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Safehouse, Tokyo – 12:30 A.M.
Yoshimura's eyes flicked to the wall clock for the twentieth time in an hour. Its second hand ticked past 12:30 A.M., and still no alarms had been raised in the city. Good. The operation so far was a ghost in the night, invisible to the targets. The safehouse's living room had been converted into a miniature command center. Maps of Tokyo were pinned across one wall, red dots sketched on various neighborhoods marking each identified traitor's location. A laptop screen glowed with a real-time tracker app – each dot corresponded to a tagged vehicle or phone, all updated live.
Yoshimura leaned over the screen, his face drawn with concentration and fatigue. Ministry of Foreign Affairs…checked. Metropolitan Police HQ…checked. Dozens of green icons blinked steadily on the map, each representing one of their embedded loyal operatives shadowing a suspect. They had done it under the guise of "routine logistics" these past few days: harmless errands and bureaucratic tasks that allowed the loyalists to plant GPS trackers, clone phones, or simply trail persons of interest without raising suspicion. An unremarkable sedan parked on a traitor policeman's street – ostensibly doing a traffic survey – now kept a quiet watch. A junior clerk volunteering overtime at a compromised ministry had slipped tiny RF beacons under several executives' cars. Even at this late hour, trusted agents scattered across Tokyo tailed their quarries from a careful distance, maintaining the facade of normalcy. If any traitor moved now – tried to run or communicate – Yoshimura would know within minutes.
He picked up a secure radio handset and spoke in a hushed voice, issuing an update to the scattered teams. "All units, this is Saito," he said, using his cover name. "Maintain positions and standby. Final confirmation expected shortly." Releasing the talk button, he heard quiet acknowledgments crackle in: a series of double-clicks on the line – the pre-arranged, silent signal that each team was in place and ready. One by one they replied: click-click…click-click…click-click, coming from across the metropolis – Shinjuku, Shibuya, Chiyoda, Ginza, Odaiba – an invisible web of watchers tightening around their unsuspecting prey. Yoshimura's chest swelled with pride at the discipline. These were good people, loyal operatives who had risked everything to help set this trap. Some were PSIA like Hiroshi, others borrowed from the Military Police, the National Police Agency, even one from the Tokyo Metropolitan Government's office. They had all answered Makima's secret call and spent weeks operating under the radar. Now the moment was at hand.
Yoshimura glanced over his shoulder into the adjoining kitchen, which had become an impromptu filing center. There, under the harsh light of a hanging lamp, the veteran lawyer Tachibana-sensei was leading the final legal cross-check. The elderly lawyer's back was to Yoshimura, slightly hunched as he hovered over a spread of documents covering the entire kitchen table. Two younger agents – Kobeni and Madoka – flanked him, passing files and checking items off lists. Even from a distance, Yoshimura could see the intensity in Tachibana's posture. The old prosecutor's pen tapped methodically on each page as he reviewed them, his glasses perched at the end of his nose.
Yoshimura stepped away from the glow of the tracker laptop and quietly entered the kitchen area. "How's it looking, Tachibana-sensei?" he asked under his breath.
Tachibana didn't glance up immediately; he finished scrawling a note in the margin of a thick affidavit before acknowledging Yoshimura with a curt nod. Deep furrows etched the lawyer's brow, but there was a spark in his eyes. "We're nearly there," he replied, voice low and gravelly. "Just finished cross-checking that each warrant request has the proper signatures and attachments." He picked up a small stack of forms, snapping them lightly against the table to straighten the pile. "Every piece of intel has been catalogued and filed. If a single page were missing, I'd know it." There was a bite of gruff pride in his tone. Despite the hour and his obvious exhaustion, Tachibana's legal mind was sharp as ever – a razor honed by decades in courtrooms and war rooms alike.