DCMK: Heavy Silences (9/10)

[what_we_dream]

Title: Heavy Silences (9/10)
Series: Magic Kaitou/Detective Conan
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Follows Slip and Fall/Pride Goeth Before

Summary: "We would like Kid delivered by the 24th. For every day you're late, one bright face vanishes from the world." Children kidnapped, Nakamori has only one place to turn for help. Kaitou Kid
.  

The Kaitou Kid Task Force may be the butt of the Force's jokes, but when it comes down to it they're a decent squad. With the reformation of the Task Force Nakamori arranged most of the appointments – with the approval of Arakawa and Tsutomi – and with years of experience he was able to gather a good team. He had the pick of the new year's graduates, and was allowed a number of more senior transfers to even out the experience average. Of course, as soon as Higashiyama took over as Division head he put a stop to the siphoning of good men into what the Superintendant deemed a wasted squad, but those already assigned had the protection of Arakawa's stamp on their appointments.

Tonight, Nakamori will find out just how good his choices were.

Dusk falls quicker than usual on account of the storm clouds now rolling thick and heavy in the dark skies above, wind finally beginning to pick up. The rain hasn't started yet, but Nakamori can feel it coming, can smell it in the warm air. The squad is gathered around him in Kid's storeroom; the fluorescent lights have brightened from their earlier slightly orange tinge to a brilliant arctic white and paint everything in a harsh division of light and dark. Some of the men are sitting cross-legged on the floor but most are lounging around the walls, murmuring quietly to each other, going over maps, checking equipment. Near one wall several boxes sit on a pair of cheap collapsible tables scavenged by Oogawa. Some hold police tape, rain slicks, already-tested radios, bolt-cutters, plastic ties to supplement handcuffs. One is filled with Kevlar vests. Everything has been checked and tagged, is ready to go. Just like the men, who are trying not to fidget, to continually glance at the clock, to pace, to keep from doing all the things men waiting for the order to move out do to fill the time. In one corner, Takarai is checking every aspect of his equipment for the third time with a slow painstakingness which does not come naturally to him. Sawara is sitting in a corner staring at the floor, still and silent. Oogawa is sitting on one of the two folding chairs he acquired, flipping through a book of maps, eyes not focused on the pages. Nakamori is tracing the corners of the cigarette packet in his pocket with his thumb and watching the room. Waiting, just like all of them.

There's a rattle of the doorknob and in an instant the thick, heavy atmosphere of the room intensifies, like thousands of charged particles suddenly hitting a critical mass and flowing downwards in a lightning bolt. Every pair of eyes on the room is focused on the door as it creaks open, a gust of wind ripping through the room in a tight curve and catching up unanchored papers. Then the door is slammed shut, leaving a man Nakamori's never seen leaning against it. The clothes, however, are familiar.

Kaitou Kid glances up through windswept bangs and smiles at the gathered policemen.

"All done," he says. Pulls something out of thin air and tosses it to Oogawa, who catches it against his chest in an awkward movement. "You'll want to listen to that later, in case it comes up." He's speaking in his usual voice, pitched just a touch lower. Without the costume to amaze and distract, Nakamori supposes he's taking care not to be recognized as younger than would be helpful to him right now, true as it would be.

Oogawa makes a wordless noise of acquiescence and tucks away what in a pocket Nakamori recognized in the air as a mini tape.

A tremor has passed through the squad, who have by now realised who's standing in front of them. They're looking at him mostly with a kind of guarded distrust, like men who would like to criticise but can't afford to offend. Takarai, after one glance, returns to his work with slightly unsteady hands. Sawara never looks up.

Nakamori, glancing at his watch, realises Kid has probably timed his return to require him to spend as little time as possible cooped up with the men – a good choice considering how edgy they all are. He glances at the large piece of foolscap they've pinned up on the wall, with a hand-drawn map of the area represented carefully on it. Various coloured pins have been stuck in to represent teams and times, to show planned routes and possible detours. They've accounted for nearly all possibilities in the hours they've been waiting. Waiting, like predators, for night to fall.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kid looking over the plan, the thief's eyes flickering every now and then to the men assembled around the room as if assessing the teams' potentials.

Nakamori pushes away from the wall and clears his throat, feels the attention of the room track back to him. "You all know your assignments," he says gruffly. "You know your teams and your routes and your back-ups. You know the plan; it's a good one. But you also know we're going into this on our own, and if we're forced to call in back-up it'll be twenty minutes before it comes. This is not an official case, and I am not ordering you to take part in it. No man here should feel that he is being pressured into participating, and I will emphasize now," he slows to glance around the room, pins each man with his eyes and drives his point home, "that by doing so you are risking not only your jobs but your lives. I will not resent man who walks out the door now; on the contrary, I'll think he has a good measure of self-preservation."

There is a long pause, and an absolute stillness. Not a man fidgets, moves, breaths. Not a man makes any move to show him contemplating leaving.

"Alright then," says Nakamori after half a minute, each second ringing long and deep in his mind. "You have my thanks, and my gratitude. And those of the other men. If push comes to shove with HQ, you can count on my support for what it will be worth."

"With respect, sir," says Hoshino from a corner, "no one here's worried about his job now. The kids're all that matter."

There's a general lightening in the atmosphere, nods and murmurs of agreement. Nakamori waits for it to pass, then nods once himself. "Then suit up. You've all got your travel instructions; we move out in five minutes."

"Yes, sir!"

The room churns from stillness to controlled activity instantly, men pushing away from walls and standing to line up for their equipment, or securing anything they had in their hands. There are no uniforms, but they've all found alternatives to the usual clasps and holsters, even if that alternative is just a belt or pocket. It's the one compromise Nakamori is unhappy about; a man pulling a weapon – pulling any piece of equipment – from a place other than where he has been trained to find it will by necessity be slower, and that loss of speed could have devastating consequences. But there is no alternative. He tries not to think about it, is confident that his own weapon is at least in its usual shoulder-holster under an old windbreaker. Is where he has split-second access to it, and is fully loaded.

Oogawa brings him a vest, the only piece of equipment he needs from the tables. He pulls off his thin jacket to slip it on and then dons it again, highly conscious of Kid's presence at his side. "Do you need one?" he asks, knows there are two spares sitting in the bow-sided box.

"I'll manage," replies the thief, turning with shining eyes. Nakamori's not sure whether there's a smile under his carefully neutral expression or not.

"The last thing I need is you getting shot again," he replies, thoughts flashing in quick succession to a snow-covered plaza, to an open rooftop.

"I never pull the same trick twice, Inspector."

He supposes he'll have to be content with that. He can't be worrying about Kid, not now when there's so much else to take care of. The teams are already forming up and making last checks, groups of three or four in total, his own waiting for him on the far side of the rows. He has spread out the family men, one or two to a group. Has partnered Washio with Oogawa in the hopes that that will keep him from doing anything unpredictable, and Takarai with Yamamoto to even out the former's nervousness.

Nakamori picks up the radio he's kept with him since they were brought in, and opens the channel. "Ya-san?"

"Here, sir."

"We're about to head out."

"Roger that."

"Gin out." Not inspired codenames, certainly, but the likelihood of someone using their channel is almost nonexistent.

"Alright, teams one and two move out." They have three teams in cars and a last – his own – going in on public transport. Assuming they make anything like the arrests predicted, they'll certainly have to call for a paddy wagon, but that'll come later. Four cars – with Sawara's – will be more than enough to get the kids and Reina the hell out of there, and that's the priority. The men, led by Sawara, file out past him, nodding crisply as they go. Only Takarai's team is left, and his own. He turns to Kid again, holding back the last car. "Do you want a ride?" Although Kid can drive, he doubts whether the thief has a car available now, and he might want to get on site quickly for some reason of his own without tiring himself with the glider.

Kid grins. "No thanks, once was enough. I'll come with you on the train."

Nakamori starts, and glances at the sheet on the wall. Although their arrival methods are written up there, they're there as notes rather than points to be studied by the group, and as such are jotted down in regularly-sized writing. That Kid can read it from across the room is startling. But then, he supposes he shouldn't really be surprised by anything the thief does anymore.

Nakamori nods, considering, and then again more pointedly to Takarai. "Team three," he says, and indicates the door. Takarai nods, stiffens, and leads the men out in to the darkening evening. Leaving him, Kid, and three men. "You'll come in with my team, then." He has until now indulged the thief, because he can hardly do otherwise, but in a controlled operation a random element is nothing but a danger. "You can't go around changing your face, either, or no one'll be able to tell you from the enemy."

Kid's grin emphasizes the fact that two days ago, he was the enemy. Nakamori ignores it. "You've seen the plan. Any questions?"

"No," says Kid, and then turns serious with the ease of slipping on a mask. Shifts into a ready pose, one allowing him to move instantly – Nakamori supposes it's the closest he can come to showing tension. His eyes shine darkly. "You are aware that we're dealing with very dangerous people? I don't condone violence, and certainly not loss of life, but your men must know to protect themselves and the hostages." He says it in a flat, dangerous voice that raises the hairs on Nakamori's back. One of Kid's few constant features, few unbreakable rules, is an absolute refusal to cause injury. And he has just, in effect, told Nakamori that they may very well have to shoot first and ask questions later.

"What do you know?" Nakamori asks, watching those diamond-bright eyes. "What aren't you telling me?" Who are these bastards?

"All I know, Inspector, is what I told you: that they are dangerous. Very dangerous." He pauses, eyes flashing again, and then continues in a low, harsh voice which Nakamori has never heard before, "I will not have children's blood spilled. Or your men's. Or yours."

Nakamori knows that feeling like fire knows flames, has spoken similar words, sworn similar vows. But there is an absolute conviction in Kid's voice that goes beyond anything he's ever managed, an intensity that burns. It says that he can and will do anything – walk through walls, cut through steel, catch a bullet – to prevent it. Nakamori almost, almost believes it. Gods help him, wants to believe it.

He's not entirely sure he ever realised entirely how dangerous Kid is.

"Don't do anything stupid," he grits out through what feels like a mouthful of marbles. Doesn't want for an answer, instead nods to his men. "Come on."

"Yes, sir." They hurry forward to follow him out the door. Kid exits last, and locks up.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

It's rush hour, and the trains are busy. Busy, but not packed out here away from the downtown core. No seats, but no crush of bodies, no fighting for air and space. Kid lounges up against a pole, doesn't bother to hold on to anything.

Less than a year ago, Nakamori would never have believed he could fall.

He shouldn't be so worried. Kid can – and has always – look after himself. But there's something about the thief that makes him nervous now. It's almost unnoticeable – probably would be to anyone who hasn't been at this as long as the Inspector has – but he's too laid back and simultaneously too hard, flashing from one to the other without quite managing his usual cocky middle ground. Nakamori has the odd feeling that under all his acts he's somehow cold and rigid, like frozen earth in January, and consequently can't manage to balance out his acts quite right. That for some reason the Inspector doesn't quite understand this has hurt him badly, and his way of dealing with it is leaving him as unsteady as the rest of them.

For only the second time in the Inspector's career, Kid seems wholly, entirely human. And humans can be hurt, so very easily.

They make their transfer without incident, slipping on and off the emptier train without any notice. There is only a trickle of others disembarking at their stop, the station dingy and empty. They pass the turn stalls and exit out into a dingy city evening.

The air near the station is thick with the smell of ramen broth, the streets near the station packed with evening restaurants, some open-air counters. Nakamori produces a well-worn baseball cap from one pocket of his blazer and pulls it down over his short hair with a sharp tug. He's by far and away the most recognizable member of the Squad, the only one to have been in the papers or on TV, although the other victimized men will be wearing caps or toques as well.

Nakamori has never been to this neighbourhood, has only even passed through the train station a handful of times. But he's burned the area map into his mind with the bright brand of fear, and has no trouble finding his way. Has to work at seeming less focused, less driven. His men are better at it than he is, one wandering from shop to shop examining meal prices, the other two walking leisurely along chatting about soccer. Kid is walking with his eyes on his hands, idly flipping through a thin wallet. Nakamori wonders if it's his.

The thief still wears his satchel, although now it's simply slung over one shoulder rather than across his chest. It's still early enough in spring to be chilly, and his thin jacket must not provide much protection, although if he's cold he shows no sign of it.

The school is fifteen minutes' quick walk from the train station and they make it in twenty-five, splitting up along the way to take different routes. Kid is the last to peel away, disappearing without a word; when Nakamori glances over his shoulder a block from the school, the thief is simply gone.

He passes team two on the north corner of the school without acknowledging them, wishes he had thought to buy some groceries or bring something to carry to make himself less suspicious. A glance shows Hoshino waiting up ahead with a newspaper under his arm, Murata and Ohara standing in the shadow of a doorway a little further down. Nakamori glances casually at the school as he crosses a narrow road, notes that what he can see of its buildings over the wall is dark. He stops beside a light post, considers lighting up a cigarette for something to do, but fears attracting attention with even the tiny flame of his lighter, the tinier still glowing tip of the cig. Instead he simply leans up against it and, back to the school, pulls out his radio.

"Team four in place." They should have been the last, coming indirectly as they did. "Report in."

"Team one in place." Sawara and two others, sitting in their car in the parking lot on the other side of the school, closest to the entrance with the cut chain.

"Team two in place." Oogawa, Washio and two more, standing around the corner of a nearby building and thus out of immediate sight of the school but in his own field of vision, far to his right.

"Team three in place." Yamamoto, Takarai and another, around the corner from Sawara.

"Any sign of movement?"

"Nothing," replies Washio. "Nothing all day, no lights now." No indication of where in the building the hostages are. If they're there at all.

Nakamori is horribly, twistingly aware that they are running their entire operation, pouring all their hopes into a plan based on a telephone signal and a rusty chain.

"All right," he orders, gruffly. "Move in."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Maihara Junior High School follows the typical school format. Two long parallel buildings each four stories tall. Every floor of both buildings has been provided with a long balcony on the southern side with doors into all classrooms; the two buildings are joined at both ends by walkways connecting each floor, making a rectangle of the school. In the centre is a dark courtyard, probably now filled with weeds and abandoned junk. The gym is connected to the southern building – the main building – by a tin-roofed walkway. Near it sit a few outbuildings; storage sheds, the wood and metalwork building. It's the kind of place delinquents would hang out and children would dare each other to visit at night. Nakamori's sure there are plenty of local legends, the usual horror stories. He prays they won't add another tonight.

Odds are if anyone's here they're in the secondary building, the one with the chain removed from its doorway. But there's no reason they couldn't have picked the flimsy locks of the sliding doors opening out onto the connecting walkways. Technically, there's not even any reason for them to be in the same place, although it would make more sense unless they've got more than a dozen men. Assumptions are dangerous animals, though, and he's been careful to steer clear of them.

One team, Oogawa's, will sweep the main building. One, Yamamoto's, will sweep the grounds for patrolling guards and to keep an exit clear. The final two, his and Sawara's, will take the secondary building.

The fence surrounding the school is about a metre and a half tall, made of stucco-covered concrete. The barred metal gate, on wheels to allow it to be easily opened, is now chained shut, and only three feet tall. But that's an obvious point of entry, and they avoid it. He's aware even as he slips closer, men following him, of the fourth silent figure following them: Kid. He drifts along like a ship in the fog, utterly soundless where they are only quiet.

They've chosen a point protected by heavy shrubbery, reported to them by Washio and Yamamoto earlier in the afternoon, as their entrance point. Even in the weak light thrown by the streetlights it's easy enough to pick out; there's a large cherry tree marking the spot.

As they cross the concrete to the wall it starts to rain, so thin and fine that it might almost be a thick mist. In the yellow street light it falls like a shower of gold. Nakamori huffs, and watches his breath fade in the cold, damp air. He reaches the wall, bent low, and glances back. His men are spread out along it, each ducked low enough to keep his head from being visible over the top. Taking a deep breath and locking it in with gritted teeth, Nakamori raises his own head to look over.

The streetlights are on the other side of the street from the school, and hardly any of their light makes it over the wall and through the shrubs along it. Nakamori can see the shadowy bulk of the secondary building some fifteen metres away from the wall, its narrow end presented to him. He sees no movement.

There is no door in the narrow wall he's faced with; he'll have to duck around to either the already open right side, or the still-locked left. Hoshino behind him has the bolt-cutters, and coming in from that door would give them the element of surprise, but they can't cut it silently and odds are the door is locked as well as chained. The Inspector glances back at his men and makes a motion with his right hand to indicate which door they'll take. The men nod. Kid simply watches him, one tiny streak of light caught in his eyes like a flame in a glass bottle.

Resisting the urge to brush a hand against the butt of his pistol – don't be an idiot, you know it's there – he turns back to the wall, puts his hands flush on the top, bunches, and leaps.

Nakamori's tall enough that he doesn't really need to take an added boost from the top of the wall, but he does so to control his descent and come down quietly in the shrubbery. With the falling damp the bushes are soft and quiet, an unlooked-for blessing. He scuttles forwards, out of the way of the others, and ducks down behind an uncontrolled camilla shrub. There's a quiet rustle as the others scramble over; he turns just in time to see Kid slip down soundlessly and duck in against the cherry tree's trunk. Nakamori pauses for a second, heart hammering against his chest, and then reaches into his jacket and pulls out his pistol. Catches the eyes of his men and watches them do the same.

What Kid thinks doesn't matter – if anyone points a weapon at the kids or his men, he will take them down. And gods help them if they've touched, touched, Aoko.

Nakamori allows himself a couple of seconds' peering around the bush and planning his path – it's too dark for him to be able to see more than the vague outline of concrete – before rushing out from behind the bush and across the gap between the wall and the building. His shoe toe catches once on an unevenness in the concrete, but his momentum carries him through the stumble and brings him up against the cool surface of the building. His men are only a heart's beat behind him.

Across the courtyard, near the main building, he catches sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and flattens himself up against the cracked stucco. Sees several men duck furtively into the shadow of the building, and knows it must be team one.

There's always that one second before the fall, before the leap, before the plunge when the outcome is utterly uncertain, and he's submerged in it now. Suffused with a sudden desire to stay here, to turn back, because uncertainty is better than an empty building or gods forbid, a building empty of life. It passes in the blink of an eye, faster than a lightning strike, faster than a thought, but the terror remains. He locks it away as well as he can in the cage of his chest, cold and cutting, and tightens his grip on the smooth handle of his pistol. Stands, and swings around the corner.

There's both a shallow ramp and a couple of steps leading up to the door. He takes all the steps at once and then has the door's handle in his hands, is pulling it open and flowing into the dark space beyond with a furious haste, face locked into a snarl.

There is no one there.

The men follow him, Hoshino barging right in on his heels, the other two slipping in more quietly. Kid, as before, he doesn't hear at all, and the thief falls back into the thickest shadow as if by instinct.

They've entered into a wide space with walls on both the right and left, and a corridor ahead to the right. The wall on the right, he knows from a knowledge of school layouts rather than by sight, is the side of the wide staircase that will lead all the way up to the fourth floor. The left is that of the building's outside wall.

It's just as well that he knows what to expect from the layout, because he can't see a damn thing. There are no lights here, and although the corridor which will lead all the way down the length of the building has windows looking out, very little of the streetlights' glow has filtered in. He pauses and waits for his night vision to focus, for his pupils to widen as far as they will. It isn't much.

He lets out his breath just loud enough to be audible as a signal, and moves forwards with his elbow against the wall, both hands on his weapon. Creeps forward into the darkness.

They approach the corridor at a snail's pace, Nakamori edging forwards, taking care not to scuff his shoes. It's odd to be wearing them inside, but it's easy to ignore that tiny misgiving when he has so many greater ones. As they move closer to the foot of the stairs, it becomes obvious that they've been blocked by what looks like a thick snarl of rubbish, although in the dark Nakamori can't make it out. Whatever it is, it's not the normal state of things, and that's a relief. A hint. You're on the right track.

He hits the corner, looks around, and knows it.

Standing halfway down the hall is a man, faintly silhouetted in the mist of light pouring in through the windows. Standing with the unmistakable stiffness and presence of a guard. Nakamori throws out his arm to stop Hoshino, grabs his shoulder and holds him back. The younger man is tense under his hand.

The elation ringing in his head bright and strong as church bells is almost enough to drown out his common sense, and he struggles to force down his sudden overpowering relief. No one leaves a guard to guard nothing, much less corpses. The children, some of the children, one child at least, is here, and that is enough.

He prays selfishly, greedily, thoughtlessly, that it may be Aoko.

Nakamori is just considering the best way to go about getting rid of the guard, when something rattles at the other end of the hall. He pulls his head back in sharply, pushing the men back with him, and waits for five heart beats. It's no sort of measure at all, not now when his heart is pounding fast as a train over connection points. When he looks out again, the man is hurrying down the corridor to the other end, to the door team three is entering by. Whether they drew attention to themselves purposely or not, he doesn't know. But Sawara is with them, and they will be on their guard. He, at least, will be. Nakamori grits his teeth, and moves.

He rounds the corner in an instant, glancing up the stairs and seeing now that they've been blockaded by broken chairs and desks stacked on the steps and at the bottom, furniture doubtless originally abandoned along with the building. It would be impossible to climb up them. He wonders fleetingly why they bothered – did they expect an invasion from the roof down? – but there's not time for speculation. He hurries forward, noticing the guard disappearing into the dark at the other end of the corridor; around the corner to the door there.

The classrooms are all on the right, each lined windows from the waist up looking out into the corridor, and two sliding doors to give access. He's just ascertained that the first room is empty when, without warning, the night erupts into chaos.

It must have been Sawara's group, he knows later, but at the time all he hears is a gunshot, and then two more, and then children are screaming and doors are rattling open and he is running.

He covers the distance between the stairs and the guard's original position in what seems like no time at all, as if he took one step and was simply there. But fast as he is two men have already run out into the hall, are turning to face him and the others following him, and he doesn't have to be able to see to know that they have guns in their hands. And that in the room beside them the children are screaming, held by gods know how many more of the bastards who might be lining up their shots right the hell now.

Nakamori actually barrels into the first man before either of them has time to shoot, shoes slipping on the dusty floor, momentum sending them both flying down the hall. He's fumbling to push the man's gun away – at this distance he's not sure even Kevlar would be enough – when they hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash, the Inspector on top. The man's gun goes off then, and he feels it tear through his vest at an angle almost parallel to his chest. And then he is slamming the bastard's head into the floor and bringing down all his weight and every limb he can to knock the man into unconsciousness if not further. It's enough; the struggles under him cease and he gives one last knee to the gut as he stands. Takes in the second man on the floor with someone on top of him, someone else on the floor nearby either sitting or kneeling.

Outside there are more gunshots, and shouting, and to his left footsteps ring out. "Who is it?" he snarls, on his feet again with his blood pounding hot and fast through his temples.

"Sawara," is the answer, and he doesn't wait for more because above all the other sounds the children are still crying. He wrenches the sliding door open with so much force that it actually flies off its rails and crashes to the floor and barges in, Sawara right behind him.

He can't see much; there is even less light to filter in through the courtyard-windows than there is for those facing outwards to the street, but he can just barely make out a figure with an adult's height but an odd shape. For an instant, he thinks it must be Sawara Reina. But a woman's muffled hiss of, "Yuu," from his right tells him he is wrong. And then he doesn't have to guess anymore.

"Take one step closer and I'll kill her," says a faceless voice, accompanied by a child's sob, held tight in the bastard's grip. Nakamori can't see the gun, but the odds of it being a bluff are almost non-existent, and even if they weren't he could never take them.

"What do you want?" he asks, gruffly. He can hear the children in here, sniffling and scraping along the walls, and grabs the officer he feels coming in behind him and shoves him towards the nearest. Sawara is at his side – he can hear the man breathing as though he has run a marathon – standings stiff.

"Call off your men, all of them, and then we'll –" there's a quiet sigh, and a slump. Nakamori starts forward and pulls himself back forcefully.

"It's alright, Inspector," says a familiar voice in the darkness. Then the flick of a lighter.

The one tiny flame is like a spotlight, and Nakamori's eyes are instinctively drawn to it and dazzled in their current state. When he pulls them away and the red tinge drains away from the world, he can see that Kid is standing over an unconscious – he assumes unconscious – man, holding a small child in his arms.

"Oogawa-chan, I presume," the thief says to the infant who, startled enough to stop crying for an instant, starts up again.

It's enough to break the spell of shock that's fallen on all of them without their noticing it. By the light of the single flame Sawara runs forward to his wife, sitting against a wall with a bloody temple and her legs splayed out beneath her in a way which suggests she's been thrown there, and pulls her into a tight embrace. Men surge in behind him – Hoshino, Ishida, Mizawa – and go to the children. He makes a quick head count with what scattered thoughts he can gather, counts 6. Everyone. Everyone except for Aoko, who he noticed from the instant the flame flickered to life, wasn't here. Across the room, Kid's eyes meet his.

Behind him there's the sound of running footsteps, and Oogawa and Washio burst into the room, followed by their men with flashlights. Oogawa's across the room and at Kid's side in a second, speed reminding Nakamori of his own, taking his daughter from the thief and cradling her in his arms. Even Washio, he notes, gathers his daughter to him in a shaking grip, rocking her gently. Kid takes this opportunity to slip across the room to his side. Nakamori is shocked to see no elation, no satisfaction there. Only a harsh determination.

The thief is just as aware as he is that one hostage is still missing, and it seems to the Inspector, is almost as concerned.

Things need to happen, and he needs to make them happen. But it's all he can do to make room for a single extra thought in the shadow of the hulking terror looming in his mind – she's not here she's not here she's not here. She's not here which means she's somewhere else and oh gods they could be doing anything to her even while he's thinking this. He can't be worrying about all these petty details, but that's his job. So he siphons them through one at a time, fast and furious as pistol shots.

"Oogawa," he barks, and the man turns with – Nakamori's heart clenches – tears in his eyes. He wipes them away hastily and salutes, daughter held easily with one arm.

"Sir!"

"Give me a brief report."

"We checked the first floor, then heard the shooting and came out. Team two encountered a pair of guards and arrested them – Eguchi was grazed in the shoulder," he nods to a man standing near the door, a dark trench coat stained darker in a patch about the size of a man's palm. "We found another man unconscious at the door of this building and ran in."

Next. "Sawara?"

"We took him out without casualties, sir."

Next. Nakamori looks to his men, realises he can give no such accounting of his own group. Turns and glances out into the hall, which by the now bright light he can see clearly. The two men they knocked out lie spread on the floor. Murata is sitting against the wall, holding his head, and Nakamori steps over to him.

"Murata?"

"Knocked me against the window-frame. Just rattled, sir." He rubs his head again, but when he looks up at the Inspector his eyes focus well. Nakamori nods.

"When the paramedics show up, check in with them."

"Yes, sir."

Next. "Hoshino, cuff these men; you and Ohara are responsible for them." He glances to Oogawa. Next. "Where's team two?"

"Still patrolling, sir."

"Alright. Ishida, Mizawa, go out and take over for Takarai and Yamamoto, tell them to come in and that the kids are fine."

"Yes, sir." The two salute and slip out.

Next. "Eguchi, Satou, go and gather the three men out there together; you're responsible for them. Eguchi, can you manage with that shoulder?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright – you report to the medics when they show up as well, got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Finished. Everything else is out of the way, and it all sieves from his mind instantly. Keeping his thoughts focused took everything he had, and he's almost sweating with the effort.

With the departure of the men, he finds left with just the fathers of the children. And Kid. His thoughts are tunnelling, are focusing sharp as a sniper scope on the goal, and there is no time for thought. Just questions and answers, snapping back and forth like blows.

"Sir," says Oogawa, dark eyes on him. He doesn't say anything more, knows as well as the rest of them must that Nakamori has almost nothing on his mind apart from what is currently not in the room.

His daughter. Aoko.

"The stairwell on this side was blocked. What about the other, Sawara?"

"I didn't notice, sir."

"It was," says Washio, who would have had a flashlight to see it by as he ran past.

"Then odds are she's upstairs." Upstairs with at least one captor who must have heard the attack, who must know he's trapped there with a hostage that may very well by a millstone around his neck and oh gods he's wasted so much time. Nakamori closes his throat on a moan, but he can feel himself blanching. He pulls out his radio with shaking hands. "Tsurada?"

"Sir?"

"Someone might try to get out of the main building's doors; split up and keep a watch on both sides of the building."

"Yes, sir."

He cuts the channel, and glances to Kid.

"You can get up there, can't you?" It'll take time to clear the stairs, time Aoko might not have. Time that might already be –

"Yes," says Kid harshly, already moving. Nakamori grabs his arm and pulls him back, thief swivelling sharply with wide eyes. Wild eyes, like last night's.

"Not like that," he says, inarticulately. Then, "Someone she knows, someone she'll trust."

"You?" The boy's tone isn't sarcastic, but there's strong doubt there.

"No, someone they won't know. Her – Kuroba Kaito. Her school friend – you must have seen him, he's come to your heists with her."

"I know him," says Kid, in an odd tone.

"Can you–?"

"I'll manage," cuts in Kid, grimly. "I'll go up by the balcony; tell your men not to take a shot at me."

The Inspector feels no anger at that, no outrage. His fear is great enough that he doesn't even notice the thief has dropped all semblance of levity. Is harsh and brittle as flint.

And then he's gone, and Nakamori is on the radio again.