He fires. Conan dodges, rolling behind a concrete pillar. He pulls out his and mimics the police dispatcher’s frequency:
“He’s bluffing. But the police will come. Kir, kill him.”
Conan kicks the elevator wall, activating his . It shoots upward, pulling him out of the line of fire. As he swings, he flicks his wristwatch—a tranquilizer dart flies toward Vodka, hitting his neck. Vodka collapses.
His heart pounds. The Black Organization is active again.
“Kir. You have a tail. A little spy. In the west vent.”
He understands. She’s not entirely with them. She’s a mole.
She sits two stools away from Inoue. Conan uses his to short-circuit a nearby TV, creating a distraction. In the chaos, he sneaks into the bar’s service hallway.
“The client is an arms dealer hiding information from us. A traitor. Make it look like an accident, Kir. No traces.”