A cold wind swept through the church, carrying the memories of a time forgotten. A robed man looked over the church's balcony, drumming his fingers absently on the staff in his hands. He looked over his shoulder to see a man in a chauffeur outfit, which didn't seem to fit too well.

"You have done well, Krauser," the robed man said.

The one designated as Krauser simply lifted his head up in acknowledgement, his scar that ran the length from under his eye to his lip came into view. He rips apart the outfit he was forced to wear to accomplish his mission, revealing a gray shirt, and artic commando fatigues. Krauser replaces the limo-driver hat with a blood red beret and stands at attention.

"I'm amazed that you were able to bring us the girl so willingly," the robed man complements. "Knowing you, I would have thought the girl tried to escape."

"That's what the sedatives were for," Krauser replies flatly. "So, what's the next stage of the plan?"

The robed man turns to face Krauser. "You'll find out in due time, Krauser. You can be sure of that. Now, I suggest you leave me before I get grumpy. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Krauser replies with disdain. He turns and leaves, goose-stepping as he goes. Under his breath he mutters, "Pompous windbag."

"American lout," the robed man says half-hushed. "Now, who will come for the President's daughter, I wonder?"

Krauser found his way to the back of the church, one of the few structures in the small, Spanish-speaking village somewhere in Europe. He takes out a small radio and turns it on.

"How goes it, Al?" he asks into the device.

"Could be going better," came the reply of a man with as deep a voice as Krauser. "I ran into the government lapdog you mentioned."

"Kennedy? What about him?"

"Seems the government is getting wise to our little operation out here. Won't be long until they find it."

"They? Who else is out there?" Krauser takes out a packet of cigarettes and lights up.

"Ever hear of a guy named Billy Coen?"

"Good soldier, takes orders well, but has moral convictions. S'pose to be dead. Why?"

"Apparently, Miss Chambers is a better liar than I thought."

Krauser takes a deep drag on his cigarette. "I see." He exhales the thick smoke. "Anyone else?"

"Valentine," the voice said with venom.

"Guess ol' Nemesis didn't get the job done," Krauser chuckles.

"The woman is harder to get rid of than Redfield. What's so special about Kennedy anyway?"

"If he has a knife in his hand, you better not to be too attached to your fingers."

"Understood. Wesker out."

Krauser turns the radio off and hooks it to his belt. He flicks his cigarette away just as an imposing shadow approaches him.

"What do you want?" Krauser asks the shadow.

"Lord Saddler will contact you when you're services are once again required," the bearded man says in his thick accent.

"I see," Krauser replies, just before a big, meaty fist drives the air from his lungs.

"That's for the 'pompous windbag' remark." The bearded man turns and heads back to the village at the base of the hill.

"I hope someday someone rips that fake eye of yours out, freak," Krauser contemplates darkly.

Leon massaged his shoulder as he continued to investigate the office area. He was slightly confused that a training facility for government soldiers and agents needed an accounting firm, but it made as much sense as the Raccoon Police Station having lavish works of art in its lobby. He drew his gun in case he got ambushed again, but he'd rather find out who sucker-punched him.

Just one of those days, eh, Leo? Leon thought to himself. He found his way into a boardroom. Scattered papers decorated the room, along with discarded Styrofoam cups and Coke cans. Instinctively, Leon looked to the ceiling. When nothing happened for three minutes, he continued his investigation. Through the trash on the board table, he came across a few ID tags and hastily written passwords on some of the papers. Then he noticed the blood on some of the chairs.

Leon holstered the handgun and drew the shotgun off his back. He knew something had to kill these people and that they'd be back. That's when he heard it. A clicking noise of jagged claws penetrating the hard surface underneath the cheap blue carpet.

"Here, doggy, doggy, doggy," Leon says in a sing-song voice. "Daddy's got a biscuit for you."

The clicking increased in tempo and Leon fired. He fired and fired and fired again until the noise stopped and the boardroom was covered in broken glass, dog body parts, and a few shotgun shells. He reloads the shotgun and gives it a quick pump before holstering it away.

"If there's anything worse than these things, I don't wanna know," Leon says.

As he walks out of the boardroom he notices something shining from around one of the dogs' collars. He picks it up to find a red and white tag with jutting edges. Leon crushes it in his hand and stomps on it.

"Umbrella," he growls.