Forever
-chapter fourteen
Run away with my heart,
Run away with my soul,
Run away with my love
I know now, just quite how
My life and love might still go on
In your heart, in your mind
I'll stay with you, for all of time
If I could, then I would
I'll go wherever you will go
Way up high, or down low
I'll go wherever you will go
If I could turn back time
I'll go wherever you will go
If I could make you mine,
I'll go wherever you will go....
~the calling, "wherever you will go"
After hopping out of the APC, Jill Valentine quickly assumed her position at
point for the Alpha Team. With practiced precision and ease, she shouldered her FN P90
submachine gun. The gun's barrel went where her eyes went; it was standard practice for
the team to always have their weapons shouldered, and it had become second nature for
her. The barrel of the weapon never left her eyesight; it was always there, as if it had
attatched itself to her shoulder and moved where she moved, looked where she looked.
The gun was an extension of her body; she looked at it as more of a tool for distributing
justice and saving lives, rather than a cold, mechanical killing weapon. She advanced
towards the designated insertion point, a side door.
She moved in a low crouch, her lithe form moving quickly but not hastily, her
eyes scanning the windows of the art museum for possible snipers or guards. When she
had reached the door along with the rest of the team, she moved to one side, giving the
thumbs up to Carlos, who carried with him the door key that Officer Norwood had
provided him with. As Carlos moved forward to open the door, Jill moved behind him
along with Chris and Barry, who were ready to burst in the moment Carlos had opened
the door. Their weapons were already trained on the door and the space that would open
up for them.
"Big Poppa Zero, this is Alpha 1-1, over." Chris began.
"Go ahead, Alpha 1-1, over."
"We are at the insertion point. Alpha One, engage."
"Alpha Two, engage." Leon echoed.
"That's a roger, All Alpha. Alpha One and Two are engaged. Over." Norwood
said on the other side of the line.
At this, Chris cut off the comm-link and gave Carlos, who already had the key in
the lock, a thumbs up. At this, Carlos turned the key and Jill, Chris, and the rest of the
team stormed in. The operation had begun.
* * *
Unlike many other anti-terrorist or elite commando squads, the S.T.A.R.S. did not
attatch flashlights or laser aiming devices to their weapons; the way Chris saw it, a wary
guard could easily see a stray flashlight beam cast by an unattentive S.T.A.R.S. member's
weapon, and raise the general alarm. Thus, Chris had ordered anything, anything at all
that could reveal their position to guards to be removed. Stealth was the name of the
game above all else for the S.T.A.R.S.; it was their specialty, and it was valued above all
else. Every weapon was silenced, every boot coated with a high-tech sole that would
mimimise the sound of their footsteps. Perhaps the S.T.A.R.S. weren't as experienced or
skilled in other fields that other units like the Navy Seals or the British S.A.S. excelled at,
such as demolitions or assassination, but who needs to be skilled when your stealth is
such that the enemy never knows you're there?
So, when the Alpha Team moved into the corridor that met them after opening
the entrance door, it was with complete silence, as if they had taken the form of ghosts or
phantoms seeking their unknowing prey. Communication between team members was
limited to hand signals, nods of heads, or taps on shoulders, so as to not risk speaking
through the comm-link and someone hearing their voices.
Jill, the point, led the team down the corridor until another hallway branched off
to the left. According to the mission plan, this was to be where Alpha Two, Leon's team,
would seperate. She knelt down on one knee, bringing one fist into the air, the signal to
stop and crouch. Her eyes never left the barrel of her weapon, and the P90 remained
locked down the corridor ahead of her, ready to fire should any target present itself.
Chris came up beside her, the rest of the team behind them. He put two fingers up
in the air, made a fist, and pointed down the hallway to his left. With the efficiency and
trim movements afforded by long months of training, Leon's five strong team split from
Chris' team, and moved off down the hallway, Carlos in point, his silenced M4a1 darting
to his shoulder, intense, concentrated dark eyes scanning for possible targets as he led
Alpha Two on their designated mission path.
When Chris was satisfied Alpha Two was on it's way, he tapped Jill twice on the
shoulder, the signal to go on with their pre-assigned mission movements. They had
planned every movement out on a blueprint of the art museum prior to the mission, and
thus every member of Alpha knew where to go and how to get there.
Alpha One, Chris' team, was assigned to locate, and if necessary, eliminate the
terrorist threat, while minimising casulaties both to Alpha One and the hostages. Alpha
Two, Leon's team, was assigned to rescuing the hostages, protecting them with all means
necessary, and escorting them back to the insertion point and out of the building. Once
the hostages were in Alpha Two's protection, Alpha One would move to support them,
providing cover fire, distraction, and raising a general ruckus while Alpha Two
disengaged and left the building with the hostages.
The mission objectives were quite simple. The first and most important was the
rescue and safety of the hostages, and the second, optional objective was the elimination
of any and all terrorist threats. It was a plan that was all together very simple, but the
S.T.A.R.S. had executed it flawlessly dozens of times before and it had proved it's worth.
Jill led the team down the corridor until it led into a larger room used for housing
numerous art exhibits. She passed a modern art exhibit, and immediately brought her
weapon to bear on what she thought was a form of a terrorist pointing his gun at her.
Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be an art exhibit, this one containing a life size
green army man, it's gun pointed towards the room entrance and at her, it's unseeing eyes
staring at her lifelessly. Jill noted the irony.
She led the team past the room towards the stairs, and the second floor room
where the hostages were held. She didn't notice the museum's security camera following
her every move, as well as the movements of her team; she assumed they were shut down
along with the rest of the museum's electrical power...
* * *
Carlos Oliviera led his fire-team upstairs, the five men and women gliding up the
stairs noiselessly. When he had reached the door at the top of the stairs, he took a quick
glance through the small window in the door to see a man on the other side, his back
facing the door. The ski-masked man yawned and took a cigarette from a pocket on his
kevlar vest, then lit it. Obviously one of the terrorists.
Carlos brought a fist up, and Leon came up beside him. Carlos turned to Leon,
and pointed to his own eyes, then past the door to the man, the signal that he could
visually confirm a terrorist. Leon nodded, then opened a comm-link to Chris. Talking in a
low voice so as not to arouse the terrorist's suspicion, he spoke.
"Alpha 1-1, come in, this is Alpha 2-1, over."
"This is Alpha 1-1. Go ahead, Alpha 2-1, over."
"We have made visual confirmation of the terrorists," Leon said, standing to look
through the window at the terrorist. Though his back was turned, Leon could still see the
man's weapon slung on the man's back: an AKS-74U, a cousin of the more popular and
infamous AK-47. ( not unlike the ones used by the Spetsnaz guards in MGS2 - author )
Unlike the AK-47, however, this model was more refined, and was a more of a specialist
weapon like MP5 or the M4a1. Leon thought of it as the "rich man's AK-47."
"...they're armed with AKS-74's, pineapples, and body condoms, over."
Pineapples were military for frag grenades, and body condoms were... Leon's term for
body armor, or Kevlar.
"Roger that, Alpha 2-1. Proceed with mission plan. Eliminate and evade. Over."
"Roger, Alpha 1-1. Over and out."
Leon turned to Carlos, then made an 'x' motion with his fists. Then he pointed to
the terrorist, the signal to quietly take out the target with as little noise as possible. Carlos
nodded. He moved to open the door, his M4 slung across his back, his piano string
garotte already in his hands.
He didn't know that his target was merely bait, and that as he opened the door
tangoes were moving up the stairs he had just went up, ready to pounce on the rest of his
team.
* * *
Chris looked around. Something wasn't quite right; he could feel it. He had
enough experience and enough military knowledge to know that security was much too
loose for such an important mission. His years in the Air Force and then S.T.A.R.S. had
given him an awareness of the situation, but it was the Umbrella Crusade that gave him a
sixth sense of impending danger. It was this sixth sense that was ringing the alarm sirens
in his head.
In short, the whole thing stank.
Jill was approaching stairs they would need to climb in order to reach the second
floor, where the terrorists they were assigned to take out were. She stopped at the foot of
the stairs, waiting for Chris to tap her on the shoulder and give her the full go-ahead.
Chris came up behind her, his eyes nervously scanning their vicinity for anything,
anything at all that would indicate they weren't the only ones in the building...
When Jill didn't get the tap on her shoulder, she turned around, looking at Chris
with questioning eyes. She saw Chris' eyes staring around them, as if looking for
something he had lost or something that should be there that wasn't. There was another
quality in those eyes she couldn't name.. what was it? nervousness? anxiety? or
something else... his fingers played nervously on the barrel of his M4, like they always
did when Chris had something on his mind.
Chris came back to reality. Barry had moved up next to the two, wondering what
was taking so long, while Ken and Eliza scanned around, weapons at the ready, providing
security. Barry spoke in a hushed whisper: "What's taking so long? Go!"
"This thing stinks, Barry. No opposition so far."
"They're prolly just shittin' their pants upstairs 'cus they know we're coming!
Now are you gonna tap Jill's shoulder or do I have to do it myself?" Barry spoke almost
too loud, but considering his own team was just decimated by these same terrorists, it
was somewhat understandable.
"A-..alright. Jill," Chris began, tapping Jill on the shoulder, "go."
Jill turned and shouldered her weapon again, before beginning to climb the stairs.
Barry followed, then Chris, and Ken and Eliza brought up the rear. They hadn't gotten up
halfway up the first flight when they heard the gunfire erupt from elsewhere in the
building.
* * *
Instantly Chris knew it was Leon's Alpha Two. He couldn't hear M4a1 or MP5
fire, but he knew it was because Alpha's weapons were silenced... instead he heard the
roar of AKS-74U's, and the assorted shouts and hollers of orders associated with combat.
The AK's roar was deafening, almost frightening.
Chris brought up a fist; the entire team went down to one knee.
"This is Alpha 1-1. Alpha 2-1, report!"
"Alpha 2-1 here!" Leon answered. Chris could hear the gunfire louder through his
comm-link. He heard Beccy swear and the distinctive sound of an MP5 clicking on an
empty chamber. She reloaded, and within a couple of seconds the soft dum-dum-dum of
her weapon sounded again.
"Alpha Two has contact! Repeat, Alpha Two..." he let go of a controlled burst
from his M4, "Alpha Two has contact, we were attacked from behind! One wounded,
operation stealth has been compromised! Over!"
"Alpha 2-1, who is the wounded, over?"
"Our rear-guard," Leon began, the rear-guard being the last team member,
charged with watching the team's rear, "Alpha 2-2. She's been hit in the arm, not
seriously. Alpha 2-3 is attending to her right now, over. She'll be alright."
Chris swore; Alpha Two's rearguard was Claire.
* * *
Instant hatred rose up in Chris' head. He would like nothing more than to take out
his combat knife and personally slit the throat of every terrorist in the building, for even
thinking about hurting his sister... but he suppressed it enough to give orders. He turned
to his team, four pairs of eyes filled with the rush of possible combat looking back at
him.
"Jill, Barry, and Eliza, onward with the primary mission objective. If Alpha
Two's in a firefight that means less guards on the hostages. Ken, with me.. we're helping
Alpha Two, maybe distract some of the terrorists."
What had caused Alpha Two to reveal their position, Chris thought? He was
certain of the team's skills in stealth and evasion... how did the tangoes find out about
them? It was almost as if they knew what the entire plan was from the beginning.. which
could explain the lack of security on Alpha One's path and the calculated ambush on
Alpha Two, since Alpha Two was the team that was supposed to rescue the hostages, and
Alpha One was supposed to engage and subdue the terrorists.
Now that the terrorists knew they were there, their superior numbers could prove
a factor... the S.T.A.R.S. relied mainly on stealth and surprise to win their battles, and
now that they were gone, hostages' lives could be lost as retaliation and in the deadly
crossfire, no matter what the eventual outcome. Chris swore softly under his breath.
Chris turned without any further notice and began to make his way to Alpha
Two's position, Ken following closely behind. When he was barely three steps away, Jill
called out his name softly.
"Chris," she said softly, "be careful."
Chris nodded back and waved his hand in the air.
Barry nodded, and tapped Jill on the shoulder. Jill locked eyes with Chris for a
split second, and there Chris could see every emotion Jill wanted to convey, even through
his face mask and blast helmet; in that split second Jill and Chris communicated
everything without words. Chris saw Jill's worry, Jill saw Chris' rage begin to fire up in
his intense eyes. After that and another moment's thought, Jill turned, shouldered her P90
and ghosted up the stairs, Barry and Eliza flanking her.
She didn't get all the way up the stairs; when she had reached the top, she met the
barrel of ten AK's, all of which were pointed at her. She froze, and one of the men
holding them up shouted at her to drop her weapon and get down on the ground.
Reluctantly, she did. Barry and Eliza, knowing that they had no chance whatsoever of
taking on all ten men, dropped their weapons as well. When they did, three of the men
came up, and forcefully removed the S.T.A.R.S.'s helmets. Following that, each of them
pistol-whipped the three S.T.A.R.S. into unconsciousness. The last thing Jill could
remember before she blacked out was the sound of Barry and Eliza falling roughly on the
ground next to her.
* * *
"Shit! How da hell did dis happen?" Carlos said softly to no one in particular,
ducking behind a marble block as he ejected the clip from his M4 and fished around in
his kevlar vest for another fresh one. Upon finding it, he reloaded and leaned back out,
fired a three round burst on a tango's position, and leaned back into cover. Return fire
chipped the marble block, causing small shards of marble to splinter off.
His team had run into the hallway they were supposed to stealthily infiltrate
following the first gunshots fired. Claire was the first to open up; her MP5 spraying shots
into the first terrorists to appear at the bottom of the stairs the team was on, causing the
first two terrorists to fall forward, blood pooling out from beneath them.
The team rushed forward into the hallway, Carlos dispatching his original target
at the top of the stairs with an hurried M4 burst. It was then that Claire, attempting to
give her team some cover, was hit in the arm by several shots; she went down, her
weapon dropping from pained fingers, clutching at her bloodied arm. The heavy AK
slugs had torn through her kevlar armor with the greatest of ease.
Leon screamed her name, and it was then that Carlos, taking command for a
split-second, gave the order for cover fire. Andy and Carlos dropped to one knee and
filled the stairwell with lead while Leon and Beccy dragged Claire behind a marble art
exhibit. Now the team was pinned down, as the seemingly large number of tangoes had
spilled into their hallway, gunfire and hot lead creating a deadly crossfire in the it's
length. Cover was pitifully small, and ammunition or lack of it proving a factor for Alpha
Two.
Andy, upon firing a whole thirty-round magazine from his MP5 on full auto into
the tangoes on the other side of the hall, unsheathed his Benelli shotgun from the
scabbard on his back. Fire support was his specialty, and in enclosed spaces such as this
hallway it made his fire that much more effective. He lined up a target, pulled the trigger,
and before the first body hit the ground, he had already picked another one and was
pumping another shell into the smoking chamber. The shotgun was frighteningly loud as
it announced it's presence with a roar, but stealth really didn't matter in their present
predicament.
Carlos looked toward where Leon was firing from a kneeling position, and behind
him Beccy had taken out her field first aid kit and was hastily bandaging Claire's wound.
Claire, having lost her MP5 in the firefight, had taken out her sidearm, a 9mm H&K USP
pistol, and was carefully taking aim and adding her shots to the fight.
She grimaced in pain as Beccy tightened up her bandage, trying to stop the blood
flow... but she didn't stop firing her silenced weapon. She concentrated, through what
was probably intense pain, and fired three shots. A tango went down as a result, Claire's
shot finding a vulnerable joint in his kevlar armor. Even through the pain, Claire was
supporting her team. Claire gained a whole lot of respect then and there from Carlos; he
had seen grown men cry from the wounds lesser than Claire's.
Leon dropped back into cover, looking like he was giving Officer Norwood at
home base a report. Carlos took this opportunity to fire another burst into a tango's
position, and was satisfied to hear the man cry out in pain, then fall down and not rise
again.But there were nine, maybe ten of the bastards left.
"Quiero la vacacion..." he said. As he said it, five more terrorists were
approaching them from behind, ready to spring a trap.
* * *
Chris sprinted as fast as he could to Alpha Two's location. He knew now that
some, if not all of the hostages would be executed as a result of Alpha Two's discovery.
But there had to be more to it; he knew for a fact that it couldn't have been Alpha Two's
fault they were discovered. No, there had to be something else at work here... it was as if
the terrorists were watching them from the beginning. They couldn't possibly have
known what they did about the mission, unless they had a double agent within the police
force relaying them information, or if they were somehow watching every room in the
building at once...
"Of course!" Chris said outloud, stopping dead in his tracks. Ken, surprised,
looked at him as if he had just emerged from an alien spaceship. Chris looked around in
the room they were in, looking for a security camera. He found it in the corner of ceiling;
and sure enough, the security camera was looking straight at him, the red light in the
corner that meant that it was recording glowing brightly.
He swore loudly, and as he did, six men, three at each entrance to the room he
was in, busted in and trained their weapons on Chris and Ken, demanding that they drop
their weapons. Ken and Chris brought their weapons to bear, but they knew right away
that they had no chance of blasting through six men without being wounded or killed.
They stood back to back, weapons trained on the terrorists. Reluctantly, as if it was the
most abhorred action in the entire world (which it was, to Chris) he laid his M4 on the
ground. Ken, seeing his Captain, followed his action.
"Raise your hands, now!" demanded the lead terrorist, his AK trained on Chris'
forehead. Chris and Ken followed, knowing it was pointless to resist. And as they did so,
their helmets were removed, and like Jill, Barry, and Eliza before them, they were
pistol-whipped into submission.
* * *
It could have been weeks, months, or years that he spent in unconciousness, Barry
Burton couldn't tell. But whatever it was, the first thoughts that came to his head were
Oreos. A wierd thought to think of, but he thought of Oreos. He loved Oreos, and he
devoured a pack of the sweet cookies pretty much everyday. He ate cookies the same way
some people smoked cigarettes.
As his eyes adjusted to the new lights and he woke up from his slumber, he shook
his head to get rid of the cobwebs, and blinked rapidly to get used to the brightness.
Immediately he looked around; the last thing he could remember was being caught at the
top of the stairs...
Then being whacked in the back of the head with a rifle butt. Great.
He looked around. All ten members of Alpha Team were sitting on the ground
around him, their backs leaning against the wall. Jill, Chris, and Eliza were awake, but
Ken was still unconscious. To his left, Alpha Two, battered and bruised, sat, but still
whole for the most part. Claire had an awful arm wound and Carlos' thigh was wrapped
with a hastily wrapped bandage that covered another wound. Leon looked at him and
gave him a crooked smile.
"We've stepped in it now, haven't we, eh Old Wolf?"
"Shut up!" one of the guards said, in a thick European accent that Barry couldn't
name the origin of. He looked up to find that five men were pacing about in front of
them, weapons at the ready. They were in a large room, some sort of hall, and after a
look around he realised that across the room, the hostages sat, looking rather worse for
the part, another ten men watching them. These were high-end stuck up polititians that
ate caviar and drank Bacardi like he ate french fries and drank coke. They had no real
grip on what the average man went through, but yet there they were, rich, stuck-up
polititians and governors, arguing "on behalf of" the average man and woman, people
that they neither really cared for nor wished to be. Thus, when they made laws or
imposed taxes that the average man or woman didn't like, they had no idea why they
disliked them.
Polititians speak like lions and live like weasels, Barry told himself.
Nevertheless, they were innocent of any crime (besides that of being rich) and no
one, even the most hated polititian, deserved to be held hostage by a group of lunatics.
Being held hostage is one of those things that changed your life; twenty years after, you
can still have an intense fear of going to banks or flying on planes, or wherever the
incident happened. If you survived the incident, that is. Often people that held others
hostage were complete nut-cases, and don't have any qualms about killing you...
Barry let his eyes wander, and he settled on a man looking over the terrorists.
Unlike the others, he was only armed with a sidearm, which was strapped to his chest
with a chest holster, like the ones policemen used. From the pistol's handle and butt end,
Barry could see that it was a Desert Eagle Action Express. Not a bad weapon at all.
The man was older than the terrorists, his face wizened with age yet still
posessing some vestige of the recklessness and overall foolhardiness of youth. A single
grey line went through the side of his hair, making him look kind of like a skunk with the
line off center. The same grey lines went through his beard, starting at the corner of his
mouth and ending down by his chin. What's more, he had an eyepatch over one of his
eyes, and a scar ran above and under the patch, as if the eye had been forcefully cut or
ripped out... if this man would be cast as a terrorist leader in a Hollywood production he
would win the part, hands down. No contest.
Barry locked eyes with him for a second. The man began to walk over to where
the S.T.A.R.S. team sat, stroking the grey-lined beard as he did so. It was here Barry
realised his hands were tied behind his back with lock strips, the same ones used to close
garbage bags. Barry knew better than to struggle against his bonds; nothing short of the
Jaws of Life could break them out of them, unless the actual strip was cut with a knife or
other sharp implement, which was easy to do... assuming you had a blade. A look beside
him at Chris revealed that the entire team was tied up as he was. Their weapons, kevlar
armor, facemasks, utility vests, and helmets were all stripped from them, along with their
equipment, leaving them in their navy blue army-issue get ups, gloves, and boots. The
terrorists had missed the nickel sized comm-links in the S.T.A.R.S.' ears, however...
The grey-bearded man had reached the S.T.A.R.S., and was pacing back and forth
in front of them.
"So," he said, the same thick European accent laying heavy on every word, "this
is what you Americans send to defeat me? You send young women and boys to lead
them? Where is the SEAL team I expected? I am insulted!" he said, with a particular look
towards Rebecca and Claire.
He bent down crouched in front of Jill. He smiled at her, a smile that looked
innocent and debonair on the outside but was probably filled with malice and cruel
intents on the inside.
"Women, yes, but beautiful women. Perhaps we can have a little fun with Miss-"
he took a moment to look at her name plate on her helmet, which sat at her feet,
"Valentine, before we end her life. It will be... pleasant to hear screams from those
beautiful lips of yours, Miss Valentine. I can see it now."
His hand moved up to stroke the side of her face, and Barry could see Jill was
seething in barely-controlled hatred for this man. The smile still lingered on his lips, and
he moved his hand lower, past Jill's chin to her neck and eventually in front of her chest,
just above the curve of her breasts. The moment he moved lower than that, Jill spat at his
face in defiance.
He wiped the spit off his face with the back of one hand. His smile still lingered
on his lips, and he moved to Jill to whisper something in her ear.
"When I'm done with you, you'll be begging for death."
"I started begging for death the second you touched me, you ugly piece of shit."
A snarl appeared on the man's face, and he brought his hand back and slapped Jill
full across the face. Chris, who was sitting next to Jill, growled in anger.
"Haha.. what can you do, little man? Is this lady somewhat important to you?"
The man stood there for a second, stroking his precious beard, as if contemplating
something. "Hmmm... there is five minutes before the next hour deadline and the next
hostage execution. Now wouldn't it be... what is the word.... ironic, if the very would-be
rescuers were executed instead? Yes... I do believe I have a plan."
Chris stared holes in the man, eyes filled with rage and anger. But he somehow
controlled it, and returned to his original sitting position. Unknown to the man and any
other terrorist, every S.T.A.R.S. member had a small blade hidden in their gloves, for
precisely this situation. Chris began to draw it out of the small sheath on the back of his
glove, and began to work away at the lock strip. To his satisfaction, he cut the strip in
two easily, but didn't release himself from his bonds just yet. He wanted the element of
surprise on his side.
Through the comm-link, he made a small clicking sound with his tounge. After
two more seconds, he clicked again, the signal to follow his actions and cut the lock
strips with their own blades. He looked to his team, and got a nod from each of them,
signifying that they had indeed freed themselves from thier bonds. He nodded back.
Meanwhile, the bearded man was continuing his pacing, probably perfecting the
particulars of his plan. When he had satisfied himself, he moved to Chris and crouched in
front of him, then he began to talk about his devious plan to the S.T.A.R.S. Captain. He
assumed, of course, that he was still unable to use his hands...
* * *
On the building opposite, Hunk laid on his stomach, looking through the
high-powered scope of his Steyr Scout sniper rifle at the action unfolding in front of him.
He had heard all the comm-link chatter of the team and Alpha Two's ambush. He felt
powerless when Leon's worried voice came on the line describing Claire's injuries; he
wanted to be there, to pick off the terrorists one by one with his sniper rifle, but they
were on the other side of the building, and he had no hopes of supporting them.
Instead, he occupied himself with looking at the terrorists guarding the hostages.
He looked at one, and saw that he was no more than sixteen, maybe seventeen years old.
His hands held his weapon expertly and he patrolled his assigned area diligently, but
when Hunk could see his eyes he could see that they were wild with that mix of fear,
nervousness, anxiety, and other such emotions associated with a rookie. The kid was
green all over.
Hunk swore at no one in particular. The boy was sixteen. Probably brainwashed
by the terrorist leader or maybe his father was one of the terrorists and they brought him
along.
Whatever the reason, this was a boy who should be playing soccer in his native
country on a field, rather than carrying a killing weapon and taking hostages in the name
of some ideal he didn't fully comprehend. That was how it was with most terrorist
organizations Hunk had encountered in his life.
All it took was one maniac, one madman with a lot of money, to influence and
brainwash people into thinking what they were doing was right. Often the madman would
cover it up with some ideal that would please his minions: religion, for example. 'By
bombing this building you will gain glory and live in heaven for all eternity' they would
tell them. And the minions, not knowing any better and having nothing else worth living
for due to the poor living conditions, followed mindlessly and flew planes into buildings,
became suicide bombers, or whatever. Not only would they take innocent lives, but they
would also spoil and warp the message of the originally noble 'ideal' they were fighting
for, making that 'ideal' hated around the world, for the sins of but a few of it's followers.
A good name, like good will, is lost by many actions and lost by one.
It was a sad, sad situation. It was always the old men who started the wars, and
the young men who fought and died fighting them. The boy that he was looking through
his scope at would, if justice and righteousness prevailed, die today. And for what? What
would his death accomplish?
"Bullshit." Hunk said softly.
Shaking his mind to clear his thoughts, he concentrated his mind on the mission
at hand. He tore his gaze away from the boy, and looked at the entrance to the room just
in time to see the terrorists march in, some of them carrying the unconscious bodies of
Alpha One and the battered and bruised Alpha Two. Hunk feared that Alpha One was
dead; but his initial fear was diminished when he saw Chris begin to stir and wake up
from his induced slumber.
Alpha was stripped of their gear, and their hands were tied behind their backs
with lock strips. After some chatter with the team, the bearded man, the terrorist leader,
had paced back and forth, before returning to talk to Chris. Chris was rubbing his hands...
of course! Upon closer inspection through his scope, Hunk could see that Chris was
cutting away at the lock strip with his glove-blade...
* * *
"...wouldn't it be funny, if the next one to be executed.. was one of the would-be
rescuers?" the bearded man finished, with a smile, "and wouldn't it be even more
ironic... if the executor was another rescuer? You will be the one to kill your own soldier.
Perhaps Miss Valentine shall be the victim?"
"You're mad." Chris stated, matter-of-factly.
The man smirked at this, then motioned for Chris to stand up, which he did. He
kept the broken lock strip in place, waiting for the right moment...
"I will untie you, then take this." the man said, taking the Desert Eagle from his
shoulder holster, "and shoot Miss Valentine. If you do, two of the hostages will be
released. If you don't, I will kill two hostages myself. And after having some time with
Miss Valentine, I will kill her as well."
"What guarantee do I have that you'll release the hostages?"
"What do your people call it... ah yes, 'Scout's Honor.'"
"And you're not afraid that I'll kill you with your own weapon?"
"No. Because if you do, not only will my men kill you, but they will kill every
other person in this room as well, including every last one of the hostages. Surely you do
not want their souls weighing on your conscience, now do you? Sergei! Untie him!"
Chris sneered. He certainly had guts if he was going to give his prisoner an armed
weapon, and expect him not to use it against him. The guard went up to Chris, a knife in
hand, ready to cut his bonds... now was the time...
As the bearded man drew the weapon from his holster, he handed it to Chris butt
first...
In one, fluid motion, he freed himself from the lock strip, grabbed the weapon,
then cocked it and fired at the surprised guard. The shot took him high in the chest,
spraying crimson everywhere as it punched through his body armor, punctured his lung,
and burst out through his back. Even before his lifeless body hit the ground, Chris
forcefully took the bearded man and held the Desert Eagle's still-smoking barrel to his
head.
Every guard in the room brought their weapons to bear on the man holding their
leader hostage. Chris brought and arm around the terrorist leader's neck, still holding the
handgun to his head.
"Drop your weapons! Now! Or he dies!!" Chris demanded.
"Do not! He will not kill me.. if he does, kill him and everyone of the hostages."
the leader said, that same arrogant smile appearing once again on his lips. "You will not
kill me, will you Captain? Kill me and everyone here dies... haha... hahaha!"
"Shut up!" Chris said, tightening his grip on the man's throat for emphasis. There
were at least fifteen terrorists in the room; too many for him to handle with the six bullets
remaining in his handgun...
"Hunk," Chris said, through his comm-link, "take my hostage out on three. All
Alpha: scramble and eliminate the targets."
"What- What are you talking about?" the bearded man demanded...
* * *
From his perch on the opposite building, Hunk saw Chris' move work to
perfection. With the order to fire, he took aim at the terrorist leader in Chris' hands...
When his head was in his crosshairs, his finger moved to the trigger. Chris' own
head and forearm were just inches from his target.. one wrong move could...
Hunk banished the thought from his mind. He had never missed a critical shot and
never will. Never.
Narrowing his eyes, he pulled the trigger. The gun roared, and the glass seperating
the room from the outside world shattered as Hunk's bullet passed through it. The bullet
flew true, and the round impacted against the bearded man's forehead, reducing it to a
mass of shattered bone and brain.
Hunk didn't see the bearded man's final moments, however; he knew from the
second he pulled the trigger the round would fly true. Instead, he pulled the firing pin
back, and was already lining up another shot at another target.
* * *
Giving Hunk the go-ahead to fire at the man he was holding put a lot of
confidence in his sniper's abilities, but Chris knew he had made the right decision. As
soon as he heard the glass shatter, announcing Hunk's shot, he immediately opened fire
on the terrorists with unerring accuracy; he didn't earn the rank of marksman for nothing.
Five of the six rounds left in the Desert Eagle found homes in terrorist foreheads, and the
bodies slumped to the ground, blood pooling out beneath them. The man in Chris' arms
erupted suddenly in crimson, and fell to the ground.
The terrorists, shocked by the sudden loss of their leader, took several
milliseconds to react, and it was this time that the S.T.A.R.S. used to gain the upper
hand.
The S.T.A.R.S. team, freeing themselves from their already-cut bonds, rushed up
and took their weapons from the side of the room and were returning fire, or were
forcefully taking weapons from the terrorists. Carlos, on whom Sergei's body fell,
grabbed the dead man's AKS-74U and opened fire on the terrorists.
Return fire hit him in the shoulder, and Carlos fell to the ground, shouting in
agony.
* * *
Jill had reached her P90 and had dropped to one knee, and within seconds the soft
dud-dud-dud of the P90 began to sound out, along with the roar of the rest of the
S.T.A.R.S.' weapons. Return fire from the terrorists hit Andy high in the chest, and swept
him from his feet. Rebecca, seeing this, moved forward in front of Andy's fallen form,
shielding his body with her own with a burst of valor and courage that she failed to
recognize was there. She dropped to one knee and opened fire with her MP5.
Many of her shots missed by wide marks; marksmanship was never one of her
strongpoints. But one round flew true, and a terrorist fell roughly to the ground as a
result. She mentally congratulated herself on this, and thus failed to see that a terrorist to
her left had lined her up his sights. One shot ripped right through her right arm, the other
hit her just above the waistline.
She saw her own blood spilt on the ground before her, and fell unconscious to the
ground.
* * *
Chris had fired another one of his shots; how many did he have left? He had lost
count... he used one on Sergei, and thus had six left... but how many terrorists had he
killed?
He was aware of movement to his right, and brought the Desert Eagle to bear
amongst the roar of gunfire that was filling the room. A single terrorist was there, and he
aimed a quick headshot...
...only to have the Desert Eagle click on an empty chamber.
The terrorist, seeing this, capitalized and opened fire on Chris.
One round took him in the lower belly. Another impacted against the left side of
his chest, and a third hit him in the upper chest, inches from his throat. Pain flared
briefly, but then vanished for some reason. He fell to his knees, and brought a hand to his
stomach. It came away bright with his blood. Time froze in that instant.
He looked around... Jill... where was she?
He found her crouched behind a marble block.
Chris looked at her, her eyes, and she looked back. Her eyes were pained; she had
obviously seen the terrorist shoot Chris. Her face showed an emotion that caused Chris
more pain than the bullet wounds... if the shots didn't kill him, that look she gave him, in
that split second of time, would kill him instead.
She shouted something to him: something that sounded like "Chris!" or whatever.
He didn't hear it. He only saw blurs now and heard almost nothing. Chris forced his eyes
to focus, and all he saw was Jill's eyes.
He would want nothing more than to take her away from here, away from gunfire
and killing and blood, take her where she would be safe and wouldn't have to see what
she was seeing now. He wanted to grow wings and take her in his arms and fly to a
far-off place where no one died and everyone lived in peace. He wanted to keep her safe,
to keep her happy, not to have to see him in his last moments. He wanted to treat her like
the queen she was, to put her on a pedestal and bring her whatever she pleased. He
wanted to live a life with her and have children and live out their lives in happiness. He
wanted to die old and withered, with his grandchildren crying around his bed, not here in
this stupid museum on a stupid mission. He would give his heart, his soul, to keep her
from seeing this. But he had failed.
He realised that tears were streaming down his face. Blood had begun to seep
from the corner of his mouth. He felt no pain; only the pain at seeing Jill's blue eyes look
back at him in fear.
The cold, unforgiving ground rose up to meet him, and Chris Redfield's world
turned completely dark.
* * *
Author's Note:
well well well... that's quite the ending... or is it? this story isn't finished yet... stay tuned
for the next chapter and the aftermath of the mission.. who lives? who dies? find out
soon... until then, review the chapter! haha.. i love keeping you people in suspense. haha..
keep reading...
~hustler one
Quote of the Day:
Some stars have been extinguished for thousands
of years, but their light is only reaching us now; the
past is always influencing the present.
-?
-chapter fourteen
Run away with my heart,
Run away with my soul,
Run away with my love
I know now, just quite how
My life and love might still go on
In your heart, in your mind
I'll stay with you, for all of time
If I could, then I would
I'll go wherever you will go
Way up high, or down low
I'll go wherever you will go
If I could turn back time
I'll go wherever you will go
If I could make you mine,
I'll go wherever you will go....
~the calling, "wherever you will go"
After hopping out of the APC, Jill Valentine quickly assumed her position at
point for the Alpha Team. With practiced precision and ease, she shouldered her FN P90
submachine gun. The gun's barrel went where her eyes went; it was standard practice for
the team to always have their weapons shouldered, and it had become second nature for
her. The barrel of the weapon never left her eyesight; it was always there, as if it had
attatched itself to her shoulder and moved where she moved, looked where she looked.
The gun was an extension of her body; she looked at it as more of a tool for distributing
justice and saving lives, rather than a cold, mechanical killing weapon. She advanced
towards the designated insertion point, a side door.
She moved in a low crouch, her lithe form moving quickly but not hastily, her
eyes scanning the windows of the art museum for possible snipers or guards. When she
had reached the door along with the rest of the team, she moved to one side, giving the
thumbs up to Carlos, who carried with him the door key that Officer Norwood had
provided him with. As Carlos moved forward to open the door, Jill moved behind him
along with Chris and Barry, who were ready to burst in the moment Carlos had opened
the door. Their weapons were already trained on the door and the space that would open
up for them.
"Big Poppa Zero, this is Alpha 1-1, over." Chris began.
"Go ahead, Alpha 1-1, over."
"We are at the insertion point. Alpha One, engage."
"Alpha Two, engage." Leon echoed.
"That's a roger, All Alpha. Alpha One and Two are engaged. Over." Norwood
said on the other side of the line.
At this, Chris cut off the comm-link and gave Carlos, who already had the key in
the lock, a thumbs up. At this, Carlos turned the key and Jill, Chris, and the rest of the
team stormed in. The operation had begun.
* * *
Unlike many other anti-terrorist or elite commando squads, the S.T.A.R.S. did not
attatch flashlights or laser aiming devices to their weapons; the way Chris saw it, a wary
guard could easily see a stray flashlight beam cast by an unattentive S.T.A.R.S. member's
weapon, and raise the general alarm. Thus, Chris had ordered anything, anything at all
that could reveal their position to guards to be removed. Stealth was the name of the
game above all else for the S.T.A.R.S.; it was their specialty, and it was valued above all
else. Every weapon was silenced, every boot coated with a high-tech sole that would
mimimise the sound of their footsteps. Perhaps the S.T.A.R.S. weren't as experienced or
skilled in other fields that other units like the Navy Seals or the British S.A.S. excelled at,
such as demolitions or assassination, but who needs to be skilled when your stealth is
such that the enemy never knows you're there?
So, when the Alpha Team moved into the corridor that met them after opening
the entrance door, it was with complete silence, as if they had taken the form of ghosts or
phantoms seeking their unknowing prey. Communication between team members was
limited to hand signals, nods of heads, or taps on shoulders, so as to not risk speaking
through the comm-link and someone hearing their voices.
Jill, the point, led the team down the corridor until another hallway branched off
to the left. According to the mission plan, this was to be where Alpha Two, Leon's team,
would seperate. She knelt down on one knee, bringing one fist into the air, the signal to
stop and crouch. Her eyes never left the barrel of her weapon, and the P90 remained
locked down the corridor ahead of her, ready to fire should any target present itself.
Chris came up beside her, the rest of the team behind them. He put two fingers up
in the air, made a fist, and pointed down the hallway to his left. With the efficiency and
trim movements afforded by long months of training, Leon's five strong team split from
Chris' team, and moved off down the hallway, Carlos in point, his silenced M4a1 darting
to his shoulder, intense, concentrated dark eyes scanning for possible targets as he led
Alpha Two on their designated mission path.
When Chris was satisfied Alpha Two was on it's way, he tapped Jill twice on the
shoulder, the signal to go on with their pre-assigned mission movements. They had
planned every movement out on a blueprint of the art museum prior to the mission, and
thus every member of Alpha knew where to go and how to get there.
Alpha One, Chris' team, was assigned to locate, and if necessary, eliminate the
terrorist threat, while minimising casulaties both to Alpha One and the hostages. Alpha
Two, Leon's team, was assigned to rescuing the hostages, protecting them with all means
necessary, and escorting them back to the insertion point and out of the building. Once
the hostages were in Alpha Two's protection, Alpha One would move to support them,
providing cover fire, distraction, and raising a general ruckus while Alpha Two
disengaged and left the building with the hostages.
The mission objectives were quite simple. The first and most important was the
rescue and safety of the hostages, and the second, optional objective was the elimination
of any and all terrorist threats. It was a plan that was all together very simple, but the
S.T.A.R.S. had executed it flawlessly dozens of times before and it had proved it's worth.
Jill led the team down the corridor until it led into a larger room used for housing
numerous art exhibits. She passed a modern art exhibit, and immediately brought her
weapon to bear on what she thought was a form of a terrorist pointing his gun at her.
Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be an art exhibit, this one containing a life size
green army man, it's gun pointed towards the room entrance and at her, it's unseeing eyes
staring at her lifelessly. Jill noted the irony.
She led the team past the room towards the stairs, and the second floor room
where the hostages were held. She didn't notice the museum's security camera following
her every move, as well as the movements of her team; she assumed they were shut down
along with the rest of the museum's electrical power...
* * *
Carlos Oliviera led his fire-team upstairs, the five men and women gliding up the
stairs noiselessly. When he had reached the door at the top of the stairs, he took a quick
glance through the small window in the door to see a man on the other side, his back
facing the door. The ski-masked man yawned and took a cigarette from a pocket on his
kevlar vest, then lit it. Obviously one of the terrorists.
Carlos brought a fist up, and Leon came up beside him. Carlos turned to Leon,
and pointed to his own eyes, then past the door to the man, the signal that he could
visually confirm a terrorist. Leon nodded, then opened a comm-link to Chris. Talking in a
low voice so as not to arouse the terrorist's suspicion, he spoke.
"Alpha 1-1, come in, this is Alpha 2-1, over."
"This is Alpha 1-1. Go ahead, Alpha 2-1, over."
"We have made visual confirmation of the terrorists," Leon said, standing to look
through the window at the terrorist. Though his back was turned, Leon could still see the
man's weapon slung on the man's back: an AKS-74U, a cousin of the more popular and
infamous AK-47. ( not unlike the ones used by the Spetsnaz guards in MGS2 - author )
Unlike the AK-47, however, this model was more refined, and was a more of a specialist
weapon like MP5 or the M4a1. Leon thought of it as the "rich man's AK-47."
"...they're armed with AKS-74's, pineapples, and body condoms, over."
Pineapples were military for frag grenades, and body condoms were... Leon's term for
body armor, or Kevlar.
"Roger that, Alpha 2-1. Proceed with mission plan. Eliminate and evade. Over."
"Roger, Alpha 1-1. Over and out."
Leon turned to Carlos, then made an 'x' motion with his fists. Then he pointed to
the terrorist, the signal to quietly take out the target with as little noise as possible. Carlos
nodded. He moved to open the door, his M4 slung across his back, his piano string
garotte already in his hands.
He didn't know that his target was merely bait, and that as he opened the door
tangoes were moving up the stairs he had just went up, ready to pounce on the rest of his
team.
* * *
Chris looked around. Something wasn't quite right; he could feel it. He had
enough experience and enough military knowledge to know that security was much too
loose for such an important mission. His years in the Air Force and then S.T.A.R.S. had
given him an awareness of the situation, but it was the Umbrella Crusade that gave him a
sixth sense of impending danger. It was this sixth sense that was ringing the alarm sirens
in his head.
In short, the whole thing stank.
Jill was approaching stairs they would need to climb in order to reach the second
floor, where the terrorists they were assigned to take out were. She stopped at the foot of
the stairs, waiting for Chris to tap her on the shoulder and give her the full go-ahead.
Chris came up behind her, his eyes nervously scanning their vicinity for anything,
anything at all that would indicate they weren't the only ones in the building...
When Jill didn't get the tap on her shoulder, she turned around, looking at Chris
with questioning eyes. She saw Chris' eyes staring around them, as if looking for
something he had lost or something that should be there that wasn't. There was another
quality in those eyes she couldn't name.. what was it? nervousness? anxiety? or
something else... his fingers played nervously on the barrel of his M4, like they always
did when Chris had something on his mind.
Chris came back to reality. Barry had moved up next to the two, wondering what
was taking so long, while Ken and Eliza scanned around, weapons at the ready, providing
security. Barry spoke in a hushed whisper: "What's taking so long? Go!"
"This thing stinks, Barry. No opposition so far."
"They're prolly just shittin' their pants upstairs 'cus they know we're coming!
Now are you gonna tap Jill's shoulder or do I have to do it myself?" Barry spoke almost
too loud, but considering his own team was just decimated by these same terrorists, it
was somewhat understandable.
"A-..alright. Jill," Chris began, tapping Jill on the shoulder, "go."
Jill turned and shouldered her weapon again, before beginning to climb the stairs.
Barry followed, then Chris, and Ken and Eliza brought up the rear. They hadn't gotten up
halfway up the first flight when they heard the gunfire erupt from elsewhere in the
building.
* * *
Instantly Chris knew it was Leon's Alpha Two. He couldn't hear M4a1 or MP5
fire, but he knew it was because Alpha's weapons were silenced... instead he heard the
roar of AKS-74U's, and the assorted shouts and hollers of orders associated with combat.
The AK's roar was deafening, almost frightening.
Chris brought up a fist; the entire team went down to one knee.
"This is Alpha 1-1. Alpha 2-1, report!"
"Alpha 2-1 here!" Leon answered. Chris could hear the gunfire louder through his
comm-link. He heard Beccy swear and the distinctive sound of an MP5 clicking on an
empty chamber. She reloaded, and within a couple of seconds the soft dum-dum-dum of
her weapon sounded again.
"Alpha Two has contact! Repeat, Alpha Two..." he let go of a controlled burst
from his M4, "Alpha Two has contact, we were attacked from behind! One wounded,
operation stealth has been compromised! Over!"
"Alpha 2-1, who is the wounded, over?"
"Our rear-guard," Leon began, the rear-guard being the last team member,
charged with watching the team's rear, "Alpha 2-2. She's been hit in the arm, not
seriously. Alpha 2-3 is attending to her right now, over. She'll be alright."
Chris swore; Alpha Two's rearguard was Claire.
* * *
Instant hatred rose up in Chris' head. He would like nothing more than to take out
his combat knife and personally slit the throat of every terrorist in the building, for even
thinking about hurting his sister... but he suppressed it enough to give orders. He turned
to his team, four pairs of eyes filled with the rush of possible combat looking back at
him.
"Jill, Barry, and Eliza, onward with the primary mission objective. If Alpha
Two's in a firefight that means less guards on the hostages. Ken, with me.. we're helping
Alpha Two, maybe distract some of the terrorists."
What had caused Alpha Two to reveal their position, Chris thought? He was
certain of the team's skills in stealth and evasion... how did the tangoes find out about
them? It was almost as if they knew what the entire plan was from the beginning.. which
could explain the lack of security on Alpha One's path and the calculated ambush on
Alpha Two, since Alpha Two was the team that was supposed to rescue the hostages, and
Alpha One was supposed to engage and subdue the terrorists.
Now that the terrorists knew they were there, their superior numbers could prove
a factor... the S.T.A.R.S. relied mainly on stealth and surprise to win their battles, and
now that they were gone, hostages' lives could be lost as retaliation and in the deadly
crossfire, no matter what the eventual outcome. Chris swore softly under his breath.
Chris turned without any further notice and began to make his way to Alpha
Two's position, Ken following closely behind. When he was barely three steps away, Jill
called out his name softly.
"Chris," she said softly, "be careful."
Chris nodded back and waved his hand in the air.
Barry nodded, and tapped Jill on the shoulder. Jill locked eyes with Chris for a
split second, and there Chris could see every emotion Jill wanted to convey, even through
his face mask and blast helmet; in that split second Jill and Chris communicated
everything without words. Chris saw Jill's worry, Jill saw Chris' rage begin to fire up in
his intense eyes. After that and another moment's thought, Jill turned, shouldered her P90
and ghosted up the stairs, Barry and Eliza flanking her.
She didn't get all the way up the stairs; when she had reached the top, she met the
barrel of ten AK's, all of which were pointed at her. She froze, and one of the men
holding them up shouted at her to drop her weapon and get down on the ground.
Reluctantly, she did. Barry and Eliza, knowing that they had no chance whatsoever of
taking on all ten men, dropped their weapons as well. When they did, three of the men
came up, and forcefully removed the S.T.A.R.S.'s helmets. Following that, each of them
pistol-whipped the three S.T.A.R.S. into unconsciousness. The last thing Jill could
remember before she blacked out was the sound of Barry and Eliza falling roughly on the
ground next to her.
* * *
"Shit! How da hell did dis happen?" Carlos said softly to no one in particular,
ducking behind a marble block as he ejected the clip from his M4 and fished around in
his kevlar vest for another fresh one. Upon finding it, he reloaded and leaned back out,
fired a three round burst on a tango's position, and leaned back into cover. Return fire
chipped the marble block, causing small shards of marble to splinter off.
His team had run into the hallway they were supposed to stealthily infiltrate
following the first gunshots fired. Claire was the first to open up; her MP5 spraying shots
into the first terrorists to appear at the bottom of the stairs the team was on, causing the
first two terrorists to fall forward, blood pooling out from beneath them.
The team rushed forward into the hallway, Carlos dispatching his original target
at the top of the stairs with an hurried M4 burst. It was then that Claire, attempting to
give her team some cover, was hit in the arm by several shots; she went down, her
weapon dropping from pained fingers, clutching at her bloodied arm. The heavy AK
slugs had torn through her kevlar armor with the greatest of ease.
Leon screamed her name, and it was then that Carlos, taking command for a
split-second, gave the order for cover fire. Andy and Carlos dropped to one knee and
filled the stairwell with lead while Leon and Beccy dragged Claire behind a marble art
exhibit. Now the team was pinned down, as the seemingly large number of tangoes had
spilled into their hallway, gunfire and hot lead creating a deadly crossfire in the it's
length. Cover was pitifully small, and ammunition or lack of it proving a factor for Alpha
Two.
Andy, upon firing a whole thirty-round magazine from his MP5 on full auto into
the tangoes on the other side of the hall, unsheathed his Benelli shotgun from the
scabbard on his back. Fire support was his specialty, and in enclosed spaces such as this
hallway it made his fire that much more effective. He lined up a target, pulled the trigger,
and before the first body hit the ground, he had already picked another one and was
pumping another shell into the smoking chamber. The shotgun was frighteningly loud as
it announced it's presence with a roar, but stealth really didn't matter in their present
predicament.
Carlos looked toward where Leon was firing from a kneeling position, and behind
him Beccy had taken out her field first aid kit and was hastily bandaging Claire's wound.
Claire, having lost her MP5 in the firefight, had taken out her sidearm, a 9mm H&K USP
pistol, and was carefully taking aim and adding her shots to the fight.
She grimaced in pain as Beccy tightened up her bandage, trying to stop the blood
flow... but she didn't stop firing her silenced weapon. She concentrated, through what
was probably intense pain, and fired three shots. A tango went down as a result, Claire's
shot finding a vulnerable joint in his kevlar armor. Even through the pain, Claire was
supporting her team. Claire gained a whole lot of respect then and there from Carlos; he
had seen grown men cry from the wounds lesser than Claire's.
Leon dropped back into cover, looking like he was giving Officer Norwood at
home base a report. Carlos took this opportunity to fire another burst into a tango's
position, and was satisfied to hear the man cry out in pain, then fall down and not rise
again.But there were nine, maybe ten of the bastards left.
"Quiero la vacacion..." he said. As he said it, five more terrorists were
approaching them from behind, ready to spring a trap.
* * *
Chris sprinted as fast as he could to Alpha Two's location. He knew now that
some, if not all of the hostages would be executed as a result of Alpha Two's discovery.
But there had to be more to it; he knew for a fact that it couldn't have been Alpha Two's
fault they were discovered. No, there had to be something else at work here... it was as if
the terrorists were watching them from the beginning. They couldn't possibly have
known what they did about the mission, unless they had a double agent within the police
force relaying them information, or if they were somehow watching every room in the
building at once...
"Of course!" Chris said outloud, stopping dead in his tracks. Ken, surprised,
looked at him as if he had just emerged from an alien spaceship. Chris looked around in
the room they were in, looking for a security camera. He found it in the corner of ceiling;
and sure enough, the security camera was looking straight at him, the red light in the
corner that meant that it was recording glowing brightly.
He swore loudly, and as he did, six men, three at each entrance to the room he
was in, busted in and trained their weapons on Chris and Ken, demanding that they drop
their weapons. Ken and Chris brought their weapons to bear, but they knew right away
that they had no chance of blasting through six men without being wounded or killed.
They stood back to back, weapons trained on the terrorists. Reluctantly, as if it was the
most abhorred action in the entire world (which it was, to Chris) he laid his M4 on the
ground. Ken, seeing his Captain, followed his action.
"Raise your hands, now!" demanded the lead terrorist, his AK trained on Chris'
forehead. Chris and Ken followed, knowing it was pointless to resist. And as they did so,
their helmets were removed, and like Jill, Barry, and Eliza before them, they were
pistol-whipped into submission.
* * *
It could have been weeks, months, or years that he spent in unconciousness, Barry
Burton couldn't tell. But whatever it was, the first thoughts that came to his head were
Oreos. A wierd thought to think of, but he thought of Oreos. He loved Oreos, and he
devoured a pack of the sweet cookies pretty much everyday. He ate cookies the same way
some people smoked cigarettes.
As his eyes adjusted to the new lights and he woke up from his slumber, he shook
his head to get rid of the cobwebs, and blinked rapidly to get used to the brightness.
Immediately he looked around; the last thing he could remember was being caught at the
top of the stairs...
Then being whacked in the back of the head with a rifle butt. Great.
He looked around. All ten members of Alpha Team were sitting on the ground
around him, their backs leaning against the wall. Jill, Chris, and Eliza were awake, but
Ken was still unconscious. To his left, Alpha Two, battered and bruised, sat, but still
whole for the most part. Claire had an awful arm wound and Carlos' thigh was wrapped
with a hastily wrapped bandage that covered another wound. Leon looked at him and
gave him a crooked smile.
"We've stepped in it now, haven't we, eh Old Wolf?"
"Shut up!" one of the guards said, in a thick European accent that Barry couldn't
name the origin of. He looked up to find that five men were pacing about in front of
them, weapons at the ready. They were in a large room, some sort of hall, and after a
look around he realised that across the room, the hostages sat, looking rather worse for
the part, another ten men watching them. These were high-end stuck up polititians that
ate caviar and drank Bacardi like he ate french fries and drank coke. They had no real
grip on what the average man went through, but yet there they were, rich, stuck-up
polititians and governors, arguing "on behalf of" the average man and woman, people
that they neither really cared for nor wished to be. Thus, when they made laws or
imposed taxes that the average man or woman didn't like, they had no idea why they
disliked them.
Polititians speak like lions and live like weasels, Barry told himself.
Nevertheless, they were innocent of any crime (besides that of being rich) and no
one, even the most hated polititian, deserved to be held hostage by a group of lunatics.
Being held hostage is one of those things that changed your life; twenty years after, you
can still have an intense fear of going to banks or flying on planes, or wherever the
incident happened. If you survived the incident, that is. Often people that held others
hostage were complete nut-cases, and don't have any qualms about killing you...
Barry let his eyes wander, and he settled on a man looking over the terrorists.
Unlike the others, he was only armed with a sidearm, which was strapped to his chest
with a chest holster, like the ones policemen used. From the pistol's handle and butt end,
Barry could see that it was a Desert Eagle Action Express. Not a bad weapon at all.
The man was older than the terrorists, his face wizened with age yet still
posessing some vestige of the recklessness and overall foolhardiness of youth. A single
grey line went through the side of his hair, making him look kind of like a skunk with the
line off center. The same grey lines went through his beard, starting at the corner of his
mouth and ending down by his chin. What's more, he had an eyepatch over one of his
eyes, and a scar ran above and under the patch, as if the eye had been forcefully cut or
ripped out... if this man would be cast as a terrorist leader in a Hollywood production he
would win the part, hands down. No contest.
Barry locked eyes with him for a second. The man began to walk over to where
the S.T.A.R.S. team sat, stroking the grey-lined beard as he did so. It was here Barry
realised his hands were tied behind his back with lock strips, the same ones used to close
garbage bags. Barry knew better than to struggle against his bonds; nothing short of the
Jaws of Life could break them out of them, unless the actual strip was cut with a knife or
other sharp implement, which was easy to do... assuming you had a blade. A look beside
him at Chris revealed that the entire team was tied up as he was. Their weapons, kevlar
armor, facemasks, utility vests, and helmets were all stripped from them, along with their
equipment, leaving them in their navy blue army-issue get ups, gloves, and boots. The
terrorists had missed the nickel sized comm-links in the S.T.A.R.S.' ears, however...
The grey-bearded man had reached the S.T.A.R.S., and was pacing back and forth
in front of them.
"So," he said, the same thick European accent laying heavy on every word, "this
is what you Americans send to defeat me? You send young women and boys to lead
them? Where is the SEAL team I expected? I am insulted!" he said, with a particular look
towards Rebecca and Claire.
He bent down crouched in front of Jill. He smiled at her, a smile that looked
innocent and debonair on the outside but was probably filled with malice and cruel
intents on the inside.
"Women, yes, but beautiful women. Perhaps we can have a little fun with Miss-"
he took a moment to look at her name plate on her helmet, which sat at her feet,
"Valentine, before we end her life. It will be... pleasant to hear screams from those
beautiful lips of yours, Miss Valentine. I can see it now."
His hand moved up to stroke the side of her face, and Barry could see Jill was
seething in barely-controlled hatred for this man. The smile still lingered on his lips, and
he moved his hand lower, past Jill's chin to her neck and eventually in front of her chest,
just above the curve of her breasts. The moment he moved lower than that, Jill spat at his
face in defiance.
He wiped the spit off his face with the back of one hand. His smile still lingered
on his lips, and he moved to Jill to whisper something in her ear.
"When I'm done with you, you'll be begging for death."
"I started begging for death the second you touched me, you ugly piece of shit."
A snarl appeared on the man's face, and he brought his hand back and slapped Jill
full across the face. Chris, who was sitting next to Jill, growled in anger.
"Haha.. what can you do, little man? Is this lady somewhat important to you?"
The man stood there for a second, stroking his precious beard, as if contemplating
something. "Hmmm... there is five minutes before the next hour deadline and the next
hostage execution. Now wouldn't it be... what is the word.... ironic, if the very would-be
rescuers were executed instead? Yes... I do believe I have a plan."
Chris stared holes in the man, eyes filled with rage and anger. But he somehow
controlled it, and returned to his original sitting position. Unknown to the man and any
other terrorist, every S.T.A.R.S. member had a small blade hidden in their gloves, for
precisely this situation. Chris began to draw it out of the small sheath on the back of his
glove, and began to work away at the lock strip. To his satisfaction, he cut the strip in
two easily, but didn't release himself from his bonds just yet. He wanted the element of
surprise on his side.
Through the comm-link, he made a small clicking sound with his tounge. After
two more seconds, he clicked again, the signal to follow his actions and cut the lock
strips with their own blades. He looked to his team, and got a nod from each of them,
signifying that they had indeed freed themselves from thier bonds. He nodded back.
Meanwhile, the bearded man was continuing his pacing, probably perfecting the
particulars of his plan. When he had satisfied himself, he moved to Chris and crouched in
front of him, then he began to talk about his devious plan to the S.T.A.R.S. Captain. He
assumed, of course, that he was still unable to use his hands...
* * *
On the building opposite, Hunk laid on his stomach, looking through the
high-powered scope of his Steyr Scout sniper rifle at the action unfolding in front of him.
He had heard all the comm-link chatter of the team and Alpha Two's ambush. He felt
powerless when Leon's worried voice came on the line describing Claire's injuries; he
wanted to be there, to pick off the terrorists one by one with his sniper rifle, but they
were on the other side of the building, and he had no hopes of supporting them.
Instead, he occupied himself with looking at the terrorists guarding the hostages.
He looked at one, and saw that he was no more than sixteen, maybe seventeen years old.
His hands held his weapon expertly and he patrolled his assigned area diligently, but
when Hunk could see his eyes he could see that they were wild with that mix of fear,
nervousness, anxiety, and other such emotions associated with a rookie. The kid was
green all over.
Hunk swore at no one in particular. The boy was sixteen. Probably brainwashed
by the terrorist leader or maybe his father was one of the terrorists and they brought him
along.
Whatever the reason, this was a boy who should be playing soccer in his native
country on a field, rather than carrying a killing weapon and taking hostages in the name
of some ideal he didn't fully comprehend. That was how it was with most terrorist
organizations Hunk had encountered in his life.
All it took was one maniac, one madman with a lot of money, to influence and
brainwash people into thinking what they were doing was right. Often the madman would
cover it up with some ideal that would please his minions: religion, for example. 'By
bombing this building you will gain glory and live in heaven for all eternity' they would
tell them. And the minions, not knowing any better and having nothing else worth living
for due to the poor living conditions, followed mindlessly and flew planes into buildings,
became suicide bombers, or whatever. Not only would they take innocent lives, but they
would also spoil and warp the message of the originally noble 'ideal' they were fighting
for, making that 'ideal' hated around the world, for the sins of but a few of it's followers.
A good name, like good will, is lost by many actions and lost by one.
It was a sad, sad situation. It was always the old men who started the wars, and
the young men who fought and died fighting them. The boy that he was looking through
his scope at would, if justice and righteousness prevailed, die today. And for what? What
would his death accomplish?
"Bullshit." Hunk said softly.
Shaking his mind to clear his thoughts, he concentrated his mind on the mission
at hand. He tore his gaze away from the boy, and looked at the entrance to the room just
in time to see the terrorists march in, some of them carrying the unconscious bodies of
Alpha One and the battered and bruised Alpha Two. Hunk feared that Alpha One was
dead; but his initial fear was diminished when he saw Chris begin to stir and wake up
from his induced slumber.
Alpha was stripped of their gear, and their hands were tied behind their backs
with lock strips. After some chatter with the team, the bearded man, the terrorist leader,
had paced back and forth, before returning to talk to Chris. Chris was rubbing his hands...
of course! Upon closer inspection through his scope, Hunk could see that Chris was
cutting away at the lock strip with his glove-blade...
* * *
"...wouldn't it be funny, if the next one to be executed.. was one of the would-be
rescuers?" the bearded man finished, with a smile, "and wouldn't it be even more
ironic... if the executor was another rescuer? You will be the one to kill your own soldier.
Perhaps Miss Valentine shall be the victim?"
"You're mad." Chris stated, matter-of-factly.
The man smirked at this, then motioned for Chris to stand up, which he did. He
kept the broken lock strip in place, waiting for the right moment...
"I will untie you, then take this." the man said, taking the Desert Eagle from his
shoulder holster, "and shoot Miss Valentine. If you do, two of the hostages will be
released. If you don't, I will kill two hostages myself. And after having some time with
Miss Valentine, I will kill her as well."
"What guarantee do I have that you'll release the hostages?"
"What do your people call it... ah yes, 'Scout's Honor.'"
"And you're not afraid that I'll kill you with your own weapon?"
"No. Because if you do, not only will my men kill you, but they will kill every
other person in this room as well, including every last one of the hostages. Surely you do
not want their souls weighing on your conscience, now do you? Sergei! Untie him!"
Chris sneered. He certainly had guts if he was going to give his prisoner an armed
weapon, and expect him not to use it against him. The guard went up to Chris, a knife in
hand, ready to cut his bonds... now was the time...
As the bearded man drew the weapon from his holster, he handed it to Chris butt
first...
In one, fluid motion, he freed himself from the lock strip, grabbed the weapon,
then cocked it and fired at the surprised guard. The shot took him high in the chest,
spraying crimson everywhere as it punched through his body armor, punctured his lung,
and burst out through his back. Even before his lifeless body hit the ground, Chris
forcefully took the bearded man and held the Desert Eagle's still-smoking barrel to his
head.
Every guard in the room brought their weapons to bear on the man holding their
leader hostage. Chris brought and arm around the terrorist leader's neck, still holding the
handgun to his head.
"Drop your weapons! Now! Or he dies!!" Chris demanded.
"Do not! He will not kill me.. if he does, kill him and everyone of the hostages."
the leader said, that same arrogant smile appearing once again on his lips. "You will not
kill me, will you Captain? Kill me and everyone here dies... haha... hahaha!"
"Shut up!" Chris said, tightening his grip on the man's throat for emphasis. There
were at least fifteen terrorists in the room; too many for him to handle with the six bullets
remaining in his handgun...
"Hunk," Chris said, through his comm-link, "take my hostage out on three. All
Alpha: scramble and eliminate the targets."
"What- What are you talking about?" the bearded man demanded...
* * *
From his perch on the opposite building, Hunk saw Chris' move work to
perfection. With the order to fire, he took aim at the terrorist leader in Chris' hands...
When his head was in his crosshairs, his finger moved to the trigger. Chris' own
head and forearm were just inches from his target.. one wrong move could...
Hunk banished the thought from his mind. He had never missed a critical shot and
never will. Never.
Narrowing his eyes, he pulled the trigger. The gun roared, and the glass seperating
the room from the outside world shattered as Hunk's bullet passed through it. The bullet
flew true, and the round impacted against the bearded man's forehead, reducing it to a
mass of shattered bone and brain.
Hunk didn't see the bearded man's final moments, however; he knew from the
second he pulled the trigger the round would fly true. Instead, he pulled the firing pin
back, and was already lining up another shot at another target.
* * *
Giving Hunk the go-ahead to fire at the man he was holding put a lot of
confidence in his sniper's abilities, but Chris knew he had made the right decision. As
soon as he heard the glass shatter, announcing Hunk's shot, he immediately opened fire
on the terrorists with unerring accuracy; he didn't earn the rank of marksman for nothing.
Five of the six rounds left in the Desert Eagle found homes in terrorist foreheads, and the
bodies slumped to the ground, blood pooling out beneath them. The man in Chris' arms
erupted suddenly in crimson, and fell to the ground.
The terrorists, shocked by the sudden loss of their leader, took several
milliseconds to react, and it was this time that the S.T.A.R.S. used to gain the upper
hand.
The S.T.A.R.S. team, freeing themselves from their already-cut bonds, rushed up
and took their weapons from the side of the room and were returning fire, or were
forcefully taking weapons from the terrorists. Carlos, on whom Sergei's body fell,
grabbed the dead man's AKS-74U and opened fire on the terrorists.
Return fire hit him in the shoulder, and Carlos fell to the ground, shouting in
agony.
* * *
Jill had reached her P90 and had dropped to one knee, and within seconds the soft
dud-dud-dud of the P90 began to sound out, along with the roar of the rest of the
S.T.A.R.S.' weapons. Return fire from the terrorists hit Andy high in the chest, and swept
him from his feet. Rebecca, seeing this, moved forward in front of Andy's fallen form,
shielding his body with her own with a burst of valor and courage that she failed to
recognize was there. She dropped to one knee and opened fire with her MP5.
Many of her shots missed by wide marks; marksmanship was never one of her
strongpoints. But one round flew true, and a terrorist fell roughly to the ground as a
result. She mentally congratulated herself on this, and thus failed to see that a terrorist to
her left had lined her up his sights. One shot ripped right through her right arm, the other
hit her just above the waistline.
She saw her own blood spilt on the ground before her, and fell unconscious to the
ground.
* * *
Chris had fired another one of his shots; how many did he have left? He had lost
count... he used one on Sergei, and thus had six left... but how many terrorists had he
killed?
He was aware of movement to his right, and brought the Desert Eagle to bear
amongst the roar of gunfire that was filling the room. A single terrorist was there, and he
aimed a quick headshot...
...only to have the Desert Eagle click on an empty chamber.
The terrorist, seeing this, capitalized and opened fire on Chris.
One round took him in the lower belly. Another impacted against the left side of
his chest, and a third hit him in the upper chest, inches from his throat. Pain flared
briefly, but then vanished for some reason. He fell to his knees, and brought a hand to his
stomach. It came away bright with his blood. Time froze in that instant.
He looked around... Jill... where was she?
He found her crouched behind a marble block.
Chris looked at her, her eyes, and she looked back. Her eyes were pained; she had
obviously seen the terrorist shoot Chris. Her face showed an emotion that caused Chris
more pain than the bullet wounds... if the shots didn't kill him, that look she gave him, in
that split second of time, would kill him instead.
She shouted something to him: something that sounded like "Chris!" or whatever.
He didn't hear it. He only saw blurs now and heard almost nothing. Chris forced his eyes
to focus, and all he saw was Jill's eyes.
He would want nothing more than to take her away from here, away from gunfire
and killing and blood, take her where she would be safe and wouldn't have to see what
she was seeing now. He wanted to grow wings and take her in his arms and fly to a
far-off place where no one died and everyone lived in peace. He wanted to keep her safe,
to keep her happy, not to have to see him in his last moments. He wanted to treat her like
the queen she was, to put her on a pedestal and bring her whatever she pleased. He
wanted to live a life with her and have children and live out their lives in happiness. He
wanted to die old and withered, with his grandchildren crying around his bed, not here in
this stupid museum on a stupid mission. He would give his heart, his soul, to keep her
from seeing this. But he had failed.
He realised that tears were streaming down his face. Blood had begun to seep
from the corner of his mouth. He felt no pain; only the pain at seeing Jill's blue eyes look
back at him in fear.
The cold, unforgiving ground rose up to meet him, and Chris Redfield's world
turned completely dark.
* * *
Author's Note:
well well well... that's quite the ending... or is it? this story isn't finished yet... stay tuned
for the next chapter and the aftermath of the mission.. who lives? who dies? find out
soon... until then, review the chapter! haha.. i love keeping you people in suspense. haha..
keep reading...
~hustler one
Quote of the Day:
Some stars have been extinguished for thousands
of years, but their light is only reaching us now; the
past is always influencing the present.
-?