While Hiroshi played the penitent friend that evening, his teammates were hard at work tightening other strands of the web. Each member of the team continued their ordinary public duties by day, only to slip into covert roles by night, executing carefully crafted maneuvers to gain deeper access and sow confusion among the enemy.
At dawn, Special Agent Yoshimura stood on the rooftop of a half-abandoned office building, a steaming paper cup of coffee in hand. The old operative's silhouette was still against the graying sky as he surveyed the waking city below. Far off, the first trains rattled and a few neon signs buzzed out. Yoshimura could have been mistaken for a salaryman enjoying a quiet break – but the small earpiece in his ear and the encrypted phone in his other hand told a different story.
"Confirm extraction window," Yoshimura said lowly into the phone, his gravelly voice carrying the authority of decades in the field. A crackle, then a reply: "Target will exit the Trade Ministry at 07:45. Team A in position." Yoshimura took a sip of his coffee, its warmth cutting through the early chill. Below, a government sedan pulled up along a curb as commuters trickled in. The "target" was a foreign intelligence officer embedded under diplomatic cover in the Trade Department – a key conduit for funneling stolen technology out of Japan. If the traitors in PSIA caught wind of the coming purge, that spy would bolt for his embassy or, worse, attempt a violent diversion. Yoshimura wasn't going to allow either.
"Team B?" he queried next. Another voice answered, "Ready at second checkpoint in case he rabbits, sir."
Yoshimura allowed himself a small, tight smile. "Execute on my mark… now."
Across the street, the unsuspecting foreign "trade attaché" emerged, punctual as ever, from the Ministry doors. At Yoshimura's word, a van's side door slid open thirty meters down the block. In a flash of well-practiced choreography, two figures in utility worker uniforms intercepted the man as he headed for his sedan. One pretended to stumble with a stack of boxes, causing the spy to halt; the other struck with a swift injection to the neck. To any distant observer, it looked like the man collapsed from an abrupt fainting spell. The "workers" caught him under the arms with concerned shouts, hustling him toward their van "for medical help." In less than ten seconds, the street was empty again – the spy's chauffeur still around the corner, none the wiser that his passenger had been snatched off the street.
High above, Yoshimura heard the confirmation in his ear: "Package secured." He closed his eyes briefly, releasing a breath. One more snake, caught and bagged. "Understood. Quiet transport to Site Echo. Hold for debrief there," he responded. Site Echo was an off-grid safehouse he'd prepared to stash high-value catches. The foreign agent would wake bound and blindfolded, and by the time anyone noticed his absence, the main purge would be underway.
Yoshimura took another sip of coffee, savoring the moment. One by one, the enemies were being declawed. This particular operative would no longer be able to orchestrate last-minute escapes for the traitors or feed them intel about any political fallout. And he was just one of many targets Yoshimura was juggling. Even as he watched the van blend into traffic, he was dialing another secure line – this one to an Interpol liaison.
"This is Greyhound," Yoshimura spoke, using his old code name. "Is Canary in position for tonight?"
A posh British accent crackled back, "Affirmative. Warehouse by the docks, midnight. We'll be ready."
Yoshimura nodded to himself. That warehouse by the docks was slated to host a black market Pokémon egg exchange – terrorists and brokers trading bioweapons under cover of darkness. It was one of the illicit deals the traitors had been protecting for months. Not tonight. Tonight, Yoshimura's off-grid strike force – with a little Interpol help – would hit it preemptively, dismantling the black market cell before they ever realized PSIA's house was being cleaned.
He ended the call and glanced at the brightening horizon. In a few minutes he'd slip away, unseen, to reconvene with his loyal shadow teams. They respected him like a general, even if officially he had no command. Limited resources, he mused, rolling his stiff shoulder, but the right people. Each operator under him had been cherry-picked for loyalty and kept totally off the compromised grid. They moved on burner phones, face-to-face briefings, and old-fashioned trust. Yoshimura wouldn't be able to call in helicopters or SWAT vans when the time came – but he would have boots on the ground at every critical point: outside embassies to intercept fleeing diplomats-turned-spies, at airports to halt traitors or their foreign allies trying to slip out, and in the shadows beside police units about to raid extremist hideouts enabled by the conspiracy.
He took one last gulp of coffee and crushed the cup in his fist. This purge would be total. No one who had conspired, whether in silk suit or anonymous mask, would escape the dragnet he and Makima had woven. He allowed himself a rare moment of quiet satisfaction. Then Yoshimura turned on his heel and vanished down the rooftop stairwell, leaving only the faint smell of roasted beans and victory on the breeze.