The boss's jaw tightened as he stared through the glass. The silhouette cut across the night sky with predatory grace, twin rotors turning in perfect, terrifying symmetry. Its frame was thick, armored, every line of its body carved for war.
"I don't know," he said at last, voice low but edged with steel. "But that is no bird from our arsenal."
Yamada swallowed hard. "Sir… you served in the JDSF. You've seen everything we flew. What is it?"
The boss's scar caught the candlelight as he turned his head slightly, eyes never leaving the helicopter. His voice carried the weight of certainty. "I was a major in the Self-Defense Forces. I know the Kawasaki OH-1, the Apaches we borrowed from the Americans, even the UH-60s. That thing—" he jabbed a calloused finger toward the window "—is none of them."
The aircraft drew closer, the heavy thrum of its coaxial rotors rattling the frames of the windows. Bottles on the bar counter clinked together. Even the girls on the floor whimpered, pressing their hands against their ears.
"What the hell is it then?" Yamada pressed, sweat beading along his temple.
The boss's golden-brown eyes narrowed. His mind flashed back to dusty airfields, to hours spent in command posts studying equipment profiles. He had seen Russian silhouettes in briefings, photographs smuggled in by intelligence officers. This… this looked like one of them.
"It looks Russian," he muttered, more to himself than to Yamada. "Ka-series. A Black Shark, maybe. But that's impossible."
"Russian? Here?" Yamada's voice cracked. He stepped back, fear bleeding into his face. "That can't be—Japan never—"
"I said it's impossible," the boss snapped, his tone silencing the younger officer. "But I also said what I saw. That machine is not from the JSDF. Which means someone else has it."
The implications sank into the room like a dagger. A survivor with a car was one thing. A survivor with food, even weapons—that was manageable. But a survivor with a state-of-the-art attack helicopter?
What's more, what is it even doing here? Did it notice the lights of the resort? No, he had made it a policy, a rule that no light should be turned on in the evening as it might attract a horde of zombies.
Then, one of the officers who was part of Yamada's team came streaking down the hallway, boots thudding against the marble. Yamada and the boss flicked their gaze to the right as the man skidded to a halt in front of them, a walkie-talkie clutched in both hands like a live grenade.
"It—" the officer panted, voice raw. "Sir. The—there's a transmission on our open channel. It's—" He let out a breath, eyes wide. "It's the helicopter. He wants to talk to you."
The boss's fingers closed around the radio before the man could finish. The corridor seemed to hold its breath. On the other end, through a ragged sample of static and wind, a voice cut clear.
"This is Riku Hayashi," the voice said. "Pilot of the Ka-50 hovering over your position. I want your leader to come to the window and speak with me."
Silence answered, a thin, brittle thing. The boss's jaw worked. He had been a major; he had barked orders on radio nets that demanded obedience. This stranger had the gall to hail him across an open channel and to name himself. That alone was an affront.
"Riku?"
"Yes," came the reply. "Listen carefully. I have eyes on your compound. My aircraft's weapon systems are armed and locked on targets across your resort. I'm not bluffing. If you do not release Ichika, Suzune, Hana, and Miko to me within five minutes, I will commence a strike that will reduce this building and your men to rubble."
Yamada went pale. "Sir—" he started, but the boss cut him off with a look that said he had not yet decided whether to be angry or amused.
"Those are women's names huh? We are much alike. Yes, I do have the girls in possession. And if you think you can threaten me so that I comply with your demand, then think again. I am the one who holds the card. What if I tell you that if you don't leave this place, I will kill them."
"You fucking bitch!" Riku cursed. "Do not test me. If you fucking touch them, I swear I will spare no one in your group."
"You sound like a young boy, are you in your twenties? Have you even killed a man?"
"Oh I do," Riku said.
The boss lowered the walkie-talkie down for a moment and looked at Yamada. "There's still an anti-aircraft weapon, Type 01 LMAT, on the weapon's arsenal. I want one of our men to grab it and shoot that bastard out of the sky."
"The LMAT?"
"Bring it," the boss said.. "Bring it and make a spectacle."
Yamada spun, slapping orders across the corridor. "Two men—Basara and Ono—take the service lift, grab the LMAT crate from armory B, and get up to the roof. Secure the sight. I want a firing solution within three minutes. Move!"
"Ye-Yes sir!"
They bolted. The suite, for a heartbeat, emptied of swagger and bravado; the men who remained tightened their faces into work. The boss flicked the cigarette ash and watched them go, his scarred jaw working. Even he, who trafficked in fear, could taste something like unease now. The sky outside was full of sound—rotors, threat, and the distant, rising murmur of the city's disturbed dead.
In the basement armory the LMAT crate was heavier than its paperwork suggested—clean, cold, and dangerous. Basara cursed under his breath as he and Ono wrestled the launcher out, hauling it up the freight elevator. The stairwells reeked of coolant and old oil; the elevator's cables squealed like protestors. Upstairs, men cleared furniture, pried open a service door, and spilled out onto the rooftop where the resort's generators hummed and the moon hung low.
They set the tripod, bolted the LMAT into its cradle, and fed wiring to a battered fire-control box. Ono wiped his palms on his pants and keyed the scope. The sight came to life—a green crosshair that blinked against the night. Basara fed a range and wind into the box.
"We have eyes on the helicopter," Basara reported through a talkie.
"Good."