Chapter 19: Prey

FBI Special Agent Derek Norton was running, literally, for his life. He could hear them coming, feel the bullets as they raced past his body as the strange black clad soldiers continued to hunt him. He had no idea who they were, but he knew what they wanted. Him. Dead.

Derek could remember when he first arrived in Raccoon City, back in July, to assist in the Forest Murders investigation. Unfortunately, Raccoon City was smack dab in the middle of Colorado, and since there was no reason to believe the suspects were flitting in and out of state lines, for the most part he'd just sat around his hotel room at the Apple Inn and done nothing. It wasn't even like Raccoon City was a major tourist destination. There was nothing to do. The town didn't even have a field division, meaning had Derek wanted to get some work done, he'd have to go all the way to Boulder. Mostly, he just sat around, missing Dawn and Tim, hoping the kid wasn't already walking…

Then the day before, everything had gone to hell, and in the last thirty hours, Derek had been on the run, first from the apparent zombies roaming the streets, and now from this group of who knew what.

"Don't let him get away!" shouted one of them, a woman, from behind him. She had an accent, definitely not a local. Almost…French? he wondered, casting the thought aside as another burst of rifle fire shattered the windshield of a parked car to his right. He ran faster, weaving, his head hunched low to minimize his profile. He needed to get off the street, but didn't know where to go…

There he thought, lunging over the hood of a car and worming his way across. With an awkward thud, he landed on his face, giving himself a bloody nose, but ignoring it in his desperate flight.

"Merde!" the woman behind him called. "He's breaking from cover! Specter, take him!"

What the fuck? Derek had time to wonder, before another, deeper-throated rifle joined the barrage. He remembered the sound from a Cuban Red Army group he'd helped run down outside Tampa. Heckler and Koch G3 battle rifle. Shit.

Derek was back on his feet, his handgun, a Smith & Wesson 1076 in his right hand, blind firing as he dodged left and right, not thinking which way he'd dodge next, lest he become predictable. He took a left, noting as he did a shape following him along the roves, hopping like some disturbing rabbit. The sniper was out his reach, though, so he just kept running, head down, figuring he was probably more aerodynamic that way.

He hung a sharp right, swinging around a parked car, and falling flat on his stomach, his handgun skittering away. He started to scramble for it, but some sixth sense caused him to duck his head. A second later, a ridiculous looking hand axe swung through the air, missing scalping him by no more than an inch. He rolled onto his back see a figure standing over him in black combat armor, a G36 slung over her shoulder. She started to bring the axe down, but he raised both feet and kicked her in the stomach, causing her to stagger back. Another kick and she was stumbling, and Derek rolled back onto his feet and was running again, leaving his handgun behind.

The alley let him out in another intersection, the stoplights all flashing red. Derek took a quick moment to look around, and almost bought a plot because of it, two shots cracking loudly in the air. Derek ducked down and scuttled away, head low, as he tried to find an avenue of escape.

He could hear bullets as they impacted on the pavement around him, and realized he needed to get out of the open. Using his forearms to shield his face, he leapt through a nearby building's front window, glass flying forward. Derek rolled, coming to his feet, just in time to realize a shard of glass had imbedded itself in his leg, and that furthermore he wouldn't be running anywhere else anytime soon. Swearing to himself, he drew his other handgun, a compact Glock 23 he normally carried as a backup, and hobbled toward the back of the store. If he was lucky, maybe they'd decide he wasn't worth the trouble. Not likely, but possible.

"Crap" he said softly at the sound of heavy boots on broken glass.

"Where did he go?" a new voice asked, quiet and accented like something from Eastern Europe.

"Shit, that Fed's long gone, man" said another voice, this one deeper and definitely American.

They know who I am Derek realized. They must have somebody inside the Bureau. Either that, or someone high in the local PD. No one else knew he was here…

"Nien" said another voice, also a woman, and clearly German. "That is arterial blood. He is vounded. He will not make it far."

Derek looked down at the glass shard in his leg. It was already stained dark from blood. He reached down and gently tucked at it, only to have sharp pain shoot through his body. Okay, leave it for later.

"Spread out" said the Frenchwoman. "Find him and complete the mission."

Derek pressed himself up against the wall, his breathing sharper, the Glock raised in both hands next to his head, as the sounds of heavy boots drew closer and closer. Whoever these guys were, they weren't just common thugs, they wanted him dead, and worse, they knew exactly who they were after. Someone was targeting government agents, and that meant-

"Hello" said the deep voice. Derek whirled around, Glock in both hands, to find himself staring at the wrong end of a SPAS-12 held in the hands of what he could only describe as Darth Vader with glowing blue eyes.

"Oh-" he began, his finger tensing on the trigger of the Glock, but its report was lost in the louder bang of the shotgun. Derek saw Dawn's face, smiling; then there was a flash of light, and suddenly he was numb all over and lying on his back. Vader stood over him.

"This is Beltway" he said calmly. "I got him. Bastard dented my armor though." He paused. "Guy's still moving, Lupo. Want me to finish him?"

"Negative" the Frenchwoman's voice replied over a microphone Derek couldn't see. "Don't waste the shell. The infected will take care of this one. Move out."

"Yes ma'am" Vader replied. "See ya 'round, G-Man" he told Derek, before turning and walking away from the dying FBI agent.