Sniping Distance
“Oh, nothing much. It never hurts to keep tabs on the organization's people—makes things easier if we end up working together down the line. As for the disguise...” Cointreau ran a hand over his own face, answering with an easy smile. “I wore this face the last time I met that FBI agent, Akai Shuichi. I've got a feeling we'll be running into each other again soon, so I figured I'd stay in character—saves him the trouble of mistaking me for someone else.”
Of course, the real reason was that the fewer members of the organization who knew his true face, the better.
There was nothing to be done about the ones who had already seen it, but fortunately there weren't many, and Heaven had ways of sealing their lips. From here on out, though, avoidance was the wiser policy.
He sighed inwardly. What a sacrifice this older brother was making for his little sister—he couldn't even show his own face. He could only hope Xia Yu would go a little easier on him the next time they met.
“Heh.” Gin let out a cold chuckle. That explanation just now had been a blatant brush-off, and he didn't buy a word of it.
As far as he remembered, Cointreau had never once altered himself for the sake of someone unimportant. But Gin couldn't be bothered to press the matter—as long as Cointreau knew what he was doing, that was enough.
While Gin and Cointreau chatted idly, down below, Korn and Chianti's range had already crept up to six hundred yards.
Now it was Korn's turn to attempt six hundred and fifty.
He missed. The bullet struck just beside the target.
Immediately after, Chianti pulled the trigger on the same target with total confidence—and missed all the same.
“So that's it, then. Korn and Chianti cap out at six hundred yards. Tsk. Can't even outshoot a mole,” Cointreau said, shaking his head in disappointment.
Sigh. If the organization's elite snipers were operating at this level, he genuinely feared for its future.
“You haven't touched a sniper rifle in quite a while, have you? You're free today—care to make it a competition?”
Gin paid no mind to the mockery. It was, after all, simply the truth—Korn and Chianti really were that useless. What interested him now was Cointreau's current skill. He wanted to know whether the man's marksmanship had rusted after so long away from the rifle.
“Huh? I'll pass, thanks. You know I'm better at close-quarters work than sniping.” Cointreau hadn't expected Gin to suddenly propose a marksmanship contest, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face. “I only picked up sniping a few years back, you know.”
Besides, he genuinely had no interest in it, so he brushed off the offer without a second thought.
“If you agree to the contest, I'll owe you a favor.” Gin named his price.
He was, for once, genuinely curious whether Cointreau's range had slipped—or grown even deadlier—and he was willing to pay for the answer.
In truth, Gin had lately sensed, dimly, that Cointreau was planning something. It was only a feeling, and he had to admit that if the man deliberately set out to hide his tracks, it would be nearly impossible for anyone to find so much as a thread.
But of this much Gin was certain: if Cointreau intended to do something extraordinary within the organization, he could not possibly go around Gin to do it. Which meant that whether Gin stood with him or against him had to matter a great deal.
Factor in that phone call Cointreau had made after his visit to the Twilight Mansion a while back, and Gin's suspicion already stood at sixty percent certainty.
If Cointreau accepted the terms he'd just laid out, those sixty percent would leap straight to ninety. The last ten percent was the margin Gin always left himself—he never spoke in absolutes.
Yes—he did sincerely want to test himself against Cointreau, but the offer had also been a probe. And he knew full well that Cointreau would see through it as one.
Having stated his terms, Gin settled back and watched him with unhurried patience, waiting for an answer.
Cointreau did indeed know the words had been a test. He turned to look at Gin and did not answer right away.
Vodka, standing at Gin's back, felt the strange tension that had sprung up between the two men, and for a moment didn't dare open his mouth at all.
“Fine. I accept.”
In the end it was Cointreau's reply that broke the faintly brittle atmosphere, and Vodka's rigid shoulders finally loosened.
Soon enough, the two of them stood in the very positions Korn and Chianti had occupied moments before.
Chianti had been a little put out that her sniper practice had been interrupted—but the moment she saw it was Gin, any complaint died in her throat.
Besides, she was curious what Gin's true range was, so she kept her mouth shut and settled in to watch the contest from the sidelines.
Come to think of it, though—she had never seen the man facing off against Gin anywhere in the organization before. She shot Korn a questioning look. Korn shook his head: he'd never seen him either.
That only deepened Chianti's curiosity about who exactly this organization member daring to challenge Gin could be.
She sidled up to Vodka and lowered her voice. “Vodka. Who is that guy?” Her eyes darted meaningfully toward the man in question.
“That's Cointreau,” Vodka answered, just as quietly.
Going by what Cointreau had said to Gin earlier, he'd be wearing that disguise for a while yet, and Gin hadn't said to keep it secret—so there was no harm in telling Chianti and Korn his codename.
“So that's Cointreau? He looks so young.” Hearing Vodka's answer, Chianti found it hard to believe. The organization's former head of European operations was this young?
Korn, catching the answer as well, let a flicker of surprise show too.
While Vodka and the others traded whispers, Gin and Cointreau below had already inspected their rifles, settled into position, and readied themselves to begin.
“Let's start straight from seven hundred yards. Save ourselves the time.” With the rifle raised, the smile Cointreau usually wore had vanished, leaving his face cold and hard.
Gin said nothing. Silence was assent.
“This Cointreau guy's got some nerve, huh? That confident in his sniping, is he?” Up above, Chianti curled her lip, unable to keep the sourness out of her voice.
Starting at seven hundred yards, she grumbled to herself—that was farther than her own limit just now. Serve him right if his very first shot goes wide.
But clearly, a man who set the bar that high had to be sure of himself.
Cointreau barely bothered to aim. The first target went down.
Then it was Gin's turn—seven hundred yards again, a shot just as clean and decisive, dead center.
Next came seven hundred fifty, then eight hundred, then eight fifty... all the way to a thousand yards. Under the astonished, admiring eyes of the onlookers, Gin and Cointreau traded shots one after another, and not a single round missed its mark.
Watching this, Chianti couldn't help but marvel: No wonder he's Cointreau. Never judge a book by its cover—anyone willing to go up against Gin was never going to be an ordinary man.
Even Korn looked at Cointreau with something close to astonishment. He had never imagined that the organization held a second man, besides Gin, whose sniping could stand shoulder to shoulder with Rye—the traitor who had once betrayed them all. The only question left was whether this one might prove deadlier than Rye himself.