearly professional soldiers!
Officer Sato's legs trembled, and Inspector Shiratori wiped the sweat from his forehead. The sound of bullets ricocheting off the police cars sent shivers down their spines.
The other officers who had rushed to the scene weren't any different. Forget returning fire—they didn't even dare to peek out.
Inspector Megure squeezed his bulky frame behind the car, swallowing hard as bullets whizzed past his ears. His jaw quivered.
He had seen it all during his years as a detective.
But this… this was something else entirely!
"Inspector Megure, we need… we need to call in the Self-Defense Forces! This is way beyond our capabilities!"
Inspector Shiratori shrank back, gritting his teeth as he shouted.
Inspector Megure nodded repeatedly, "Shiratori is right. We… we need the Self-Defense Forces!"
Just then—
Officer Takagi's ears twitched amidst the storm of gunfire. "Do you hear that?"
Several officers also noticed the sound in the air—it sounded like the whirring of helicopter rotors.
Instinctively, they looked up and saw something approaching in the distance. Their eyes widened in disbelief.
"A… Apache attack helicopter?!"
Inspector Shiratori collapsed onto the ground in shock, dropping his gun.
Was this really Japan? Was this really Tokyo?
It felt more like the frontlines of Ukraine or a battlefield in Syria!
Had they somehow time-traveled?
Against those wielding rifles, they might have stood a chance.
But facing an Apache attack helicopter? One sweep of its guns, and everyone would be sent to their graves!
Staring at the approaching Apache, the Japanese police were dumbfounded.
Officer Takagi instinctively raised his revolver, aiming it at the distant helicopter.
Inspector Megure, seeing this, nearly had a heart attack. He grabbed Takagi's wrist, horrified, "Takagi, what are you doing?!"
Realizing his folly, Officer Takagi hastily dropped the revolver.
He had almost committed an act of sheer stupidity that would've gotten them all killed!
Inspector Megure sighed in relief as Takagi lowered his weapon.
An Apache attack helicopter? Did he really think he could take it down with a revolver?
Even Hollywood blockbusters wouldn't dare depict such a scene. Only absurd Indian action films would dare to go that far.
Inspector Megure gazed at the approaching helicopter, swallowed hard, and instinctively raised his hands in surrender.
Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that, as a Japanese police officer, he would one day perform the French military salute.
The other Tokyo officers followed suit, raising their hands in unison to signal their surrender.
They didn't know which side the Apache belonged to, but they understood one thing: they were powerless against it.
Surrendering outright might just save their lives.
In the distance, reporters from Nippon TV had already arrived on the scene.
The intense gunfight raging inside the research institute had them ecstatic, snapping photos and recording footage like mad.
Now, witnessing nearly a hundred Tokyo police officers raising their hands in surrender, they momentarily forgot about the Apache hovering above. Cameras clicked furiously as they captured the surreal moment.
Not only did they want to capture it—they wanted to make it artistic. Perhaps this year's Pulitzer Prize would be theirs!
Mizunashi Rena's lips twitched. She knew the CIA operated without regard for laws, acting with reckless arrogance.
But to see an Apache attack helicopter parading through the skies of Japan's capital, possibly preparing for a terrorist strike, exceeded even her imagination.
Her new boss truly was a madman!
Inside the compound, the exchange of fire between the Black Organization and NATO special forces mercenaries had ceased.
When most people were wielding sniper rifles and assault rifles, bringing in an Apache attack helicopter was akin to cheating.
Gin, hiding behind an SUV, stared intently at the Apache in the sky. His expression remained stoic as he muttered something under his breath.
Beside him, Vodka trembled upon seeing the Apache. He nearly wet himself, stammering, "Boss!"
Glancing at Gin, who remained composed and exuded the demeanor of a master, Vodka calmed down. 'No wonder Boss Gin is revered—he remains unfazed even as mountains crumble before him. Such grace serves as a model for us all!'
But what exactly was Boss muttering?
Vodka leaned closer, straining to hear. Finally, he caught Gin's words:
"Fuck!"
A single word, yet Vodka was awestruck, brimming with admiration.
Truly worthy of being the boss—so erudite, unlike someone as coarse as himself.
He thought of the myriad emotions swirling in his mind, the thousands of words on the tip of his tongue, yet he couldn't articulate any of it.
But with just one word, the boss expressed everything he felt. Boss was incredible!
Gin clenched his teeth, listening to the thunderous roar of the rotors and feeling the wind whip against his face. He turned to Vodka and roared with all his might, "Run!"
One word—"fuck"—and one word—"run." Simple commands, yet they left Vodka in awe.
Even in the direst moments, the boss remained calm, making the correct decision in seconds and issuing concise orders. Truly, the boss was the boss. And so—
"Boss, wait for me!"
Gin and Vodka scrambled with all their might, sprinting toward the research building behind them with record-breaking speed. They wished they had two extra legs as they dashed forward.
Take down an Apache with an M16?
Please. My name is Gin, not Superman. That thing could obliterate tanks!
Gin wished he had a Stinger anti-aircraft missile at that moment. Only with such a weapon would he dare confront an Apache.
As Gin and Vodka made the wisest choice—running for their lives—the terrifying sound of Gatling fire descended from above.
From a great distance, the M230 chain gun mounted beneath the Apache's nose unleashed a torrent of bullets at a rate of a thousand rounds per minute.
Simultaneously, Hydra 70 rocket pods and AGM-114 Hellfire missiles mounted on the helicopter's stub wings were fired indiscriminately.
In an instant, the square of the research institute became a warzone reminiscent of Syria. Explosions and deafening booms filled the air.
The fleet of black SUVs brought by the Black Organization erupted into massive fireballs, one after another. The hired mercenaries didn't even have time to scream as their bodies were torn apart and set ablaze, flying skyward.
The chain gun pursued Gin and Vodka, leaving massive craters in the ground behind them.
At the last possible moment, the two dove into the building, narrowly escaping death.
"Whoosh whoosh whoosh—"
But the chain gun showed no mercy. The helicopter swooped low, unleashing a relentless barrage of fire on the research building. The remaining rockets were launched indiscriminately.
The 30mm chain gun tore gaping holes in the reinforced concrete walls, shattering every window. Rockets slammed into the building, detonating with ear-splitting blasts. Shockwaves shattered everything in their path, leaving the structure riddled with holes.
Inside the building, Gin and Vodka thought they had found safety. But seeing the incoming rockets and chain gun fire, they screamed in terror, continuing their desperate escape. To them, the Apache outside was nothing less than the Grim Reaper.
Once the Apache had expended all its ammunition, Fujiwara, piloting the helicopter, finally felt satisfied.
He maneuvered the chopper away from the building and pulled out a detonator, smirking. "Gin, let's see if you have the luck to survive."
With that, he pressed the button.
"Boom boom boom boom—"
The C4 explosives planted throughout the building detonated simultaneously. A massive pillar of flame shot skyward. The already battered research building collapsed under the weight of the explosions, reduced to rubble.
Dust filled the air, flames illuminated the sky, and the outskirts of Tokyo fell into an eerie silence.
In the distance, a small girl ran barefoot, her oversized white lab coat flapping behind her as she gasped for breath.
She turned her head, watching the helicopter's rampage, hearing the thunderous explosions, and witnessing the collapse of the building. Her legs gave out beneath her.
She had truly wet herself.
Miyano Shiho wanted nothing more than to change her pants—they were soaked.
"What kind of enemy has the Organization provoked to trigger such madness?"
This level of insanity—even the Organization would need to tread carefully.
Could those unknown attackers be after her?
She was just a humble researcher. Surely, she wasn't worth all this trouble. Please, spare me!