ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...
DATE: JUNE 12th 2008
LOCATION: BERN, SWITZERLAND
ENTR CAM D - 19:18:05
From the outside, the peaceful Swiss restaurant was a calming place, with little thatched-tables and chairs around the outside, and a luxurious interior full of romantic lamps, wide windows and curving corners. The place was busy and open, the perfect place for a deal.
The light creme walls were inviting and warm, and couples all sat in small configurations around single tables with little round lamps shining cosy colours onto their faces. It wasn't even late evening and the families dinners and romantic conversations had already begun. This type of chatter would continue for the rest of the night, so it was a good cover to hide behind. Staying in plain view as to not tip anyone off, a formal man sat at one of the couple's tables.
His face was caked in dark stubble, and his face was round and ordinary. Nothing out of place. He had tried to grow out his hair for a disguise's sake; but it didn't proceed any further than the tip of his forehead. A crooked nose and sagging eyes, Richard Barnett was attempting to blend in. Holding (in his rucksack) a faraday bag that held a crucial piece of technology.
Recently, he had been contacted by a shell-company owned by a Russian bank, who gave him a gambit; sell his newly made and copyable propagation module for a very high sum of money. This was a chance to support his ill daughter and panicked wife in their time of need, so he had taken a 'business trip' to the neutral ground of Switzerland to avoid any international conflicts. Bringing with him a dossier of important employees in his own technology firm - just in case they wanted proof of his worth - Richard touched his fingers together in anticipation.
The propagation module, nicknamed Seltene (Or as the misprint on the box described; Seltina) was made over the course of seven years, and was the largest private project ever built by his firm at that time. Made initially to help support the stock-market if a large crash ever occurred, the program would help distribute spyware to protect a possible collapsing economy.
But under the orders of his Russian contact, Barnett had reversed-engineered it to take out any US firm's internal accounts, stocks, information, everything. He felt terrible, but one must do terrible things for the good of their families. A man must provide, after all. Struck with fear, soon his contact would arrive and he would see the truth in the deal. One small module of a computer chip for just over three million dollars.
Waiting on the door to open, Richard looked at his wallet, finding a innocent picture of him and his family in New York, standing just on the brink of Times Square. His wife was pale, and had streaking brown hair that fell in clumps around her shoulders. Holly (his daughter) Was a constantly medically ill girl, diagnosed with Leukaemia, the money that Richard got today could easily pay for some more advanced treatments.
The television that played blurred footage had just cut to a commercial of a new housing estate in the Swiss Alps, sponsored by some large digital and print media company, and the groups of conglomerates that served it.
Turning to look back around in front of him, he saw the bell over the door ding when a man walked into the restaurant. Dressed in a silver suit, he passed over everyone else until he passed Barnett's table too. He was simply meeting his girlfriend here. As the couple began to kiss each other lightly and sit down, Richard was shocked when he looked back around to see a figure already seated at his table.
"Good evening, Mr Dov, I apologise for the lateness of my visit, do you have the contents?" He requested sharply with an astute tone. Referring to Barnett by his professional pseudonym, this man he met was every inch the professional. Wearing rectangular glasses and having a curving chin and drooping blue eyes, he wore a maroon-purple dress shirt and black raincoat. Assuming him to be the Russian contact 'Vindicator' Barnett held his ground. "The Money"
Saying it only once, Vindicator nodded. He reached under the table for a briefcase and pulled it up onto the top of the table. Barnett spotted a scar on the man's chin as he opened the locks on the case. Showing him a short glimpse of the green-lined case, Barnett showed his own bag, inside the small faraday pocket at the bottom of the rucksack was the module.
The Vindicator's gaze kept on Richard for the moment "You scrubbed everything about this? No more digital records exist of any kind? If this gets out Dov, I'll be sure the FBI know's who to talk too" His Russian accent pronounced thickly. A covert member of the FSB, Vindicator was looking for a tool; a bargaining chip in case the US ever found itself against Russia - or if Russia wanted to mass-produce the chip to create more deadlier copies for their own use.
Barnett never fired the gun; but he did supply the bullets. Vindicator extended his right hand and held the case in his left, huffing to himself. "Of course I did, the module no longer exists - just make sure to change it's name when you get home" Richard offered a wry smile.
Unimpressed, Vindicator put the briefcase down and slid it towards Richard's side of the table. Then he stopped. "You came in here with a file, what's inside it?" The Vindicator said with a drawn-out tone.
"It's a...log, so to speak. Nine years of work, everything I've collect on Robotica Systems" Barnett continued. Suddenly, The Vindicator took major interest in this. Vindicator's face was clean, and looked freshly shaved, with a subtle and fearsome edge in his silence. Snorting, the Russian eyed Barnett in a frightening way, his eyes flashing with daunting possibility.
Demandingly, the Russian's head leered towards Richard. "Give me the file" He whispered with the undertone of a threat. This wasn't apart of the agreement, it was simply a work-ready document that Barnett had brought for a bargaining piece, and he never suspected the FSB Agent to pick up on it's inclusion.
His hand began to shake as Richard sat up straighter, bringing his voice to one of composure, he stood his ground. "An extra five thousand" He demanded. In all the power of the Kremlin they must have brought some more money, more than what he was already being paid for the module that is. The Vindicator (His codename in the agency - while his alias was one of Sergei Kovalyov) turned his head to take a sweeping look at the restaurant.
"I would not antagonise us, Barnett-" Kovalyov revealed, much to the hidden surprise of Barnett himself. Judging by the eyes burning holes in his back, Richard guessed that the FSB messenger had brought more than himself to this meeting. "Because you never know how many of us there are" He sneered as a uniformed man sauntered past the table, shooting Barnett the worst of killer looks.
Giving in, Richard pulled out the dossier and passed it to his contact, who gave a wide smile. Thanking him, the Russian tucked it inside his raincoat, and confidently slid the briefcase full of cash to Barnett's side of the table. "That's one million in cash. The other two million will be transferred later this evening" Sergei ensured.
Next, Barnett reached deeper into his bag, and took out a small black pouch, with a silver-lined rim. Tossing the pouch to his contact, the Russian took it without any question, holding it in his hand - he threw it up and down a couple of times - testing the weight. He seemed satisfied. "You're going to be a very rich man, Mr Barnett" Sergei congratulated. As Richard held the briefcase under the table, the FSB Agent stood as he tucked the pouch into his pocket.
Sat across from each other, Barnett inquired about the state of his company's documents, and their continued alliance with Russia's intelligence community. "So, I guess the pen beats the sword, huh? I mean, I hope we still keep in contact" He implored. His contact gave a sour reply as he glanced downwards, most likely to his phone. "I have found that whoever wields the sword...decides who holds the pen"
Typing on his burner flip-phone, the FSB Agent had his own private contact, typing the cryptic message on a secure line, he quickly hit the send button after writing it.
TO: NEWPORT, G.
Module secure.
No loose ends.
Leak the names.
SENDING...
As the bustle of the restaurant continued, Sergei stood and cleaned his coat with a swipe of his hand. About to stand too, Richard quickly hurried a question "You're just going to walk away? What about the deal?"
"Mr Barnett, we have what we need. Our alliance is finished" Sergei concluded quietly. Walking to the door, at least four other hidden agents followed him, dressed in a degree of different disguises, they fled in a single file line, each holding the exit door for the man behind. Until the final agent cast Barnett a cold glance.
ENTR CAM F1 - 19:26:39
Outside the restaurant was a strangely empty street. Both sides of the road were littered with shops, restaurants and cafes. But no tourists or local was walking around at this time. Most people were heading out from work or had already reached their home. Sergei's troop of cars filed in at once, and he gave the module's package to one of his plain-clothed American bodyguards. "Take this - and bring the cars around, I'll meet you across the street"
"Of course, Sir" The bodyguard responded. A former CIA Operator, this man had a stern look when he stepped into the back of the car and ordered the driver to pull away. As his guard held the package in his hand, Sergei watched as the cars neatly exited the street. Looking across the street - he saw the wiry figure of a female sat near the window of a late-night club and cafe. More upmarket than a nightclub, the establishment had slightly blacked-out windows, but the Russian could still see the outline of the woman.
Young, she was pale and her hair was as short as a fuse, wearing a slim dress, she held a large cup of some vibrant ice-liquid. Stepping into the club, the Russian walked towards the unique woman at the bar immediately. Glancing her up and down, scars had replaced most of the skin on her arms, with some old burn marks and faded marks. Most of the scars looked like former tattoos that had been removed - as if her body was once a canvas for ink. She was frail, looking at Sergei as she sucked on the straw of an neon orange icy drink and gave a sultry wink to him.
Her makeup was dark and brooding and her lips were glossed in a glittering dark purple. Her hair was dyed straight down the middle, one side was a jet-black and the other side was a cotton-candy pink. Approaching her, Sergei sat on a bar-stool beside her. "What are you doing here, Georgia?" He asked with hidden urgency.
"I'm having a drink" She replied in her English twang, crossing her legs. In her other hand, she held a silver flip-phone, exactly like the one that Sergei had. Seeing him notice it, Georgia cockily smirked.
Georgia Newport had survived the prison shootout, and was simply put into solitary confinement for the rest of her stay in prison. But thanks to a technicality, she was accidentally released with a batch of other prisoners on a community service trip. Armed with only a satellite phone, Newport contacted her friends in Tarasovich's gang, who broke her out on the bus-ride back to the lockup only hours later. Now, she was hiding out in Switzerland waiting for transport back into the US.
Sergei Kovalyov (a simple work alias; as the man that Georgia spoke to was really the Shadow Army's leader; Vladislav Chekhov) Coughed with a laugh. Posing as a member of the FSB, he had managed to convinced Barnett to hand over his propagation module for a high sum. Now in possession of one of the most powerful pieces of technology in the world - the plan was now to cover up his tracks.
Lowering his voice suddenly, Chekhov sat low as he saw Barnett himself exit the restaurant with a concerned look on his face. "Is that the mark?" Georgia guessed. She got a nod in response. Going for his phone again, he checked the most recent messages - nothing. He trusted that Georgia had already received his message though - as he sat right next to her.
"It'll be done. I'll set up Riemann as the Kremlin's spy, it'll be quite the scandal at the ISA, his death won't be investigated" Newport chirped with a whisper. The plan was concocted by Chekhov to cover his actions perfectly. With the module stolen, they'll make hundreds of copies and have enough illegal spyware to take down the internet itself. But they needed a fall-guy, so after Georgia dug up some of Nazarov's old files it became apparent that he was tracking an undercover ISA team in Moscow, they found one.
As the 'FSB' orchestrated the meeting with Barnett, it could be pinned on one of those ISA Agents that they jumped ships and knew about the American technology firm ran by Barnett, so arranged to buy his new secret project. Then it would come to fruition - the ISA Team would be pulled from Moscow once the information leaked and the American DOD would have no choice but to disband the squadron.
Removing the file on Barnett's company, Chekhov cast his eyes over it. A list of projects under different and unique names like 'Genoa' and 'Tractor Rose' all programs that the firm may have been developing for either public or government use. It looked like they had been commissioned to work on a much larger-scale development project in Washington State.
"I need to go back to Oregon - it looks like this game just got a bit more interesting" Chekhov bragged, standing up from his chair. Georgia lingered on his shoulder, placing her hand there tenderly, and her persuasive gesture worked; as the Russian swung around to look at her.
"If the ISA finds you; you know what'll happen" She warned him. But Chekhov didn't mind her words, she was smart and a skilled hacker - but she lacked knowledge of the bigger picture. That was her fault with Nazarov. Often, she'd presume too much and rush into the battle early, before the first sword was even drawn from it's sheath. With confidence, Chekhov folded his fingers together and left his index fingers outstretched and touching.
"Control has their army...wait until they meet ours" Chekhov gave this resounding remark as he took from the room, folding the file and sliding it back into his coat.
When he left the club, he checked the restaurant in front of him across the street. Looking into the camera at the front of the establishment - he always recognised when he was being watched. From the small box-like camera, The Machine recognised him with a white identification box in it's archive mode. Zooming out, it switched the box from a harmless white to a crimson red.
NAME: CHEKHOV, VLADISLAV K
SSN: XXX-XX-0022
DOB: 1959/09/12
POB: OMSK, RUSSIA
ADDRESS: [ACCESS RESTRICTED]
OCCUPATION: FSB SECTION CHIEF 1993 - 2005
VERKEHRSKAMERA SEC 7B - 19:40:21
Stepping into the blackened 2007 Bentley Continental, Chekhov's aide had done his duty and turned the motorcade around, heading for a private airport hangar that the terrorist leader and former Russian section chief had bought out. Ordering his man to prepare his private jet, his personal technician and advisor perked up - Ernst Bortnikov. He was a gifted IT specialist and a more outgoing member of Chekhov's circle of trust.
Unfolding a bulky laptop, Ernst began to scroll through reels of white text and websites, grinning when his boss showed him the module in it's faraday packaging. Unsealing it, he held it aloft. Ernst was fat-faced, with German-Russian heritage and wisps of curling grey hair that curved backwards on his head. Wearing a hooded coat and sweater, Ernst removed the module to inspect it. "He didn't bug it, did he?" He quirked, feeling around the sides of the propagation chip.
"Barnett isn't a fool, he knows what's good for him. Speaking of that, you can wire the extra two million to his Swiss account now" Chekhov reminded him. Doing as his employer said, Ernst switched over to a screen full of names and numbers and filed up Barnett's account and inputted a large loading bar, it shifted figures until a square two million dollars was completely deposited into the account.
Continuing to decipher the module, Ernst grew concerned about the new recruits to Chekhov's growing faction "Are you sure that Newport will succeed? Taking down a few electronic billboards in London is one thing, but tricking the ISA? It's a whole new game" He stammered.
Knowing that Georgia was damaged goods, Chekhov didn't fancy her chances, but for now he needed her; she was the only person that knew about Nazarov's Operations in Moscow and the connections to a larger terrorist cell - one that Chekhov was close to building. Her hacking skills couldn't be denied though, and framing an ISA Agent was only a small part of the larger plot. "How soon can you copy that module?" He asked Ernst.
"Immediately. The Rylatech Prototypes are all I require for the manufacturing process" He whined. They had been using machine-building apparatus from technology firms across the country, all acquired through stock-holding and backdoor deals. The most prolific company was Rylatech, which had been a ploy-company for the Chinese and the Russian governments for years. Chekhov then passed his technical consultant the dossier on Barnett's firm, pointing to it as an item of interest.
"You'll have the prototypes as soon as we reach the hangar - and I want you to find the schematics of this module and send them to Patrushev at Lubyanka Square - see if he can't find someone to modify it" Chekhov requested as the cars raced in single file towards the aircraft hangar.
ACCESSING CURRENT FEEDS...
DATE: AUGUST 12th 2014
PRECISE LOCATION: STEINER PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL
FAC APLH HALL_07 - 21:59:06
With fuzzy indents dancing around his eyes in black and white splotches, he saw nothing but a blur as distant voices called all around him. He was being taken somewhere, as he could hear the wheeling noises below his body. Being pushed - he was in a wheelchair in some long and dimly lit corridor. Among the ensemble of pure audio, he could hear two distinct voices become much clearer.
One was gruff and stern, a deadpan noise of exhaustion was breathed out of her body. It was female, as the certain inflections would give it away. Her companion was Male, obviously English; and of a more refined palette. The woman was tough, as she pushed him down the hallway with force and speed, as the man beside her strolled with the upmost of high-class astuteness.
The woman, called Briggs, was dressed in her pale white orderly overalls. She grunted with a heaving breath as she pushed the man strapped in the chair along the corridor. "I think he soiled himself - what a mess - I thought he was a DOD official?" She commented honestly.
"Perhaps you over-sedated him" Thorndyke replied, as they reached the elevator foyer at the end of the corridor. Wearing his dark blue pinstripe suit and checkered tie, the Englishman swayed into the path of the nearest elevator, pressing the red button with his forefinger, he stood aside to allow Briggs to wheel Cayden Hayward inside the metal box.
"Either Mr Hayward becomes a team player after his next visit to the OR...or bowel issues will be the least of his problems" Thorndyke said with a humorous sneer. Moving the wheelchair into the elevator, the female orderly didn't react, she'd normally only hold her respect and friendship for Lambert; who was currently unavailable. "Surgery waits for no man, Mr Hayward" He expressed as the clink of the doors brought them to a satisfying close.
With that order swiftly carried out, Thorndyke waltzed back towards the one of the control rooms at the east side of the building. Upper-class in nature, Thorndyke had a long face with a thin neck, a rounded nose and beady brown eyes. His ears curled upwards behind a flat line of brown and greying hair. Educated in the highest establishments of British education, Thorndyke was elected as one of Samaritan's chiefs for his knowledge of strategy and SAS-level tactics. Formerly working in the planning and analysis divisions of MI6, he had crossed paths with men like Lambert and Alastair Wesley all too often.
Walking onto the east corridor, Thorndyke felt someone coming up behind him at some speed - dodging just in time, an aide he recognised rushed down the hallway. "What is it?" Thorndyke demanded, the aide (known as Wyatt) responded while stepping carefully so he didn't stop and fall at such a speed "Zachary's team is back; they've successfully eliminated the Congressman"
FAC APLH HALL_07 - 22:02:16
ASSET / / 1189
ASSET / / 2020
FAC APLH CAM 65 - 22:02:19
For the first time working under Samaritan; the AI had surprised her. In all the world's infinite camera feeds and countless assets to add to the army, one darkly dressed short-haired woman wasn't that much of a problem, right? Cinder's return had come as a shock to say the least. Not many people survived when Decima collapsed, only a handful of survivors converted to Samaritan's ways.
Once they all exited the cars at the Steiner's garage complex, Barrett was waiting. Curious about Martine's connection to one of his own enforcers, he met her with a smug smile. Still dressed in his grey uniform, Barrett opened the double-doors with a strong push; enough for Martine to slip through them. Following her into the hallway to the command centre, he managed to file in just beside Martine as she walked.
As Barrett's thuggish face twisted into a snarky expression, Martine waited in silence for his sharp opening comment. "So...how does a former Hague worker and one of Samaritan's best end up knowing a New Jersey-born Bounty Hunter?" Barrett wondered aloud. So that was Cinder's background, Martine had longed to find out more about the silent woman, and now she had a city of birth and her former occupation. Bounty hunting, most likely for the state or the courts; acting like a sheriff and bailiff to those who don't pay up to the county.
Not wanting to show any emotion at this revelation, Martine looked to walk straight ahead into the control room at the east side of the building. Snorting, Barrett held open the door for Martine and a couple of agents that followed her. The eerie lights coming up from the technician's workstations lit up their faces as Murrow stood in the middle of it all. Barrett flanked Martine as she came to a stop beside the former American paratrooper. "If you're wondering about Greer, he's attending our little NHC operation, but he'll be back shortly" Murrow informed her.
Turning her head to view the massive wall-mounted screen, the camera feed had shifted to a office building, and then a street where a convoy of large white trucks moved supplies down the motorways of New York. Sensing Martine's deeper emotions and tensed mannerisms, Murrow wiped his blazer for dust, and stood a little straighter as the monitor changed again to a street corner. Hushing himself, Murrow leant into Martine's ear and thanked her for her effort in taking out the Congressman.
Martine expressed her regards in a nod, folding her hands in front of her in a cold and calculating way - the same way that Lambert and Flint would.
As Samaritan's feed changed to a busy intersection, Martine lost herself in watching the cars and motorbikes zip past, and the interface busy at work, cataloging every vehicle and the people inside. It was mesmerising, the simple motion of the cars, and Samaritan's UI clocking every one of them. Cutting suddenly, to outside another street corner, the reticle honed in on a package distribution vehicle.
ROOFTOP OUTLOOK W - 22:14:29
MONITORING APS FLEET_
APS VEHICLE # 78901
"Package distribution? Is Samaritan getting into EBay?" Barrett laughed a little at his own joke as he joined Murrow's side from the background of the control room. Looking at the time from the camera, and it's position on one of the many rooftops of New York, Martine saw as the reticle zoomed in onto the vehicle, and followed until it was out of view. Samaritan had many objectives and missions working simultaneously - so it was hard to grasp all of them at the same time.
Murrow turned his torso to glance at Barrett "Of course - How else do you expect us to get all this equipment?" He growled sarcastically. Martine smirked and looked back to the screen. It was peaceful for the moment. She had heard the radio chatter from Zachary to his boss - Greer - and the plans that the AI had formed to falsely vaccinate people and then take their DNA sample for entire new database; for whatever reason. Martine didn't think that much about it. As the highway continued streaming through on Samaritan's monitor, Murrow placed his hands into his pockets as he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Martine, both of them having the exact same gleefully aware smile.
ACCESSING ARCHIVED FEEDS...
DATE: JUNE 23rd 2008
LOCATION: Midtown, NEW YORK CITY, USA
ROOFTOP SEC 05 ZONE 12 - 20:09:53
Watching from the top of a former stock-trading building, and overlooking the Rylatech Plaza, a figure cast in shadow and a long overcoat kept vigilant above the lower skyscrapers and box-like buildings. The sky was black tranquility on this night; married to a poetry of stars. It was the softness that called a broken body and brain to rest and let the heart go in steady rhythm. No more than an hour ago the sky was painted with hues of red, orange and pink, but all colour had faded in the horizon, leaving only a deep black canvas with no stars to be looked upon.
Stepping up onto the concrete barrier, Holloway looked down on the street. Where the people moved like ants, with tall street-lights bathing them in white and yellow. He had come here to watch and perform some more human surveillance; he always hated how Decima would employ hundreds of geeks and IT wizards to perform the technical tasks for them. But he was simply a recruiter, his days and battles fought in the NZ-SAS meaning nothing to Greer and his acolytes.
Apart of many experimental teams that focused on working combat strategies and training, Holloway was an important tool, until he fell out of love and was demoted for taking an injury and saving a man's life. The same action that cost the mission he was on. He learned later that this same nameless soldier he had saved had a terminally ill wife - and Holloway's actions allowed the soldier to be with her for a few more weeks before her passing. Dwelling on this, Holloway sniffed the cold and crisp air, and he didn't even hear the locked door opening at the other side of the rooftop.
He had accessed this building via the safety entrance, and climbed the stairs to the perfect vantage point. Much like the business that once operated there Holloway presumed that the cameras were already offline or deactivated. But the spies of Decima had located him far before then. The raid on the Office Of Special Counsel and the theft of a portion of the 'Research' program granted Decima's tech teams a lot of digital power. Part of that power was the ability to scrub and erase any person from any known databank, a clean slate; and that was exactly the plan for Holloway.
As the door to the rooftop creaked open, Holloway span around and aimed his Beretta 85F at the door quickly. Before he would ever pull on the trigger he was blinded by a laser-sight from one of his assailant's pistols. There were at least six men, maybe seven, that surrounded him. All holding Heckler & Koch Mark 23s, the lead agent had his pistol outfitted with a suppressor and a laser-sight dot that fixed it's mark on Holloway's chest. Each member of the group holding him at gunpoint were dressed in corresponding black suits, with harsh faces and receding hairlines.
The leading agent was recognised by Holloway, he remembered him from the many times he had visited Greer's base across from the Stock Exchange. "Agent Drake, what's going on here-"
"Rooftop clear, Sir - we have the target" Drake spoke into his wrist while still holding the pistol at Holloway's sternum. Hearing the echoes of footsteps coming up the stairs and towards the door, Holloway lowered his weapon.
The other enforcers for Decima seemed to shuffle away as the bearded and high-brow man known as Lambert strolled into view. Wearing his classically tailored evening suit, Lambert shut the door behind him with a slam.
In the cold air, every word from his mouth was a gust of steam. "Hello Leighton" Lambert began.
"Jeremy" Holloway responded, the light from the building behind illuminating all the agents in front of him.
"Greer's been looking for you. Glad to see you're still alive" Jeremy commented.
Standing alone in an exposed space, Holloway checked the windows of the surrounding buildings with his eyes. "I bet you are" He said dryly.
"Surprised you came back to New York City, after leaving Decima, I thought you'd get yourself a cabin in the woods...Montana maybe" Lambert guessed, judging Leighton's expression, he took a step forward with Drake lingering behind his shoulder, weapon still half-raised. "What do you want, Jeremy?" Holloway asked simply.
"Time to come home Leighton, your slate's been wiped clean. Come with me now, and they'll be no more violence" He promised with a newfound threatening tone.
Scoffing, Holloway tensed his fist around the handle of his gun. "You know that'll never happen" Leighton responded strongly.
"Then you have forced my hand-" Jeremy said as he produced a small radio from his coat's pocket, he leaned into the radio and pressed the activation button. "Kill her, and kill him" Lambert pointed to Holloway. Suddenly a crack in the air brought Holloway to the floor - it was a sniper. His own tactic used against him, enraged, he started to fire wildly with his Beretta as he went down to the floor, spraying lead over the Decima Agents, and luckily taking out a couple of them in the process.
Drake pushed Jeremy back, firing weakly at Holloway as they took cover behind a large airing vent instalment. The former contractor had been wounded in the guts, and was limping to escape as the remaining Agents pursued on foot. "Full retrieval at once, Sir" Drake turned back around to his earpiece, but Jeremy placed a hand on his forearm. "There's no need - he can't escape us"
Checking his earpiece, Drake looked up to the next building, a tower office block with a single open window and a flashing mirror-like effect. The reflection of a sniper's scope. Contacting the certain wielder of the Remington Model 700, Drake stood guard near Lambert.
DATE: JUNE 23rd 2008
—ALIAS - R, DRAKE
—ALIAS - D, SCHAFFER
TELECOM INTERCEPT
/ / / NLU ACTIVE
[R, DRAKE]: DO YOU SEE HIM?
[D, SCHAFFER]: NEGATIVE.
[R, DRAKE]: WELL, GET DOWN HERE AND FIND HIM, HE COULDN'T HAVE GONE FAR.
Going for his own phone, Lambert punched in numbers as Drake's men scrambled to go after the fleeing Holloway. Waiting for a moment, he finally contacted Greer's outside source "Mr Baxter, this is Jeremy Lambert, Greer sent me. I understand that you've recently lost a pair of prototype processing servers? Well, what if I told you that the thief was in your building right now...working overtime. What if...I could provide you with her name?" Lambert offered. The man on the other side of the call agreed, and continued to pledge his company's efforts to the will of Decima.
"The woman who agreed for the theft to take place in the first instance, the woman who is to blame for all of...this. That woman's name is...Elyse Holloway" Lambert revealed.