Notes:

AP round – Armor Piercing munition

Ionúin Álainn - beautiful beloved (Gaelic)

Jiris – Turian made Infantry Fighting Vehicle: hovercraft, 4-passenger, short-range rapid-fire gun and 20km guided missile launcher, standard kinetic barriers (Source: ME Wiki)

SMG - Sub-Machine Gun

VIP - Very Important Person

Death Come Knocking

Ministry of Justice Chambers, Serrice, Thessia – 22 Sep 2188

Spectre T'Dura guided the aircar onto the roof's central landing zone. "Good. It appears that all the spaces are occupied, so perhaps the minister is still in the building."

D'Naga nodded in agreement. "Lieutenant Selura just confirmed that the Minister has not attempted to leave the area… at least not at ground level."

"Most excellent." The Spectre stopped and keyed a short code-string into her omnitool; hearing an audible 'click,' indicating the roof door lock had been successfully disengaged, she closed the interface as she looked at D'Naga one last time before opening the door, asking, "You ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be to arrest the most senior member in my chain-of-command." Lydia took a deep breath and blew it out as she pulled her pistol – an M-77 Paladin.

Surprised by a Serrice Guard having a weapon from Spectre Requisitions, T'Dura couldn't help but ask, "How do you happen to possess a Spectre weapon, D'Naga?"

Chuckling, the Guard captain responded, "I know it is a well-kept secret, but I am surprised you did not realize Serrice Technology produces more than biotic amplifiers and weapons modules… including items such as the Spectre M-77. As a courtesy, they provide their own defenders with the same high-tech weaponry… like those in the Serrice Guard. Now, are we going or chatting?"

"Right." T'Dura grinned, thinking she could actually come to like this Guard Captain, no matter the circumstances of their original meeting. She slipped the door open a crack and listened; hearing nothing, she opened it just wide enough to slip through with D'Naga following close behind. Whispering, "The Defense Minister's office is on the ninth floor, six levels down. Between here and there are a number of Ministry offices…"

She was cut off by Lydia's muffled chuckle as the captain whispered back. "I come here all the time, Spectre… I think I know the layout of the building – likely better than you." She paused briefly before adding, "The barracks is in the basement, which would be a great place for Rahula to hide for a terrorist attack or something similar, but it has no escape routes for this scenario. Given that, the only other troublesome floor would be the twelfth… it houses the main detective branch, with several armed officers present at any given time, conducting criminal interrogations and witness interviews. If Rahula is looking for potential help, that is the only place within this building from which any would be available."

"Understood." T'Dura finally reached back and unclipped the non-descript SMG Lydia had seen on the Spectre's back docking port.

"What is that thing? I don't recognize it."

"That's because it no longer possesses its Blood Pack colors and has been heavily modified." The Spectre rotated the weapon in her hand, once again admiring its surprising balance, a quality unexpected in a weapon produced by a Krogan gunsmith. "It's a Punisher Ultralight… one which I acquired from a dirt-bag crime lord on Tarith; he couldn't get miners to come work on that stinking planet voluntarily, so he resorted to slavery. When he raided an Asari colony… well, I responded with violence and ended his operation… and him. As for the Punisher, it's easy to handle, packs a punch and is as accurate as any assault rifle in close-quarters… at just over half the weight."

The two Asari had been descending the stairs rapidly as they spoke and had reached the noted twelfth floor without incident. Just as Lydia went to open the doorway to stick her head in, attempting to determine if Rahula had already gone in to ask for assistance, an Acolyte round ricocheted off the wall from below and rounded the corner, exploding at their feet and ripping down their barriers… and nearly stripping their shields. The round was immediately followed by a warp slamming into the wall at the end of the landing, the resultant explosion finishing off their shields and throwing them backward onto the steps from which they had just descended.

Before they could be attacked again, T'Dura countered quickly, not even bothering to regain her feet; instead, she rolled off the steps and pushed off hard from the wall, sliding across the polished stone floor to the opposite end of the landing, squeezing the trigger of her SMG and sending rounds ricocheting downward through the stairwell. Squeals of surprise and pain echoed upward through the closed space as D'Naga began to call for back-up.

At the same time, the door to the twelfth floor was ripped open by an armed and shielded detective. "Captain!" The surprised detective stopped immediately and queried, "What in the blue blazes is going on out here?"

Lydia answered hastily. "No time for the full story… I'm escorting a Spectre to arrest Defense Minister Rahula, guilty of withholding Prothean Crucible tech from the Council – an act of omission that nearly cost all of us our lives during the Reaper War." As another round of weapons' fire was exchanged, she glibly added, "The Minister is obviously resisting arrest."

The detective stared at her Captain and the Spectre in surprise. "Is it just the two of you?"

"No… we have a squad outside… and two more enroute… to keep Rahula and Shyria from leaving the building." Her chatter was repeatedly interrupted as she continued to exchange fire with those trapped in the stairwell below. "This cannot end with a long-term hunt, Detective. It is ending today, one way or another."

The detective nodded and opened her omnitool. "Fayna. This is Micky… Detective Micalia. I beg you, please, stop defending the minister. The building is surrounded and I can guarantee this will not end well for either of you."

They were all surprised when they received a response. "But I knew, Micky. One cannot guard the Minister without having to guard her secrets, as well. I knew about the Beacon and… and I agreed that it was best for Thessia to withhold that knowledge. I am just as guilty as she."

"I'm sorry Fay… but you cannot possibly still believe that it was for the good of Thessia. Not after all that has happened and what was revealed by Spectre Shepard." The detective sighed in regret. "The war changed everything. Do you now believe that resisting arrest and getting killed… or killing members of the Serrice Guard so you can escape… is the correct path? Can you honestly say any of this is for the good of Thessia?"

In answer, another warp flew up the stairway, exploding against the wall as the detective, the Spectre and the Guard captain all dived for cover. The explosion was followed quickly by the report of a pistol… and then an ominous silence, broken only by the soft sound of weeping.

T'Dura was the first to move, beginning to creep slowly down the stairway with her shields set to maximum strength and followed close behind by D'Naga and Micalia. One flight down and around the corner, the ruined First sat on the floor, her weapon tossed off to the side as she slumped over the body of Serrice Defense Minister Rahula N'Atchelle. Body wracked with sobs, Fayna choked and gasped as she cried, begging for words of forgiveness that would never come from the lips of her dead mistress.

The death of a Matriarch, especially one of standing, was no small thing, so several hours and many Council communications later, Spectre T'Dura was finally free to locate an equally exhausted Captain of the Guard. "I'm ready to take your final statement and return you to your offices. If you want to speed things up, we can record the conversation as we fly."

Stating, "I'm in no rush. I've got nothing better to do with my evening," the Captain turned and made her way to the stairwell, ready and eager to depart from the scene. "The reports I must now write can wait until tomorrow. Besides, I will likely have a better perspective after a good night's sleep."

"I do not believe that maintaining a proper perspective is a problem for you." T'Dura followed her out, trailing by only a step and, as they exited the building onto the rooftop, the Spectre eyed D'Naga with curiosity, repeating what she had heard when the detective had bolted into the stairwell. "'The Minister is obviously resisting arrest?' Seriously?" Moises shook her head and grinned as she continued, "Our barriers were devastated by an Acolyte, we were knocked on our asses by a matriarchal warp, and you can deadpan a wisecrack like that? You've got some metal in you, Captain. I like that."

"You like my metal." Lydia hummed briefly before continuing, "You made a similar comment to me when we first met… though in a different context and under different circumstances." She opened the door of the car and slid into the passenger seat, T'Dura sliding in on the opposite side and looking over at her. The captain's eyes were shadowed; it was easy enough to understand why, after all they had been through over the course of the day, but Moises couldn't help but wonder what was going through the lead commando's mind.

It wasn't long before Lydia spoke again. "I initially called you because I knew that Matriarch Galalina was corrupt. It was the most difficult thing I have done since I made Captain… and I had no idea so many other people were going to lose so much as a result of that one call."

"The other investigations were already done… so, it seems as though the Goddess likely played a role in our meeting." T'Dura glanced over and quietly added, "You gave me an excuse to come here that did not arouse too much suspicion. Thank you for providing the opening I was looking for." She fell silent and started the car, lifting off the roof and turning toward the Guard Headquarters.

"No. Thank you for your prompt response and for the assistance." Lydia's eyes came up to meet those of the Spectre; a new fire lit within as she stated, "My day is done. If it is acceptable, I would like you to take me home… and stay for dinner? It is the least I can do, in thanks for your help… and, perhaps, I can find other ways to thank you before we retire for the evening."

The Spectre's lips twitched into an expectant smile. "No strings attached?"

"Stress relief," Lydia answered with a matching grin. "No promises, no commitments; I do not have time to commit to a relationship."

"Sounds great," Moises chuckled. "What's your address?"

Alliance Military Headquarters, Vancouver B.C., Earth – 28 Sep 2188

Alliance Marine Corporal Owen Hamilton felt he had scored a jackpot assignment: pulling guard duty for the retired admiral, Steven Hackett. Normally, he would have hated the job on general principles; in fact, he had actually groused about it to his sergeant, who failed to realize his corporal actually wanted the job. Hamilton had carefully managed his apparent unhappiness in order to be assured of not being reassigned at the last minute, as a golden opportunity had been handed to him, gift wrapped and tied up in a shiny bow.

Corporal Hamilton had enlisted in the Marines the day after his eighteenth birthday. He had grown up studying the history of humanity's interactions with the other races whose very existence had only been revealed when the bird-like Turians had attacked and destroyed a group of Alliance vessels whose crews were innocently attempting to activate a dormant mass relay.

The short-lived war ended when the Citadel Council, consisting of a Turian 'chicken', an Asari 'squid' and a Salarian 'frog' had dictated peace terms – at the point of Turian guns, no less – creating a reputation for Humans as a mindlessly aggressive species while producing a climate of xenophobia among a significant portion of the Alliance populace.

To Hamilton, the other galactic races would never be anything more than a hindrance to Human progress in the galaxy; currently, he had mixed feelings regarding Alliance hero Samantha Shepard, who had led the galactic effort to destroy the Reapers, but had then married (bonded, as the squids called it) a damned blue-skin archeologist. He had followed their publicity-seeking victory tour, particularly when the assassination attempts began. That none had succeeded really stuck in his craw, but until this day, he had never been in a position to act on his own hatred of the Milky Way's other races, or his increasing revulsion for the squid-loving Captain Shepard.

Shepard's squid-bitch had escaped having a bullet through her head after the explosion that leveled the western wing of this very building, killing a man Owen had looked up to as a hardline supporter of Humanity's God-given right to rule the galaxy, not side-by-side with the other races, but leading from the top. He felt no sympathy for the others killed in the explosion, considering them martyrs in the ongoing battle for Human superiority.

Through clandestine contacts, he had learned of the planned attacks on the VIPs scheduled to attend today's dedication of the newly rebuilt Alliance Northwest Headquarters building. The identity of the other assassins had not been shared, but Hamilton had been told to expect a clear call to action after the ceremonies were complete.

He had been told to target the man he had been assigned to guard against attack – the utter irony of this amused him to no end. To that end, he had decided to switch out his standard sidearm with an M-11 Suppressor. His guard position to the right side and slightly behind the old admiral provided him an excellent view of the VIPs and the people in the audience. Most were human, with a few of the hated chickens scattered about. Biding his time, he attempted to guess which of the other three other men would meet their well-deserved end today.

Zoë Lawrence had been enjoying a glass of iced tea as she spoke with Tim Stafford about the dedication ceremony. She glanced at a doorway in the back wall through which a line of white-jacketed food servers emerged. Each person carried a large open bowl, which Zoë expected would be their salad. As the staff members separated to take their burdens to different parts of the parade grounds, one person made a seeming beeline towards Zoë and Tim. Stopping in front of the pair, Émiléda Cousineau bowed slightly as she quietly spoke. "I will set this salad on the table to your right. There are utensils, napkins and plates there for your use." With a conspiratorial wink of one eye, she added, "I think you will find it very delicious."

Zoë softly replied, "Thank you." The pair followed Émiléda to the table she had indicated; after setting the large bowl down, she bowed again and turned to walk back to the kitchens. Zoë made a pretense of moving the bowl slightly in order to gain a bit more space in which to set their plates. Lifting it slightly had given her fingers access to the recessed flat bottom; with her thumb and two fingers, she quickly released and withdrew each of the daggers secreted there by Ms Cousineau. After a quick look around herself, she placed her dagger in the empty sheath in the top of her boot as Tim mirrored her movements. Filling a plate with a helping of salad, she strolled over to a chair, took a sip of tea and began eating.

Tim had settled beside her; after taking a bite of tomato and cucumber, he observed, "The dressing has an odd taste. Not bad, actually… just… different than what I've had before."

Zoë cast her eyes sideways at him as she took several bites of her own. "Hmmm… Tastes pretty good to me, but I expect I've spoiled my tongue by eating too many field rats while attempting to tail someone that needed killin'."

Tim began to comment on her statement when the sound of a plate full of food clattering off of a chair and falling to the ground came to his ears. From their vantage point, they could both see Reuben Trost going to his knees, cheeks and lips already swollen and puffy looking – hands clutching at his throat, his facial color was rapidly changing from pink to red to purple. "Goddammit, Zoë! We're too fucking late!" he exclaimed.

Zoë dropped her plate as she spun around to take in everything going on around her. "Get to Hackett… I don't see his escort!" Spotting Shepard, she knew the Spectre would move to guard Councilor Osoba. That left only… "I've got Hoffman! Move it, Tim!"

Tim left her at a dead run as Zoë sprinted across the grass, dodging in and around panicked people. She had jumped over two rows of chairs and was getting close. She heard the call for emergency services in her comms just as she saw a flicker of motion… having spent years using a cloaking shield generator, she knew she had found another assassin. The cloaked figure had almost reached the ambassador, whose attention was on the Prime Minister lying in the grass choking to death. Hollering, "Move, Ambassador!" she redoubled her efforts to intercept the cloaked figure.

As Zoë leaped across the last row of chairs, she saw Hoffman's two escorts moving… one using his own body as a shield against the shadowy form coming towards him, the other moving towards the assailant. Zoë was closer; completely forgetting the dagger in her boot sheath, she hit the cloaked form from behind with her shoulder, knocking the person to the ground.

Zoë landed on top of the struggling man, who rolled up on a side, reached around Zoë with a surprisingly strong grip and pulled her partially beneath him. A sharp sting of intense pain in her lower left side nearly doubled her over as she cried out and scrambled to find some purchase on his clothing. The knife was withdrawn in an agonizing sideways motion before being used to stab her again near the first cut. The sound of a high-powered rifle echoing from a distance was followed shortly by the nearby chuffing sound of a pistol discharging twice in rapid succession; this caused her assailant to pause in his struggles. Zoë used his hesitation to encircle his neck with both her hands; screaming at the top of her lungs in mixed agony from her wounds and the euphoria fueled by the massive amounts of adrenaline in her system, she attempted to crush his neck as she viciously dug her thumbs as hard as she could into the fragile structure of his larynx.

As the delicate cartilage began to fracture inward, there was a loud thud, followed by the sudden and total relaxation of her adversary. As the man, still cloaked by his shield generator, was dragged off and away from her, she somehow managed to get to her knees, her hands flat on the grass beneath her. Panting from the combined effects of her sprint across the parade grounds, the fight with the unseen assailant and the adrenaline in her system, Zoë quickly wilted, folding down into a fetal position on her right side. She attempted to use her left hand to press against her twice wounded side but discovered the knife that had been used for the second blow was still wedged in place, only the hilt sticking up to mark its location.

NorthAm Bank Building, Vancouver, B.C., Earth – 28 Sep 2188

Douglas Walker had been awake since just before dawn, thanks to the incessant howl of a pair of Alliance A-61 Gunships banking and circling repeatedly past the eastern side of the building on which he had been camped since the 18th. Convinced the Alliance would take no chances with the security of such an obvious platform for a long-range sniper attempt, Walker had carefully ascended the building – from the outside and in broad daylight – by making use of the window-cleaner platform anchor slots built into the exterior paneling of the Northwest face.

He had brought enough field rats and water to sustain him for the ten days he needed to remain hidden from the security forces employed by the bank; the unoccupied top floor, with access to the wrap-around terrace, had a number of storerooms nearby. Walker had been careful to avoid the active motion sensors and cameras as he cautiously explored the empty floor. After choosing a storage compartment with the most direct path to the eastern side of the terrace, he placed the supplies and weapon he had so laboriously brought up the side of the building within.

Over the course of the week following his ascent, he had watched and waited as the level of security was increased. By Monday, building security forces were making regular sweeps of the floor. On Wednesday, four people arrived and took up residence at a hastily assembled command post near the central elevators; apparently employed by the building's owners, Walker chose to ignore their presence for now. He and his specially equipped rifle didn't need to be on the terrace until midnight Saturday; he was wearing a cloaking generator expressly modified to mask him visually and eliminate his heat signature. The M-98 Widow – set up on its bipod legs – was covered with a fabric specifically designed to camouflage the weapon, making it appear to be part of the decking that formed the surface of the terrace.

Using a spotting scope to peer down on the parade ground 2482 meters away, he attentively watched as the Alliance guards scanned every person entering the venue. He recognized Zoë Lawrence when she entered; he found it incredible that anyone in their right mind would brand themselves with a facial tattoo, until he remembered most of the squids from Thessia wore similar markings. Bitch is trying to emulate them. Too bad her skin isn't blue, came the thought.

As the morning faded into midday, Walker carefully looked around. The four security officers had split up into two pairs of people – one pair remained visible, while the other two virtually vanished thanks to some seriously high-end cloaking generators. The visible pair were casually walking around inside the empty office area, concentrating on the stairs and elevators from the levels below. Walker noticed the entry door at the far northeast corner retract; remaining open as it did, it was obvious that one of the cloaked agents was standing on the threshold. The other agent must have stepped out on the terrace; the faint sounds of boots on the rough surface of the terrace was the only indication the man was slowly moving towards Walker's position. The assassin quietly readied himself.

The cloaked agent stopped about two meters away from Walker's position, apparently to lean against the top rail and look down at the building and parade ground. After several minutes, Walker heard the boots begin walking back to the northwestern corner. The pair finally went back inside to rejoin their companions. The assassin sighed in relief; he did not wish to be distracted from the task at hand… and having to kill the agent could have compromised the mission in any number of ways, none of which would result in Walker's target being taken out.

With a final look through his spotting scope, Walker rose from his prone position to kneel behind the big rifle, the majority of its weight supported by a pair of recoil absorbing bipod legs; leaning against the braided horizontal cables that prevented visitors from falling off the terrace, he activated the electronically-stabilized scope and sighted through it. It was apparent the dedication ceremony had concluded; the people were milling about, conversing with each other as a number of white-coated kitchen staff entered the parade grounds bearing large bowls – these would be the salads that would be served before the main entrées.

With a quick glance into the offices, Walker grinned at the utter complacency of the bank's security contingent. They were guarding against a threat arriving from below, when the threat was already in place, sighting down the barrel of an M-98 Widow for a target.

Right cheek caressing the cool metal receiver, he looked around the parade grounds for his soon-to-be victim. He had been told his assigned target was Councilor Dominic Osoba, but if his primary target proved elusive, Walker was willing to kill any of the other three that presented themselves. He had debated on whether or not to use armor piercing or fragmentation rounds; knowing none of the men would be wearing body armor, he had ultimately decided on a frag round, meant to go in small and come out large. He planned to take the shot when the cry went up for emergency services to respond to a man choking; that man would be Prime Minister Trost, deathly allergic to an ingredient in the salad dressing that everyone else would be enjoying. During all the confusion, retired Admiral Hackett and Ambassador Hoffman would each be dealt with by other agents. Four targets, four deaths… at least, that was the plan.

Locating Osoba, he sighted in on the councilor and held steady, only moving minutely for corrections he needed to make to keep his target centered in the scope. Within a matter of minutes, the urgent call for emergency services came through the earpiece he was wearing to monitor comms… he heard a clatter as the agents inside burst onto the terrace through the northwest corner door to see what was happening. No help for it, he thought. I'll kill them as soon as I take the shot.

With Osoba centered in his scope, Walker used his right thumb to activate the helium-neon laser designator fitted beside the optical scope, placing an intense green dot in the middle of the councilor's chest. He took his last normal breath for several moments, exhaled slowly, then paused at the end of his exhale for a two-count to ensure his sight picture was rock-steady; his right index finger gently teased the trigger of the 39-kilogram weapon and the sharp bark of the rifle's report rolled over him in diminishing waves. Just before releasing the weapon to rise to his feet, he thought he had seen a shadow in his scope, crossing from left to right, but didn't have the luxury of time to double check. Aiming his M-25 Hornet at the visible pair of agents who were turning towards him in shocked disbelief, he began firing as fast as he could pull the trigger; unfortunately for Walker, they immediately energized their kinetic barriers, preventing the three-round AP-enhanced bursts from killing them outright. They both hit the deck and scrambled back into the offices.

After emptying the clip, he jacked the heat sink and stood still for a moment in order to be sure no one else was coming to investigate. With a regretful, longing look at his customized rifle, he turned and ran for the southeast corner of the terrace, just as more security personnel began to pour into the offices from the access stairwell. Still fully cloaked, he leaped into the air and over the barrier as he reached the far corner of the terrace. Extending his arms and spreading his legs apart, he invisibly glided down and away from the building, his specially designed wingsuit keeping his descent towards the ground at a manageable rate; the added weight of the 39-kg rifle would have had him falling like a rock. By the time he touched down, he'd be three to four kilometers from the NorthAm Bank Building, well outside of the Alliance's exclusion perimeter.

Walker's only regret was the security agents' presence; he could have cared less about having to eliminate them, but they had cost him precious time… time that meant he'd been unable to witness the aftermath of his shot… to confirm his kill and still ensure a successful escape.

Alliance Military Headquarters, Vancouver B.C., Earth – 28 Sep 2188

Against Shepard's advice, Councilor Dominic Osoba insisted on moving towards a crowd of people – other spectators to the dedication ceremony – who were blocking his view of something that was happening that was significant enough to elicit cries for a medic. Against her better judgment, Spectre Shepard allowed her respect for the man's position to override her military training and, in spite of an active threat and her directive to protect Osoba's life at all cost, merely grumbled under her breath about his stubbornness. She had no choice but to follow as he turned and started to walk away; the determined councilor was chuckling as he walked, sure he heard her mumble something about curiosity killing the cat.

When they arrived at the edge of the growing throng of people, they could both see through the crowd; Prime Minister Reuben Trost was on his knees in the grass, hands clutching at his throat as his airway was apparently being slowly but surely closed off by… what? Shepard could see the man appeared to be choking; his cheeks looked swollen and his entire face had gone from a blush to beet red in a matter of seconds and was now progressing toward a rich shade of deep purple.

Cries for help were coming from within the crowd, even as she heard yet another request for emergency services in her ear-mounted comms unit. Turning back from the distraction to look at Osoba, she was horrified to discover an intense dot of green light, virtually stationary on the man's chest.

With memories of the near death by a sniper's bullet of her Ionúin Álainn – in this very city, exactly one year prior, to the day – she called on her biotics and utilized a shortened form of the Vanguard charge; she simply flash-stepped, covering the short distance in less than the space of a heartbeat, and moved into position to purposely place herself between the shooter and Osoba. She didn't have time to warn the man… unable to say anything as her upper back was struck, just left of center, by what felt like a Krogan charging at full speed.

All she could do was exhale with a heavy grunt, the forceful impact violently shoving her forward as needles of pain shot down her left arm and up the back of her exposed head. She smashed into the councilman, taking them both to the ground, with her full weight falling on top of him, even as a loud, booming report from a high-powered rifle reached the parade grounds and echoed about for several moments.

Liara had been in Operations with Riana and Traynor, watching the heads-up display from Shepard's armor camera. The Spectre's vitals had suddenly spiked, just before they saw the world turn into a blur when Shepard flash-stepped and then grunted from the impact. The screen went dark, just as the commander called into her comms, "Fuck! Liara! Evac… Now!"

As Shepard began to push herself upwards in order to relieve Osoba of her weight, the sounds of a pair of small-caliber gunshots came to her ears; she immediately dropped back down to her left elbow to better shield Osoba and felt another jolt of considerable pain travel up her arm and into her shoulder, but not enough to keep her from protecting the councilor.

{Samantha? Are you alright? What just happened?}

{Something slammed into me… really hard in the back. Probably a Widow shot meant to kill the Councilor. We can thank the Gods Walker apparently opted against an AP round.} Another shot, muffled somehow, rang out. Speaking into her comms system, she added, "More shots… three total, I think… maybe four. Gods be damned, Blue. I think every one of the four VIPs has been targeted. We need to get Osoba out of here! Where's the extraction team?"

"Liv is in the Jiris… Get to the north entrance and she'll be on the ground waiting for you, immediately outside the cordon area. No one is with her, so all three of you can board. Tra'ana is on her way to you with the rest of the team."

"Roger that." Shepard looked across the still-prone Osoba, to see a very attentive Riley Emerson hunkered down beside the councilor's head; the Aide de Camp had his sidearm drawn and looked very much ready to use it, should anyone they didn't know approach them.

"Ready when you are, Spectre." Riley looked down at the councilor. "You ready to move, Sir?"

"I'm ready to get off this damned ground, that's for sure." The trio started to move, Shepard and Emerson helping Osoba stand as the man continued speaking. "And, if I remember correctly, we're headed to the south exit, opposite of what was stated on the comms, correct?"

"That's affirmative, Councilor." Shepard gave his arm a quick squeeze before releasing her grip after helping him up. "Seems you were listening during the briefing after all. I was convinced you were doing email."

"Really, Spectre?" He gave a nod, indicating he was ready to move. "I was taking notes!" As they started to move quickly toward the exit, Shepard took the point position; Osoba scowled at her back as he saw blood dripping down across her armor. "Shepard, you've been injured!" The realization of what had nearly happened to him almost caused him to stumble over his own feet. "Holy shit… That's why you crashed into me! You charged to intercept…" He hesitated only an instant before blurting, "You took that shot for me! I'd probably be a dead man had you not done that!"

"Yes, Sir, you would." Shepard answered without stopping and without looking back, keeping her eyes forward as they continued to move, sweeping for threats and searching for the commando escort that was supposed to be meeting them. "I also heard three additional shots, one of which sounded muffled, as if it came from a silenced weapon of some kind… meaning at least two additional shooters. So, the next time I ask you to wear a damned vest, you'll know I'm not simply blowing smoke up your ass… and you might actually do what I recommend."

Riley cut in with, "Lieutenant Iremi's team; sixty degrees right."

Glancing in that direction, Shepard located the incoming team and altered the trio's course to intercept them as she continued, "Thanks, Riley. Now that we have a full escort, let's pick up the pace so my stepping in front of that bullet won't have been in vain."

Corporal Owen Hamilton's first indication the attack had begun was the sound of a plate full of food clattering off of a chair and falling to the ground, followed by gasps of shock from a small cluster of people about six or seven meters from the main stage. He nearly broke protocol by leaving his assigned position; staying with the admiral, he watched with a great deal of interest when he discovered Ambassador Reuben Trost on his knees, facial features swollen and distorted, hands clutching at his throat as his face rapidly turned purple.

He heard the call for emergency help in his comm-link; looking around quickly, he discovered Councilor Osoba – flanked on each side by Spectre Shepard and Staff Commander Riley Emerson – approaching from the rear of the parade grounds; Hackett's movement towards the commotion drew his attention back to his assigned task.

Unclipping the M-11 from the hard point on his armor, the corporal trotted past Hackett as if to escort him away from all the commotion. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Shepard appear, seemingly out of thin air and wreathed in ethereal curtains of shifting blue waves, only to be jerked off the ground and tossed bodily into Councilor Osoba. Ignoring them as the sound of a high-powered rifle echoed in diminishing waves over the compound, Owen stopped in front of Hackett, whose piercing blue eyes skewered him in a questioning look.

Saying nothing to the Human race-traitor, Hamilton brought up his weapon without hesitation and pulled the trigger twice, placing a pair of heavy-alloy rounds in the center of the Shepard apologist's chest. Hackett grunted from the impact of each shot. His expression changed from simple curiosity to a pain-filled grimace as a pair of dark red stains appeared and swiftly began spreading across the virgin blue surface of his dress jacket. Clutching his mortally-wounded chest, he staggered back a step, growling, "You bastard," as he cast an angry look at his assassin, before silently crumpling to the ground as his legs collapsed.

Amid the shouts of anger and disbelief from behind him, he heard a voice he thought he recognized. Dammit! That sounded like Brooks! Owen turned to his right to see a dark-skinned woman running towards a different area within the chaos of people screaming and trampling each other to get away. Could that actually be her? She looks different than I remember. Shifting his eyes further into the crowd, he noticed the man that had accompanied the mystery woman moving purposefully towards him. Don't know who in Hell that guy is, but I can't let 'im reach me! Hamilton absolutely knew he dare not risk being captured. Damned squids 'll get in my fuckin' head and learn too much! Not waiting for the stranger to get any closer, he smoothly brought the M-11 up, placed the still-warm muzzle against the underside of his jaw and, with a grin directed at the fast approaching stranger, pulled the trigger.

Knowing it was too late to help Admiral Hackett, Tim slid to a stop, momentarily at a loss for what to do next; looking around, he saw Zoë leap onto the back of the cloaked assassin targeting Ambassador Hoffman. He spared another quick glance at the admiral, lying motionless in the grass… and the man that had murdered him, his forehead and top of his skull completely gone, then turned and sprinted towards where Zoë had been grappling with the cloaked assassin.

His heart dropped to his stomach when he realized that Zoë was also laying in the grass. Goddammit! No! He noticed a Marine moving towards the pair and saw Zoë move, however slightly, causing him to gasp with relief. He spun about and waved down another passing Marine, pointing in the direction of the crowd surrounding Hoffman and yelling at him to send more med-techs with a hover-litter.