New York. A fire truck and an ambulance drove down the street, sirens going off. Once at a great distance, Elizabeth Weir ended her report to Lieutenant McKinson, "I'm the last."
The two were standing on a pavement, next to a subway station entrance. Weir had her clothes covered by dust and her right sleeve was torn. Except these details and the context, the diplomat was okay.
"You gotta be kidding me…"
"I beg your pardon?" Weir replied, confused by the lieutenant's words.
McKinson walked past Weir. The diplomat turned around. The soldier's comment wasn't directed to her, but to the guy trying to steal a very expensive car, a few meters away from their position.
"Hey! You!" McKinson shouted to the thief.
The thief, a man in his twenties, had just broken the glass of the driver's door. He turned and had a moment of hesitation when he saw the Marine.
"Seriously?" McKinson admonished.
All of a sudden, gun shots rang out. Elisabeth saw, horrified, McKinson collapse on the pavement. The robber was horrified, too. He didn't expect that from his accomplice, a man about the same age. The accomplice popped out from nowhere and hurried to his fellow. Elizabeth was petrified by what she was witnessing. She was lucky that the murderer didn't care about her. The man with the gun pushed his fellow, gesturing for him to take the passenger's seat. The killer sat on the driver's seat. He had managed to get the keys, how and where, only God knew, and started the car. The vehicle moved away, leaving a Marine on the ground. Blood coming from different parts of McKinson's body spread on the pavement.
Weir didn't move, still in complete shock. She barely heard the man calling her behind her.
"Doctor Weir? Doctor Weir!"
Weir jumped when the man, in his late thirties, put a hand on her shoulder. She knew him because he was the bodyguard of one of the French diplomats she was working with. Wearing a costume without the jacket, and over it, a chest rig and a M4. The French diplomat, a lady in her fifties, was with him.
"Elizabeth, you're okay? We heard gun shots," the French diplomat said.
"I don't know, Bérénice… They… They shot Lieutenant McKinson... for... for a car," Weir stammered, traumatized.
The bodyguard frowned, utterly confused, but understood when he saw McKinson's body lying on the ground. The scene made him sad. Weir recalled he was a former member of the French Navy Special Forces Units.
All of a sudden, energy blasts hit the wall near them. The three hid behind a car nearby. The French bodyguard fired at whoever was attacking them. Then, the three people heard people using assault rifles. They heard the attackers scream, then, silence. They raised their heads and saw eight US Marines appearing from the opposite direction. They had taken the enemy by surprise with the help of their M4. The eldest, an Afro-American in his late forties, with a much younger man, walked to the group while the rest of the Marines were seizing the aliens' weapons.
"You're okay?" the eldest Marine asked to the group. Elizabeth noticed his name patch: Sgt. R. Greer.
"Yes, thank you, sir," the bodyguard answered.
"You're welcome."
"Where did they come from? I didn't see any ship land around," the bodyguard commented, confused.
"Have no idea, but let's not stay here. Is there a place where we could hide?"
Bérénice pointed with her thumb to the subway station entrance.