Tokyo: I'm really not a killer

Chapter 89 Accident

Yuan Zhensheng spent an entire day wandering around Yokohama Chinatown, pretending to be a passerby and observing Huayuelou and its surroundings out of the corner of his eye.

He confirmed the location of the kitchen passage, the garbage collection time, the direction of several nearby alleys, and the flow of people and lighting conditions at night. He also noted down several possible sniping spots, but ultimately gave up due to distance, angle, or excessive crowds.

Even if Masashi Horiuchi was not vigilant enough, the risk and consequences of being sniped from a distance in public would be too great.

The following evening, as the city lights came on, Chinatown was bustling with activity.

Yuan Zhensheng dons the ordinary face of a middle-aged office worker, wearing an inconspicuous jacket, blending in with tourists and diners.

He went ahead to a bustling tea restaurant across from Huayuelou, chose a corner seat by the window that was not easily noticed, ordered a set meal, and ate slowly, occasionally glancing across the street.

Around 7:30 p.m., two black Toyota Century sedans slowly pulled up in front of Huayuelou.

Two burly men in black suits got out of the car in front, quickly scanned their surroundings, and then opened the door of the car behind.

A man in his fifties, dressed in a tailored suit and with his hair neatly combed, got out of the car. It was Masashi Horiuchi.

Three more bodyguards immediately surrounded him, protecting him. The group quickly entered the restaurant, where the manager at the door bowed respectfully in greeting.

Hara Masaki silently noted down the time, the number of bodyguards, and their positions. Two bodyguards stayed near the entrance, one stayed in the car, and the other two followed Horiuchi Masashi into the restaurant.

As he had expected, security at Masashi Horiuchi's place was relatively lax.

He patiently waited until after eight o'clock. The food on the table had long been eaten, leaving only a cup of cold tea. He got up to pay the bill, left the tea restaurant, and went around to the alley behind Huayuelou.

There are some food waste bins piled up here, the smell is unpleasant, the lighting is dim, and there are few pedestrians.

He had already observed that there was a small door in the restaurant's kitchen for employees to enter and exit, and occasionally a chef or helper would come out to get some fresh air while smoking.

Yuan Zhensheng changed his face; this time, he looked like a somewhat tired salesman wearing a cheap suit.

He leaned against the wall across the alley, pretending to wait for someone, holding a rolled-up newspaper in his hand, while carefully listening to the sounds from the kitchen and the occasional boisterous laughter coming from Horiuchi Masashi's table—they seemed to have booked a large private room on the second floor facing the street, and their voices could be faintly heard.

Time passed slowly, and Yuan Zhensheng remained extremely patient.

He needs to wait for the best opportunity, a window of opportunity when the bodyguards are most relaxed and the environment is most favorable.

The opportunity will arise around 9:40 p.m.

A young man in a waiter's uniform came out of the back door carrying two large bags of trash, muttering curses as if he was unhappy about working overtime.

He laboriously threw the garbage bag into the nearby centralized collection point, then took out a cigarette, lit it, and leaned against the wall, puffing away, clearly wanting to take a few minutes off.

Right now.

Yuan Zhensheng tossed aside the newspaper and walked over naturally. As he approached the waiter, he seemed to trip over the uneven ground, stumbled slightly, and bumped into the waiter.

"Ah, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry!" Yuan Zhensheng quickly apologized, his voice filled with apology and a hint of embarrassment.

The waiter was startled by the bump, nearly dropping his cigarette, and waved his hand impatiently: "Watch where you're going!"

"I'm so sorry!"

Yuan Zhensheng bowed and scraped, but his hand quickly pressed on a spot on the back of the waiter's neck.

This is a technique he learned from his previous life; it can cause people to become dizzy for a short time.

The waiter felt a sudden darkness before his eyes and his body went limp. Yuan Zhensheng caught him and quickly dragged him to the shadows behind the trash can, where he sat down, looking as if he was extremely tired and dozing off.

The whole process took less than five seconds, and there was no one else in the alley.

Yuan Zhensheng quickly took off the waiter's coat and hat and put them on himself.

The clothes are a little small, but I can barely wear them.

He adjusted his hat, covering most of his face, and then took out the back door key from the waiter's pocket. He had observed before that employees used this kind of old-fashioned key to enter and exit.

He took a deep breath, pushed open the small door to the back kitchen, and slipped inside.

Inside the door was a narrow corridor connecting the kitchen and the storage room, filled with the smells of cooking oil and food.

The kitchen was bustling with activity, filled with the sounds of people, spatulas, and running water. No one noticed a waiter hurrying past with his head down.

Following the sketch in his memory, Yuan Zhensheng quickly passed through the busy kitchen area and arrived at the entrance to the internal staircase leading to the second floor.

A bodyguard was standing near the stairwell, idly playing with a lighter.

When the bodyguard saw Yuan Zhensheng, dressed in a waiter's uniform, carrying an empty tray (which he had grabbed from the kitchen), he glanced at him, asked no questions, and waved for him to go up.

It's normal for Masashi Horiuchi to need more wine and food while he's hosting a banquet for the port authority staff.

Yuan Zhensheng lowered his head slightly and quickly went upstairs.

The second-floor corridor was carpeted, absorbing the sound of footsteps. He calibrated his bearings and headed towards the noisiest private room—the Pine Room.

As he approached the door, he turned into the adjacent food preparation room.

There's no one here right now, but there are some spare tableware and drinks.

He put down the tray and took out a small, cloth-wrapped object from his pocket. It was a specially made blowpipe for launching poison needles. It was small, silent, and the poison on the needles could paralyze a person's heart in a short time, making it look like a sudden illness.

This was something he had prepared specifically for this operation, and it met the unexpected requirements.

He quickly assembled it and placed a fine, hair-like poison needle into the tip of the blowpipe.

Then, he picked up a bottle of sake and a clean glass and walked out of the preparation room. He adjusted his breathing and expression to make himself look like a well-trained, slightly nervous rookie waiter.

He opened the sliding door to the pine room. The room was filled with smoke, and Masashi Horiuchi sat in the main seat, his face flushed, toasting and exchanging drinks with several guests in a lively atmosphere.

Two bodyguards stood in the corner of the private room, their eyes scanning the waiters coming and going and the movements on the table.

Hara Masaki lowered his head, took small steps inside, placed the sake on the table, and then picked up the almost empty cup next to Horiuchi Masashi, preparing to pour him a drink.

This is the most crucial moment.

He had to be extremely natural so as not to arouse any suspicion.

He turned sideways to face Masashi Horiuchi, blocking most of his view with his body. With his right hand, he poured wine from a jug, while with his left hand, under the cover of his wide sleeve, he silently aimed the blowpipe at the exposed skin on the side of Horiuchi's neck.

Masashi Horiuchi was smiling and talking to the person next to him, completely unaware of what was happening.

Yuan Zhensheng puffed out his cheeks slightly and exhaled silently.

Masashi Horiuchi stiffened almost imperceptibly for a moment, then quickly returned to normal, only raising his hand to touch his neck as if he had been bitten by a mosquito.

He frowned slightly, but didn't seem to care, continuing to smile and raise his glass: "Come on, everyone, let's have another drink! Wishing us a successful collaboration!"

Yuan Zhensheng had already taken a step back, bowed, and prepared to leave the private room. The whole process was smooth and quick, taking only a dozen seconds.

However, the smile on Masashi Horiuchi's face suddenly froze the moment he turned around.

The sake glass in his hand crashed onto the table with a loud thud, spilling sake all over the floor. He clutched his chest abruptly, his face turning deathly pale. He opened his mouth wide, but no sound came out, only hoarse gasps.

"President! President, what's wrong?" a customer exclaimed.

The two bodyguards in the corner paled and immediately rushed over: "President!"

The private room immediately descended into chaos.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Yuan Zhensheng quickly left the private room, gently pulling the sliding door shut behind him to shut out the commotion inside.

Without stopping, he walked along the corridor to the staff staircase at the other end, while quickly disassembling the blowpipe and stuffing the parts into hidden pockets in his cuffs and shoe soles.

As he passed a storage room, he took off his waiter's jacket and hat, crumpled them up, and stuffed them into a basket of discarded tablecloths, revealing the original jacket underneath.

He walked down the staff stairs to the kitchen area on the first floor. The kitchen was still busy, and no one paid any attention to him.

He quickly crossed the kitchen and returned to the alley through the back door.

In the alley, the waiter was still sleeping behind a trash can.

Yuan Zhensheng didn't linger and quickly walked to the other end of the alley, his figure soon blending into the bustling crowds of Chinatown at night.

He heard faint commotion and exclamations coming from the direction of Huayue Tower behind him, but they were quickly drowned out by the noise of the street.

He didn't turn around, his steps steady, like an ordinary office worker who had just finished a social engagement and was slightly tired, walking towards the tram stop.

mission completed.

He did not leave Yokohama immediately, but instead followed his plan, changing trains several times and wandering aimlessly through several commercial districts before finally returning to the safe house in the port area.

Go inside and lock the door.

He carefully checked his body to make sure there were no marks left, and then disposed of all the clothes and shoes he had changed out of.

After doing all this, he finally relaxed, leaned against the wall, and slowly exhaled.

Hara Masaki turned on the tap and washed his face with cold water. The mirror reflected a plain, unremarkable face that belonged to Suzuki Shinya.

He needs to wait for Miura's confirmation before collecting the final payment.

Before that, he was still the inconspicuous patrolman Hara Masao in the port area.

He changed back into his pajamas, lay down on the hard bed, and closed his eyes.

He quickly reviewed every detail of the operation in his mind: the timing of the entry, the fit of the waiter's uniform, the blind spots of the bodyguards, the angle and force of the blowpipe, the escape route—he found no obvious flaws.

well.

He cleared his mind and began to gather his energy for tomorrow's work.

Meanwhile, chaos reigned in the pine-shaded private room on the second floor of Huayue Tower.

Masashi Horiuchi collapsed onto the tatami mat, his face turning bluish-purple, his hands gripping his shirt tightly, his body convulsing violently intermittently. A strange "hoarse" sound came from his throat, and his eyes were wide open, filled with disbelief, terror, and pain.

"President! President!"

Two bodyguards frantically surrounded him, completely unsure of what to do. They had some combat training, but no experience in dealing with such a sudden illness.

The port authority section chiefs who were hosting the banquet were also terrified, their faces turning pale. They all backed away, and some took out their phones to call an ambulance, but their hands were shaking so badly they couldn't press the right number.

"Quick! Call an ambulance!" one of the older customers shouted as he realized what was happening.

A bodyguard, as if waking from a dream, stumbled out of the private room, shouting down the corridor, "Call an ambulance! Call an ambulance now! The boss is in trouble!"

The manager and security guards downstairs rushed up upon hearing the commotion, and were also panicked when they saw the scene inside the private room. The manager urged his subordinates to make phone calls while trying to maintain order, but to little avail.

Masashi Horiuchi's convulsions gradually subsided, his breathing became extremely weak, and his pupils began to dilate.

About ten minutes later, the sharp siren of an ambulance came from afar and stopped in front of Huayuelou.

Emergency responders rushed upstairs with a stretcher and equipment and quickly checked Masashi's condition inside the tunnel.

The heartbeat has stopped, and the pupils do not respond to light.

"Start CPR immediately!" the emergency doctor shouted, and began resuscitation efforts.

However, all efforts seemed to be in vain.

After more than twenty minutes of CPR and medication administration, the emergency physician finally shook his head, glanced at his watch, and announced the time of death.

"The preliminary assessment is that it may be an acute myocardial infarction or aortic dissection rupture. The specific cause of death needs to be confirmed by a forensic autopsy," the emergency physician told the local police officers who arrived at the scene.

The local police officers, seeing the mess in the private room and the ashen-faced guests and bodyguards, began their routine inquiries, recording information about those present and setting up a makeshift cordon.

Their initial investigation revealed no obvious signs of a struggle or external injuries.

Apart from a tiny, almost invisible red spot on the side of his neck that looked like a mosquito bite, Masashi Horiuchi had no other abnormalities.

This red dot was almost overlooked in the chaotic rescue and relocation efforts.

The news spread quickly.

Masashi Horiuchi, a core member of the Sumiyoshi-kai Wakaokai and president of Horiuchi Construction, died of a sudden heart attack while entertaining port authority officials at the upscale Chinese restaurant Huayuelou in Yokohama Chinatown.

The scene looked like an unfortunate accident.

But some people know that this is by no means an accident.

The news spread much faster in the underworld than the police could announce it.

In the depths of a high-end, members-only restaurant in Tokyo, several well-dressed men are talking in hushed tones.

"Have you heard? Horiuchi in Yokohama had a heart attack while eating at the Kagetsu-ro restaurant."

"Ha, a heart attack? He played golf with me just last week, and he's as strong as an ox. Why did he have a heart attack while having dinner with people from the port authority? What a coincidence."

"Moreover, it happens to be Huayuelou, the shop of his mistress's brother, which is practically his own territory. It's not easy for outsiders to make a move in a place like this."

One of them picked up his glass, took a sip of sake, and said sharply, "The operation was very clean. There was no chaos at the scene, no gunshots, no fighting, not even his bodyguards had time to react. The emergency room said it was a heart attack, and the police's initial investigation also said they found nothing abnormal, but he's still dead."

"Whose handwriting does this look like?" another person asked.

"Who else could it be?" The man put down his glass. "Silent, close contact, disguised as an accident or illness—"

"Hasn't Tokyo recently produced just such an expert?"

"Swamp Man," someone whispered the name.

There was a moment of silence in the private room.

"Didn't he just cause such a big commotion in Tokyo, and the National Essence Society put a 1 billion yen bounty on his head? How come he's already in Yokohama taking orders again so quickly?" someone wondered.

"It's precisely because of the bounty that they need money and jobs to maintain their deterrent effect," another person analyzed. "Moreover, Yokohama is Sumiyoshi-kai territory, so the Kokusuikai's bounty will have less influence there. The employer for this job is likely someone from East Japan Union, who are competing with Horiuchi for the dock land."

"A price of 150 million to kill a mid-level executive of the Sumiyoshi-kai—East Japan Union is really going all out this time, and is determined to take over that land."

"More importantly," the first person to speak concluded, "the Swamp Man used this list to tell everyone that the National Essence Society's billion-dollar bounty couldn't scare him. He can still work, and he can do it more discreetly and cleanly than before. This is not just about killing, but also about establishing his authority."

Everyone fell silent.

The name "Swamp Man" is now more than just a hitman's code name in the underworld; it's a disturbing symbol.

He acts erratically, uses bizarre and unpredictable methods, and seems to have a unique way of dealing with both police and gangster pursuit.

The fact that he now dares to make moves even against members of the Yokohama Sumiyoshi-kai shows that his scope of activity and audacity are expanding.

"It seems that the billion-dollar bounty not only failed to make him disappear, but actually made him even more famous," someone said with a wry smile.

"I'll have to be more careful when doing business in the future. Who knows if I'll become the next accident one day?"

Meanwhile, in more clandestine channels, rumors began to circulate that "Numa Otoko may have left Tokyo and is now active in Yokohama."

Some hunters or scavengers who were originally drawn to Tokyo by the bounty offered by the National Essence Association and were searching for the swamp man began to turn their attention to Kanagawa Prefecture.