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The window wasn’t broken.
I threw myself to the carpeted floor with the safe still in my hands, and almost instantly, I heard glass shatter. One, then two dark holes appeared in the wall in front of me. Crawling on the floor, I moved away from the window until I couldn’t see the high-rise building outside. Then I took the gun out of my side holster and got into position with my back against the wall. There was a mirror on the table, so I reached out with my fingers and managed to grab it. My hands were so sweaty that I almost dropped it, but I somehow got a grip around the mirror to angle it so I could see outside.
When I looked at the room in the building I’d seen in my vision, I noticed a shadowy figure moving in the reflection. I couldn’t tell what they were wearing, though; the figure promptly gathered their belongings before completely disappearing. The moment I put my gun down was the moment I noticed I hadn’t been breathing.
A sniper.
What in the world was in this room? What happened to Ango? I was sniped and killed. I couldn’t see the muzzle flash, and I didn’t even hear the bullet being fired. Plus, once the perpetrator saw that they had missed the target, they immediately escaped. This was clearly the work of a professional.
I’d died only a few moments ago—sniped in the chest and shot dead.
Or at least I would have been, if I hadn’t had my skill.
I practically slid down the staircase banister to get out of there. The sniper couldn’t have gotten far, and I needed to find out who they were. Shoving past innocent customers in the hotel, I made my way outside. I ran toward the building the sniper was in while pulling my cell phone out of my pocket.
A seasoned sniper can pierce their target’s heart from even a mile away, but from the looks of it, the sniping point wasn’t all that far off. I knew the building they were in. In fact, I knew everything about this city, even the uncharted back alleys, so I was naturally able to narrow down the sniper’s path of escape to a few possibilities.
As I sprinted, I punched in Dazai’s phone number.
“Dazai?”
“Wow, it’s not often I get a call from you, Odasaku. I’ve got a feeling this is big! Hmm. Allow me to use my genius brain to guess the situation! You suddenly thought of a hilarious joke, and it was so funny that you had to call me to—”
“Someone tried to snipe me.”
Dazai immediately stopped midsentence as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs.
“I was in Ango’s room. I’m going after the sniper right now. He fired from a high-rise building across from the secondhand book row. From there, he could’ve fled through Kokuyou-ji Temple or the service entrance to the wharf, or taken one of the Mifune shopping district’s back streets.”
“You want me to help block his path of escape, right?”
I hesitated for a moment. The reason I called Dazai was because he was the only one I could turn to with confidence on such short notice. However, he was one of the five executives, making him only second to the boss in terms of the Mafia hierarchy. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve had to send someone to ask permission to even meet with Dazai, then wait at least a month before getting an answer. Calling someone like him and giving orders is like asking the president to walk your dog.
“Dazai, I have a Silver Oracle with me. If you don’t mind—”
“Quit it. You don’t need that to ask me for help. You’re in a fix, right?” Dazai said brightly. “I’ll have my men blockade the roads immediately. I’m gonna head over, too. Just don’t follow the guy too far, Odasaku.”
I thanked him and hung up, then focused everything I had on getting my legs to move as quickly as possible.
Who was the shooter? Snipers are exceedingly cautious and patient. Strategy is their religion. Once they decide on the optimal position for taking out the target, they wait for days without moving a muscle until the target appears within range of their scope. A sniper will satisfy their hunger with ready-made meals, and when they run out of food, they just don’t eat.
The fact that there was a sniper in the building meant he knew someone was coming.
The most obvious, logical reason would be that Ango himself was the target. The sniper was probably planning on shooting Ango once he cluelessly returned home. However, that then begged the question: Why did the sniper change his plan and try to shoot me? I’d only decided to go to Ango’s room a few hours prior, and that was just a desperate attempt to find some clues. Moreover, the sniper only pulled the trigger after I found the white safe. If he’d wanted to just kill me, he would’ve shot me the moment I walked into the room. Maybe the sniper didn’t have a firm target; maybe he would’ve shot anyone who walked in there. Or maybe he would’ve shot anyone who found the white safe.
Only one thing was clear: Ango was apparently stuck in the middle of something big. I thought about his bespectacled visage, his cool, aloof demeanor, as I ran.
No matter how deeply I inhaled, I couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen into my body. Right as my field of vision started turning spotty, I arrived at one of the routes I predicted the sniper would use to escape. It was a dark, narrow back alley littered with scraps of food left by the city crows.
I’d cut through two residential yards and leaped over three private garages to get there. It wouldn’t have been out of the question to catch sight of the enemy right then and there if
they weren’t familiar with the area. The moment the thought crossed my mind, a man with a knife tried to grab me from a gap between the buildings. A blade practically the size of a meat cleaver sliced through the air, and I swerved my head to dodge the strike. The tip of the blade grazed the corner of my ear, leaving a cold, sharp pain. I found myself in a deadlock as he rammed into me, and I thrust my foot into his torso as hard as I could. I ended up getting thrown onto the trash-covered ground, but I was at least able to get him off.
I looked at the assailant.
He was a man of unknown ethnicity dressed in tattered gray clothes. At first glance, his filthy appearance made him look like a vagrant, but my finger happened to leave a mark in the dirt on his face. It was as if he’d put it there on purpose. The assailant swayed back and forth as he flipped the knife over from his right hand to his left. Next, he raised both elbows so that his right hand was guarding his face. It was a stance that allowed a person to quickly counter any close-range blows with minimal movement while protecting one’s vitals. The bloodlust radiating from this guy was like that of a seasoned fighting dog.
I could assume several things from watching him: one, that he knew I was with the Mafia, and he was not going to cower or create an opening to be attacked; two, that he was probably the sniper I saw in the mirror’s reflection; and three, that he probably planned on killing me there without even giving me the chance to wonder.
