They were on a deadline. He had no choice but to start working on their next job with the strange thing in his head still there.
Hakayama softly cleared his throat. He crossed his legs and looked up at the ceiling of the abandoned factory. He had to get them to listen to him without offending the noisy Midori, Kimokawa, and Shiro. It was hard work leading a group of eccentric psychos who all had criminal records, but that was precisely Hakayama’s area of expertise and his chance to show off his skills.
“We’re going to attack villains,” Hakayama said with a slight smile.
Kimokawa was the first to react.
“Attacking villains, huh?” Kimokawa was notoriously evil and had made his way up in the ranks by committing deception, fraud, every type of scam, and blackmail. He even acknowledged that he himself was a villain by nature. “Well, the money those villains have hoarded is so dirty, they can’t even use it unless they launder it. And it goes without saying that they can’t call the police if they’re attacked. They’ll be protecting themselves in the way bad guys tend to do, but we’ve got our connections and information networks.” Kimokawa tapped the edge of his glass to his temple. “That’s what sets us apart from garden-variety small-time villains.”
“And most importantly, we’ve got this, right?” Shiro chimed in, shadowboxing. He threw a series of light jabs while breathing out in short, rapid breaths. If Hakayama took even one of those blows, he’d be out cold. In the United States, Shiro had fought a pair of street-fighting twins who were over six-seven, and the tale of how he’d beaten them both to a pulp was legendary. “In the end, power is what’s important.”
“Power…?!” Midori screamed as she stamped her feet in frustration on the Corvette roof. “Blood luuust! Braaavery! Energyyy…! I wanna sleep in your womb tonight! Have a nice day…! Yeeeeeeaaaah…!”
Once the skinhead woman was completely high, it wasn’t an easy task to get her to listen. However, if he managed to win over Kimokawa and Shiro, Midori would probably calm down before long.
“At any rate…,” Hakayama said, looking around at his troublesome yet cheerful companions. “No matter the reason, it’s going to be villains who we attack. Do you know what the world calls people who mercilessly beat up villains?”
Benny let out a snort. “The good guys?”
“Exactly.” Hakayama clapped his hands together. “The good guys. We’ll be heroes. If the world’s got a light side and a dark side, then we’re in the dark—which makes us dark heroes.”
Kimokawa put his glass down on the bar and snorted, but the simple-natured Shiro seemed to have taken a liking to Hakayama’s joke.
“Dark heroes… Don’t mind the sound of that…!” His punching sped up even more, and the sharpness of his footwork increased.
“Heroooo…! I wanna fuck a herooo…!” Midori yelled out randomly, then jumped down from the Corvette, which was a good sign. After going on a rampage, she normally clung to Benny or Hakayama and was disgustingly affectionate toward them. She called this her “kitty mode,” and she was relatively calm and quiet during this time.
Kurojima was about to disassemble the Glock 17 he’d just reassembled.
The packet of natto in Hakayama’s head was a cause for concern, but it seemed like he’d be able to start proper discussions about the job.
“My chosen dark heroes, listen and rejoice, for the mission this time will be—”
But just as Hakayama tried to begin the discussions in a deliberate, theatrical way, Benny grabbed his beloved Yamanbagiri Kunihiro uchigatana and rose from the sofa. Kurojima stopped taking his Glock 17 apart. Shiro glared at the back entrance, and Midori yelled angrily, her eyes wide.
“Aaaaaaah?! What the heck…?!”
“Shut up,” Benny growled threateningly. He gripped the handle of Yamanbagiri Kunihiro in his right hand and pressed his left against the sheath. “I heard something just now.”
“Yeah,” Hakayama murmured in agreement as he reached for the gun in his inner pocket, though he hadn’t actually heard anything. To be precise, he felt like he’d heard something, but he’d assumed it was just in his mind. The sword master Benny had said that he’d heard it, though, and he had keener senses than Hakayama, so he probably hadn’t imagined it.
Kimokawa had disappeared. He was probably squatting down to hide behind the bar. That was the kind of person he was. Hakayama could read his behavior—after all, the two of them were birds of a feather.
That said, Kimokawa had killed numerous people, while Hakayama hadn’t needed to get directly involved even once up until that point. But Hakayama had had far more people killed. And in emergencies, Hakayama had a “bug” in his head that warned him of danger.
He felt a stench right at the back of his nose. The foreign object in his mind. The white packet was opening.
It was natto, just as he’d assumed. This must be the bad feeling he’d had.
A loud sound rang out, then another and another in succession. He could hear voices. They weren’t coming from inside the factory, but from outside.
“Gunfire,” declared Benny, drawing Yamanbagiri Kunihiro from its sheath and tucking his large wakizashi, Honebami Toushirou, into his belt. Kurojima released the safety on his Glock 17, pulled back the slide, and chambered the first round.
Hakayama also had a gun. It was a gold Beretta M92 with a scarecrow insignia embossed on the grip. For the time being, he simply took it out. The embossed part of the grip could be removed, and the scarecrow was the fifth one he’d had. Hakayama replaced it every time he created a new organization.
The door at the back of the factory opened.
“Gyumpii!” shouted Midori, calling out to the man who’d just come in through the back door. He was tall and always wore a white turtleneck sweater, no matter the season. He also had his head shaved, perhaps following Midori’s example.
“Ah, ma’am…!” Gyumpii was holding a modified gun in his right hand and pressing down on his stomach with his left.
It was red—blood. He was bleeding. Had he been shot?
“We’re under attack. Three d—”
Gyumpii just managed to get out “—ead…!” before he jumped to the side. No—he hadn’t jumped. Someone had forced their way in through the back door and kicked Gyumpii aside.
They were dressed all in black with a balaclava, and not very big. Holding a short-barreled pistol in each hand, the assailant shot Gyumpii, who’d collapsed on the concrete floor, then quickly got down low and started firing.