The resort hotel was quiet now. No music. No talking. Only the sound of boots on broken glass and the distant groans of the dead outside the walls.
The boss stood at the seventh-floor window and looked out over the dark bay. Smoke hung low where the rooftop had burned. The railing there was twisted and black. The men had covered the bodies with tarps, but he could still see the shapes. The LMAT launcher was gone—smashed, burned, or blown off the edge. Either way, useless.
Yamada stepped in, helmet under his arm, face streaked with dust. He closed the door behind him and stayed by it, as if the room might bite.
"Report," the boss said without turning.
"We counted eleven dead on the roof team," Yamada answered. "Three more died in the stairwell from the cannon fire. Five are wounded. Two won't keep their arms."
The boss nodded once. He kept his eyes on the city lights that were not lights—just reflections from the moon on broken glass. "Morale?"
"Quiet," Yamada said. "They're scared. Some want to run south tonight."
"Let them run," the boss said. "The dead will catch them before dawn."
Yamada swallowed and stood straighter. "It was… definitely Russian, sir. The helicopter."
"I know," the boss said. "Ka-50. Single seat. Coaxial rotors. We saw the silhouette. And we heard the cannon."
He turned from the window and faced Yamada. The scar on his cheek looked deeper under the room's poor light.
"We were arrogant," the boss said. "We thought our rules would keep us safe—no lights, no music, no cooking fires after dusk. It kept the dead away. It did not keep a gunship away."
Yamada nodded. "What do we do now?"
"We adapt," the boss said. "We do not panic."
He walked behind the desk and sat. The two girls who had been forced to sit on his lap earlier were gone; he had sent them below to the cellar with a guard. The room felt bigger without them, colder too. He picked up a pen, tapped it once against a map spread across the desk, and pointed.
"First," he said, "we make this building harder to hit. We move everyone to the interior rooms on floors three and five. We stack sandbags at the windows on the bay side and the city side. We block all rooftop access except the service stair, and we put two guards there day and night with orders to shoot anything that moves—dead or living. No more men gathering on the roof for a smoke. No more groups bigger than three anywhere a gunship can see them."
"Yes, sir," Yamada said, already taking notes. "Weapons?"
"We put the heavy guns inside," the boss said. "Ground floor, second floor, fifth floor. Angles that cover the approach roads and the courtyard. We don't fire unless the shooter has cover and a proper target. No panic. Panic is how we lost the rooftop team."
"Yes, sir."
"Next," the boss went on, "we think about the helicopter itself. It is strong, but it is not magic. It needs fuel, ammo, and maintenance. Without those, it is a very expensive statue."
Yamada looked up. "You think the pilot has a base?"
"Of course he does," the boss said. "No one keeps a helicopter in the air without a place to service it. He has a stash of fuel. He has a place to sleep. He has a place to keep those girls."
Yamada frowned. "We let the girls go."
The boss's gaze hardened. "We did not 'let' them go. We traded them for time. That was the correct choice. Now we use that time. We find him."
"How?" Yamada asked. "Tokyo is big."
"We don't search all of Tokyo," the boss said. "We search the places a helicopter wants. He needs clear space to land. He needs cover from rifles. He needs to avoid open water because the downwash gives him away. He also needs fuel—aviation kerosene. Where is that in this city?"
Yamada thought fast. "Airports and heliports. Haneda. The police heliport by the river. Hospital helipads. News station rooftops. The JGSDF base across the bay if it's still intact. Maybe fuel depots near the port."
"Good," the boss said. "We put eyes on those first."
He pulled a smaller notepad from the drawer and wrote numbers.
"Three scout teams," he said. "Team One: river and police heliport. Team Two: hospital rooftops and news station towers. Team Three: bridges and the expressway ramps toward Haneda. They don't fight unless they have to. They move at dawn, they return before night. They carry binoculars, not pride."
Yamada wrote the assignments down. "If they see the gunship?"
"They report to us and then we will siege it."
"Yes, sir."
The boss folded the map and handed the pen back to Yamada. "Make the teams leave at first light. No engines. Bicycles. Foot. Quiet. Take water and radio batteries. If they hear anything, they come back. No heroics."
Yamada nodded. "I'll pick the men. Quiet ones. Scouts and trackers."
"Good." The boss stood and walked to the window. He looked over the courtyard one last time. Men moved like ants below—sandbags, wood planks, a team carrying a roll of tarp. His camp was bruised but not broken.
"Radio watches," he said without turning. "Three men on the nets. One on upper band, one on middle, one scanning the low channels. Keep recordings. If that pilot uses voice, we log it and triangulate. And—no more open chat. Code words only. If anyone uses names on open air, they lose privileges."
Yamada scribbled it down. "We'll set codes tonight. We'll brief every squad."
"And the decoys," the boss added. "Set two fake camps a block away. Burn barrels, a couple of heaters. Let him waste a clip or two if he returns. But make sure real stores are hidden." He paused. "We keep food spread. Water moved upstairs. No crowding on the roof. No more shows of force."
Down the hall someone laughed too loud. The boss's jaw tightened. "Tell the men this: we do not snipe at air. We survive the airstrike and we hit ground. We will not blind ourselves to what can hurt us from above."
Yamada closed his notebook and left to carry out the orders. The boss stayed by the window until the moon thinned, then walked slowly to the cellar door where two guards stood watch.
"Keep them quiet," he told the guards. "No visits, no shows of concern. Discipline."
The guards saluted. The boss turned and walked back to the map on the desk. He sat, lit another cigarette, and stared at the grid. Outside, the city breathed. Inside, plans formed.
At dawn three scouts slipped out on bicycles, heads down, tires whispering on wet pavement. The boss watched until they were gone, then locked the door.