A/N: A new AU, long-fic for you all. This is mainly self-indulgent, so I hope you all enjoy it as much as I do.

For every action there is a reaction.

In the case of Masuyama Kenzo, a police investigator who's been investigating an organisation swathed in black for the last ten years, the action is research. And the reaction – well…

He takes a deep breath – he's too old to keep investigating like this, but well, it's the job he'd been working on before retiring, and retirement itself had been a good cover to try and learn more information. At seventy-one, he feels almost like it's too much to keep actively searching for more clues.

Working alongside the FBI has made things easier, even if it's made it harder as well. He's not sure he can keep sneaking into bars any more under the premise that he's meeting an old friend. His bones are too frail for that, and maybe he's retained a higher level of fitness compared to other men his age but, well, he's still not as young as he used to be.

"I'm going in," Masuyama says, forcing himself forward as he glances at a warehouse through a pair of binoculars. He's spent days trying to get information on one of the Organisation's smuggling operations, and he's not sure whether it's the trade of drugs or weaponry, but either one is going to bear fruits if the police can narrow in on them.

He doesn't know who he's talking to – there's no one around, and he's not expecting any urgent calls. He's waiting for a call, although his phone's on silent and he knows that he's probably not going to answer. He's promised to phone the head of their unit if he finds anything concrete, but Masuyama hopes that he doesn't. All of this talk about conspiracies within Japan…

Sometimes he doesn't want to believe that there's another organisation pulling the strings. If they can get proof that it's just the Yakuza causing an influx in crimes across Japan… but well… It's not just Japan. According to the information he and the FBI have put together, this organisation is transnational.

"Okay," Masuyama says to himself, and steps down from the metal staircase he'd been leaning on, onto gravel and pavement. The pier is dark tonight, the moon hidden, unable to illuminate anything. All that lights the sky are stars, some of them dead but still shining, the others alive yet dull.

It's the perfect night for illegal happenings. There is little light; The evening air is crisp enough that every sound echoes, drifting towards the ears of anyone standing near the sea. Sometimes a light shines from a passing car, illuminating the space between Masuyama and the warehouse he's heading towards.

They've planned for this, Masuyama knows they have. Those he's tracking, well, he'd be stupid to think no one would try to listen in on their dealings, they've not become so hidden, so prosperous, without being cautious.

He creeps forwards, pushes himself nearer until he's certain that he's going to be able to make it to the warehouse without light illuminating his path. Each step he takes is composed, and he's glad that he's worn the shoes with rubber soles and not the steel toe-caps he'd thought of putting on this morning when he'd left the house.

Only years of police work keep his footsteps from echoing in the night.

He makes it to the back of the warehouse without being seen, and Masuyama rubs at his moustache, attempts to think of the best course of action to take now. There are steps around the back, metal, but it shouldn't be too much work to climb up them and convince those inside that any creaking sounds have been caused by the wind.

From there, he's sure he'll be able to climb in through one of the broken windows, scoot across to a spot where he can hide. And then, if he's lucky, he'll be able to film the deal going on without anyone noticing him.

Masuyama isn't stupid. He knows what the chances are. But… well, he's been working this case for years now, and frankly, he just wants it to be over. If that means taking a few risks… well, it's not like he's going to be missing out on decades worth of life. He's already lived – sometimes he thinks he's running off of fumes.

He decides to climb the stairs. They complain under his feet, quietly, as if they too, know what's at stake, and Masuyama bites his tongue to keep from cursing the stupid metal as he reaches the first window. It's not broken, and a quick tug against the window shows that it's locked.

The second window is locked as well – as is the third.

It's impossible to suppress the sigh of relief that rises from his throat when the final window is unlocked. Well… it's not unlocked, per se, but it has been broken, shards of shattered glass remaining on the sill. He leans forward, glad that he's worn gloves, and pulls himself forward, trying not to wince in pain when glass digs through the material into his skin. Luckily, it's only a single shard, and he pulls it out as his feet crunch against glass.

Masuyama crouches down, crawls towards the side of the balcony and takes a moment to simply listen.

"The amount of trouble you've caused me in these past few days…" The voice is familiar, one that Masuyama recognises, and he's not sure where he's heard it exactly, but it's a lot colder than he remembers. Chilling, almost emotionless.

He shuffles forward a bit more, notices the faintest crack in the balcony and leans forward to look through it. He bites his tongue again, pressing his face against the wall so that he can see the largely lit room below. There's a van inside – painted black, the number plate one that Masuyama has seen show up on that of a missing motorbike.

The van isn't the important part, Masuyama tells himself, and tears his attention away, gazing at the people milling about instead. It's difficult to see faces, three men are facing away from him, and he's fairly certain it's one of them who've spoken.

There are three others, standing opposite, appearing as if they're from overseas. They're slightly tanned, southern European at a guess, although he supposes they could be from Northern America. It's not like they're the ones who're speaking.

Others move around from behind them, moving small crates from between the six higher-ups, hauling them towards the van and heaving them into the back. If Masuyama can count correctly, then there are at least eight crates, plywood sheathed, with pallet-like bottoms, and he's certain that they're at least a metre long, with a depth of at least half a metre.

Guns then, he concludes. In his experience as a police officer, drugs have always been transported in smaller crates. It's easier to hide them in groups of cargo containers, because if there are more crates, then it's harder for police to check every single one.

"I think that it'd be in your interest," the voice from before continues, and it is callous, heartless enough to force a shiver down Masuyama's spine. "if this thing finishes here, now, today, you understand?"

Below, the foreigners give sharp nods, looking almost fearful. Not that Masuyama can blame them, simply hearing the voice sends shivers down his spine, he can hardly imagine the face that it belongs to.

"Sir…?"

"I want the three of you on the next flight out of Japan." The voice says, and it really is recognisable, Masuyama just doesn't know from where. And then, a small piece of the puzzle clicks into place: He's heard that voice when he's been inside the police station.

Does this mean… No…

He reaches into his pocket, for his phone, but freezes when he feels a presence behind him. Seconds before, he'd not heard anyone moving, hadn't felt even the slightest shift in the air. Now he feels it, feels the breath on his neck as he closes his eyes.

"What's this," comes a masculine voice from behind him, playful, filled with a mutated form of cheer. "we've got a ghost in the rafters?"

Masuyama opens his eyes, turns to face the man. He doesn't have the time to focus on his face in the dark however, because within an instant, there's a blunt force thwacking against his skull, knocking him unconscious.

He slumps forward, and doesn't have the time to wonder whether he will wake up again.

Somehow, he does.

He opens his eyes and he's laying face down against concrete. All he can see are shoes, some shined, the others dull and caked with mud. His brain pounds against his skull, but somehow Masuyama is still alive.

He's not sure whether this is a good thing. If he's alive, they can extract information from him, torture him in ways he can't quite fathom.

And then two shoes step forwards – the shinier ones, more classy, one of the higher-ups, Masuyama assumes – each step loud, echoing within the warehouse.

"You've woken up," comes the voice from before, and it sounds only the slightest bit annoyed. Masuyama doesn't move, decides to try and play at being unconscious. "Oh please, you don't think I'd fall for that do you? Time to look up."

Masuyama does. And his eyes widen at what he sees.

"Oh yes," Kudo Shinichi says, and his eyes are as cold as ice, his gaze almost staring through him. How hadn't he recognised that voice before? "That's the expression I so wanted to see."

There is a moment where all of Masuyama's thoughts fail him, and he's not sure whether he knows how to breathe, not really. Instead, he stares across, trying to school his expression into one of calm. Trying to act as if he'd known, at least suspected.

(He hadn't.)

He tears his gaze past Kudo. Behind him are three men – one he doesn't recognise, probably just a random worker who offers protection during deals. The second, looks scarcely similar to Kudo himself, except, with messier hair. Where the others are wearing suits, he wears a shirt, and a black jacket, looking almost informal compared to the others.

And the third: Hattori Heiji. Kudo's partner in the Tokyo metropolitan police department, the two of them some of the best homicide detective's he's ever met. He hadn't thought that their best detectives would be… members of an organisation.

His stomach churns.

"You were rather quiet," Kudo continues, and he crouches down in front of Masuyama, looking the part of intimidating organisation member purely because of his frown. "You know, when you were hiding up there? Kind of like a ghost up there, weren't you?"

Masuyama swallows, nervousness sweating out from his pores. He doesn't say anything.

Kudo continues, "you see, we've got our own phantom who watches over the warehouse. Aren't we lucky that he managed to notice you on your way in?"

Letting out a shuddering breath, Masuyama pushes himself up, stares across at the man, having bitten into his tongue. His eyes flicker to the man who looks a lot like Kudo, and he notices almost faintly that there's blood on the butt of the gun he's holding in his hands.

His blood.

"You're one of them." Masuyama says. He sounds dejected, almost as if this shock overrides any other emotions he could feel on the matter. "I can't believe you two are…"

He trails off when he feels the buzzing of his phone in his pocket. It's loud enough that the others notice it too, and Kudo leans forward, slides his hand into Masuyama's jacket pocket to retrieve the phone that's inside. Masuyama doesn't move an inch – how can he when everyone seems to be armed but him?

"Oh, you seem popular," Kudo says, as he glances down at the phone. He reads the caller ID, nods to himself. "Ah, it's Gin."

Gin?

Kudo glances back at him, and for a moment, he looks almost disappointed that Masuyama doesn't understand what he's talking about. He lets out a sigh, shakes his head. "All you investigators, you've got nicknames, don't you see?"

Masuyama bites his tongue, tries not to ask why exactly Gin's is… Gin.

"Like you, you're Pisco. Gin's stupid helper, that's Vodka." He pauses, looks down at the phone again, turns back to Masuyama with an almost… bored expression. An alcohol theme… Pisco almost wants to ask why, but it seems a stupid thing to ask.

Kudo beckons his look-alike closer, and the man takes several steps, one after another until he's standing just beside the other man. His gun is cocked, and he points it directly at Masuyama.

After another second, Kudo answers the phone. His fingers click against the volume until it's loud enough for everyone to hear Gin's voice on the other side of the phone, without them having to press answer-phone.

"Masuyama. I need you to give me that disc you promised me–"

For a moment, no one talks. And then, Masuyama watches as Kudo's lips lift into the smallest smirk, alive, but not fully. There is something frozen there, the dark expression of a killer, of someone not afraid to harm others for his own personal gain. Kudo sends a sharp nod towards his look-alike.

Into the phone he says, "if you want your friend to hear you, you'll have to talk a lot louder than that."

Then, there is a flash. And a bang as a bullet leaves the chamber.

Masuyama Kenzo – Pisco – slumps to the ground, dead. Blood oozes from his skull, a deep, thick red that pools around his head as his forehead crashes against the pavement.

Kudo Shinichi hangs the phone up without another word. He glances towards Hattori Heiji, points back at the newly-formed corpse and takes a step towards the exit to the warehouse, not even bothering to watch the body drop. "Get a cleaning crew for that, won't you?"

In the end – every action has a reaction.

And there's no reaction, quite like a Kudo reaction.

The author very much so enjoys comments.