Yes, this chapter took a long time. But I swear, I have a legitimate excuse this time. Over the course of the last year, my laptop has suffered numerous problems, from the hard drive getting wiped to the motherboard crashing to the processor frying. Problem after problem that have prevented a chapter that COULD and SHOULD have been finished long before now from getting finished.

At any rate, here it is now. Enjoy.

Chapter Twenty-Three: Shootout

The street was bare and empty, and so there was nothing and no one in its path. The zombie lurched forward, down the street towards the convenience store. Its arms hung arched at its arms, its legs stiff and straight as it stumbled towards the spot where it heard the noise. Its cold dead eyes trained straight ahead as it let out a low-pitched moan-

BAM!

The bullet went straight through the middle of its skull and came right out the back, leaving a large hole out the back. Everything that had been on the inside was now on the outside and splattered onto the ground, almost as a wet cushion for the body that landed on it after a slight delay.

The street was once again met with quiet.

On the roof of the store, Foley peered up from his sniper rifle at the location of his target. He grinned, licked his thumb, and stuck it up in the air, then returned behind his scope.

The three Delta soldiers inside looked up at the sound of the shot. Jones shook his head.

"He's going to draw a lot of attention to our spot," he noted.

"His fire will let us know if anyone else is coming," his team leader replied. "If something big comes, we'll have a warning."

They had set up the store as a comfortable living arrangement, as they planned on staying there long enough to catch their breath. The aisles were rearranged so that there was no room in the middle of the room for them to sit and eat. They had taken one of the grills and lit a fire in it so that they could keep warm, and had laid down their sleeping mats, as it seemed likely that they would be getting their shut-eye here. Under ordinary circumstances, it seemed like a good enough place to rest; however, there was very little doubt that none of them would be getting much sleep.

"Look at this," Connors suddenly said, pushing one of the notes in front of Jones' face. "Virus gets dumped into the shark tank, the sharks get infected, break the tanks, the whole ring gets flooded and feed the roots of a plant, enlarging it, and as a result they shut down the entire building. How the hell does that happen?"

"I've seen it," snapped Jones, pushing the papers out of his face. "I'm more curious as to where the hell did they manage to get a shark tank and fill it up with sharks, and how they managed to get it into the mountains."

"The how isn't really too hard to wrap your head around," Bradley said sullenly, his eyes fixated on the reports of the large man-creature labeled the "Tyrant". "Especially when you read about the bigger stuff."

Just how far had Umbrella planned to take this research? How much had they already done? That was what plagued his thoughts, not the papers that stretched before him or their ever-dangerous predicament, but the thought that outside of this danger zone the corporation had something else, something worse brewing.

And he had a feeling that if they did not get out soon, Umbrella would have a chance to show just how much they had accomplished.

Foley took a sip from his soda can and relaxed. Now was the easiest part of the night for him; just sit back, let them come to you, and plug them in the head. Pop goes the weasel. This was what he was used to, the kind of detail he could perform flawlessly. Down in the street moving about there was not much his rifle could do, down in the tunnels there was not much his rifle could do, and he felt for most of this mission that he was becoming useless. Up on this roof, it was easy pickings. He was earning his pay now.

This was not so bad, he thought. A few near misses here and there, but otherwise things had been just fine on their end. Almost perfect, actually. The fact that they had gone three days without a casualty in a zombie apocalypse was far too lucky, even by their standards. And yet, he still was not feeling that impending feeling of doom at their luck. The situation was bad, but they were handling it fine.

He felt like he was going to make it home. All they needed was to get in touch with command and wait for evacuation and they would be a-OK-

He froze, eyes fixated straight down the road to the pair of lights that had just appeared through the dark black of the night. The lights that were slowly but surely getting closer towards him. Headlights. Headlights that were headed their way, and whether they were friend or foe, at least they were not zombies and that was what made him nervous right then.

He readied his rifle, suddenly alert. Survivors in the city was a good thing, but in a hostile environment the experience could have effected them for the worst and turned them hostile. It always helped to be careful when dealing with civilian survivors, especially in circumstances like this. And if they were bringing wounded, that was even more dangerous, because wounded meant infected and infected would lead to zombies, and that line would have to be severed before it reached the final stage, and the problem would be that they would have to do it because their friends would not and that would get messy.

The Humvee drove right up against the curb and idled a bit before it shut the engine and killed the lights. It was another moment before the front doors on both sides opened and two men stepped out, dressed in battle garb and clutching their rifles. Then the back opened and three other soldiers hopped out, identical to the previous two. They began pulling out duffel bags, working in unison together in unloading their supplies. These were no ordinary civilians.

They did not know Foley was up there, and he kept quiet until he was certain of the numbers and until they had finished and had closed the doors to their vehicle, and only when they had taken their steps towards the building did he shout, "You have fifteen seconds to drop your weapons and put your hands in the air before I pull the trigger and put a hole in your head!"

They all stopped dead at his voice. He heard them muttering loudly among themselves, and he knew they were wondering if he was serious or if he was bluffing. This was confirmed when one of them shouted, "How do we know you're really armed?"

"If you don't do what I say in the next ten seconds, you're going to find out the hard way!" he shouted back, and he pulled back the loading bolt loud enough to let them know he was being serious.

Then another voice called out, and this one was a lighter voice; a familiar voice.

"At ease, soldier. We're on your side."

Bradley stepped out, his M-16 at the ready. Behind him, Connors and Jones had taken up positions where their weapons could cover him if needed. He kept his own weapon trained and ready on the five green-coated uniformed troopers, armed with M-4s and looking nervous. One of them, the one who had spoken last, stepped forward. He was tall, he was blond-haired, he was friendly looking enough, and he was very, very familiar.

"I know you," the sergeant stated. "You were at the LZ."

"Captain Roberts." The U.B.C.S captain stepped forward to shake his hand. "Glad to finally find friendly forces."

The two D-boys in the shop eased up and smiled at the Umbrella soldiers. At long last, friendly reinforcements, and friendly reinforcements with transportation, no less. Their good feeling just got better. They had an easier way out of this mess.

The Umbrella soldiers grabbed their bags and slung them over their shoulders, looking at the small store as a sanctuary off the road. As they walked through the doors, one of them turned back and called out, "LaSalle! Hurry up!"

A sixth soldier emerged from behind the vehicle, the youngest from the looks of him. He was balancing his heavy bag, which was not zipped up properly, and his rifle, and the weight of both were almost forcing him off his feet. Bradley stepped forward to catch him as he almost tripped over his own feet.

"You alright there, buddy?" he asked.

The young soldier looked at him and gave a meek smile. New guy; definitely a new guy.

"LaSalle," the other soldier, a broad, mean-looking man with a face to rival a bulldog's, growled at him. "Let's go."

Bradley helped to stand him up. LaSalle stared at him for another moment, then on the urging of his comrade he followed his team into the store.

"Don't worry about him," said Captain Roberts. "He's just a bit high-strung. We all are. It's understandable, given the circumstances."

"Yeah," Bradley agreed, brushing it off. The kid was young; that he had lasted this long in these surroundings was amazing in itself.

Going back inside, they found that the Umbrella soldiers had stuffed their gear in the back against the wall near the door. Two of them had gone over to the coffee machine to pour themselves a cup, their tired, worn-out faces looking relieved at the idea of coffee, their first in days, maybe weeks. The other three started shifting through the shelves looking for food or any other rations they could get their hands on. Christ only knew when their last meal was; anything looked good right then.

Introductions were quickly made. There were the captain himself; there was LaSalle, the baby of the group at twenty-one, a short thin soldier with a youthful face; Perez, the mean-looking man from before, a man of Mexican decent that was constantly chewing gum; Flynn, a pale soldier with small round glasses; Boyd, an Irishman with fiery red hair; and Swift, a big, silent Native American man with a very large Russian machine-gun to accommodate him.

The two commanders sat at the grill fire, Bradley on one side, Roberts on the other. One of the Umbrella men handed his leader a cup of coffee, which he gratefully accepted.

The captain was younger than he probably should have been, for his rank, anyway, and definitely did not look battle-hardened, but he was no rookie, either. He had some experience, just not as much as Bradley would have assumed. Regardless, he looked trained enough, and obviously he had some good leadership qualities if he and his men were able to survive this long.

"Is this all of you?" he asked.

"No, there's more," Roberts took a sip from his coffee. "But we were cut off from them yesterday. We were the advance party, and we were separated by a pack of Hunters attacking our numbers-"

"Hunters?"

"The large lizard creatures, you may have seen them?"

"We've been underground for most of our time here. Most we've seen are zombies."

"They're a fierce bunch. You really have to just keep shooting them until they stay down. Zombies are a bit easier, but get past that, you have to get a bit creative."

"How much past zombies are there in the city?" Jones wanted to know.

"Not very much. Standard B.O.W.'s and a few higher-leveled subjects, but most if not all of them are ones we can handle. You just need to know what you're up against, that's the key, really."

So it was always the case in the battlefield, but never had that been more true in this city, where around any corner could be a new creature waiting to behead them. At least regular enemies had predictable weaponry, but even with all the information they had acquired from the underground lab, they had the feeling that there was more than what they had read lurking in the dark corners of Raccoon City.

Food was being passed around now, and the grateful Umbrella soldiers accepted them greedily. Roberts opened a Twinkie and ate it slowly, calmly, savoring the taste of the cream-filled pastry. He was the only one; the other soldiers were digging into their food with an animalistic ferocity, ripping them out of their packaging and shoving them into their mouths with snarling noises.

"My men have gone two days without eating, forgive their barbaric nature," Roberts explained, throwing a glare at one of his men, who merely shrugged.

"It's fine." Bradley had to stifle a laugh. Here they were in the middle of a zombie outbreak and the captain was more concerned with his soldiers' manners than he was with their current predicament.

"So, underground, you say?" Roberts tore open a bag of chips and began calmly eating from them. "Anywhere in particular?"

"Underneath the police station. Through the sewers, inside an underground laboratory, and then we went right back up the way we had come-"

At the word "laboratory", there was a sudden pause in activity. All of the Umbrella soldiers, except for the youngest one LaSalle, stopped eating and looked up at the sergeant with grave expressions. Two of them exchanged looks with each other. LaSalle looked around at his comrades with an alarmed expression at the sudden shift in tone. One of the men pulled him over and began whispering into his ear.

"Really now?" Roberts said, his voice even but his face terse. "Did you find anything of value, per chance?"

"Nothing really. Most of it was already cleaned out when we arrived."

Bradley kept his poker face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jones slowly and carefully pull the files they had out towards him. Good move. As glad as he was for company, he did not need to cause tension in telling them about the files they had found. Especially not with what they were planning on doing with them. They needed these guys to finish doing their job, and telling them that they would soon be out of a job after this mission was not the way to help them.

The captain seemed to accept this, and the rest of his men resumed their activities. Bradley and Connors exchanged knowing glances. They could be friendly with them, but they also had to keep their secrets to themselves.

"So," Roberts pressed on. "What are your plans? Where are you off to?"

"We're just trying to find a way out of the city, get back to command. You?"

"Same. You're welcome to tag along, of course. The more, the merrier, in this situation."

"Sounds good." Hey, if he was offering. Besides, traveling around in a vehicle was always better than walking.

They might actually be alright now. They might actually have a guarantee out. Maybe.

"Captain, you sure about taking them? Given our orders?" Perez asked, glaring at the Delta soldiers.

"Couldn't hurt them," Roberts muttered, keeping his voice low. "Besides, they might know things. Who knows? Maybe killing them isn't the right thing to do for this situation."

"You think they know?" Boyd wanted to know.

"If they really were in the lab under the city? There's no way they don't," hissed Flynn.

"They know," the captain answered. "Of course they know. The question is, how much do they know?"

LaSalle looked concernedly from one man to the other. Swift said nothing, but tightened his grip on his PK light machine-gun. If there was a problem, his machine-gun would probably finish it in under seven seconds. If not, there were six of them and only four Delta. Numbers made a battle.

Most of the time, anyway...

It had been an accident that it had happened. An accident that had inadvertently saved their lives.

Jones had gone to the back room to get some drinks out of the freezer. They were out of cold Pepsi out front, and surely there was some in the back.

As he did, his leg accidentally hit the strap to one of the bags the Umbrella soldiers that was stacked against the wall. It got caught in the groove of his boot, he pulled, and the whole bag fell over, the top of it already open so that it's contents spilled all over the ground.

Shit, he thought as he bent down to pick them up as quickly as he could before one of those boys came by here and made the assumption that he was snooping through their stuff. That was one of the best ways to kill diplomatic relations, going through the other side's papers, and with rescue now at hand the last thing he felt like doing was spoiling their chances of going home. He grabbed a couple of papers and were about to put them away when the image on them caught his eye.

They were pictures; pictures of a crashed MH-6 Little Bird sitting in a little grove outside of some alleyway, the windshield smashed, the rotors sheered off upon impact, the nose practically buried into the ground. He frowned. There were no bodies in the cockpit, but...was that theirs? Was that their bird that had crashed at the beginning, crashed what felt like years ago but in reality had barely been three days ago?

Why did Umbrella have pictures of that?

He shook his head, trying to bring clear his reasoning. Maybe they saw it and thought it was important to document. Yeah, that made sense. In this kind of combat zone, scenes like this were common for photography, as visual references. That made sense, of course. No need to chastise them for it-

And that was when he saw the helmet.

He happened to glance out of the corner of his eye and see it, and when he looked to get a full view of it he immediately wished he had not. The helmet was black and looked more like a skateboarder's helmet than a soldier's helmet, and when he saw it his mind immediately said that's one of ours. Whose, exactly, he was not able to tell at first as he picked it up and examined it; the tape on the back that usually had their names written on had been burned off. Indeed, this helmet looked as though it had just been through a massive explosion or a heavy fire, and it was scorched badly in some places. He peered closer and discovered something else, something worse.

Writing. There was writing on it, in yellow highlighter. Not just any writing, either. Names.

Oh no...

"Sarge, a word."

Bradley put his head to his walkie link and turned to the back door, where Jones was waving him back there as subtly as he could without alerting the others, who were gathering around the grill and laughing over some funny story. He politely excused himself and went over to his teammate, who closed the door behind him.

"We got a problem," he blurted out as soon as it was closed.

Bradley frowned. "Zombies?"

"No, worse. These Umbrella guys. I don't think they're here to help us."

"…Sorry?"

"Look, I was putting some stuff away, and I accidentally knocked over a couple of these guys' bags, and one had pictures of Delta Five's Little Bird after the crash, and the other bag…well, the other bag had this." And with that, he held up the helmet with the writing on it.

John Bradley recognized that helmet the moment he saw it, and the moment he did he felt his heart drop into the deepest bowels of his chest. He took the helmet and gingerly touched the scorched surface. Most of the names had been blurred out by the explosions, but some of them were still readable, and all of them had been written in a yellow highlight marker. No doubt about who had owned it.

"Did you find anything belonging to the other members?" he asked, looking back up at Jones. "Bielski?"

"No, but…well, I mean, that's all we need, right? Regardless of whether or not they got anyone else, they've got Shipley's helmet and no Shipley. And I don't know why they'd want it as a souvenir unless it was as a kill."

"Mickey, Foley, get back here," Bradley got on his comm link and ordered. "Keep it casual."

He exchanged looks with his panicked subordinate, but kept his own emotions in check. Not was not a time to lose control, especially with the situation as tense as it was.

The two men came back, laughing casually.

"These guys are alright," said Foley.

"Yeah," added Connors. "That big guy, Swift or whatever, he's actually kinda funny. That story about his op in Guatemala, man, that was a riot."

"Yeah, no kidding. So what's up, Sarge?"

Bradley just raised the helmet up for both of them to see.

"This was in one of their bags."

He watched as their expressions fell, the smiles slide away as their mouths just hung open in surprise. Foley turned from one to the other, back and forth, as if looking to them for confirmation instead of looking at the evidence itself. Connors reached and took the helmet, holding it and turning it around in his own hand. The other hand touched a few of the faded names.

"This is Ship's helmet," he said softly.

"Yeah," Jones nodded. "It came right out of one of their bags."

"What was he doing with Shipley's helmet in his bag?" Foley asked, still looking from Jones to Bradley and back. "Where did he get it?"

"I don't know. They had pictures of the crash site, they might have picked it up from there."

"No one just picks up a helmet from the field," Connors spat, still examining his comrade's helmet. "It's not like picking up a gun or a ring or something, you can get those anytime. You only take a helmet after you've made the kill."

"I know, I know."

Bradley looked past them at the Umbrella soldiers, none of which seemed to suspect anything...yet. Or maybe they knew and were maintaining poker faces. It was hard to tell. The way they had acted when he had announced their being in the labs was making him think they were already in the red zone.

"What do we do about it, Sarge?" Foley asked.

"Well, we can't stay with them, that much is certain. They already know we were snooping around in their labs."

"But do we let them go?"

"Fuck no!" Connors hissed. "They killed our guys! We came in here as allied forces doing one job, and now that all hell's breaking loose, they're gonna start killing our boys?"

"He's right, we can't risk that," Jones agreed. "What's to say they don't move on and kill the next group they find? Ours or a group of civilians?"

"It's too risky," Bradley agreed. "We're just going to have to deal with them."

"Kill them as soon as we go in?"

"No, play it cool. Go back in there, have a normal conversation. But we'll get into attack position, and when the time is right, we'll get it out of them."

"And if they don't tell us?" Connors wanted to know, eying the sergeant.

"However way this goes, their captain stays alive," was Bradley's only response to that. "He's the one we get the information out of. I don't care what happens with the others." He turned back to them. "Now let's figure out a plan."

Roberts should have realized something was wrong when all of the Delta team had gone back to talk, but thought nothing of it. Instead his mind was transfixed on what they were going to do when they brought them back to the rest of the convoy. They would keep the sergeant alive, to get the information out of him, and then probably kill the rest of them. Or maybe keep them all, and question them individually.

Question is, what would Isaacs do with them? Kill them, or use them for experiments? What went on with science was no concern of his, he was just hired help, but he often wondered what happened to the people they took in for questioning. Probably did not matter. It was something to think about, though.

He did not think anything was wrong when the Delta soldiers came back into the room and resumed talking with them; at least, not at first. Something felt off, though. The sergeant seemed off to the side, near the door, in case he needed to make a quick escape...but the rest of his men were right in the open. He shook the thoughts from his head. No one suspected a thing, he knew that. Everything was a-OK in this place.

That feeling came back when the conversation took a very sudden turn.

"So," the Delta machine-gunner, Connors or whatever, stuck a marshmallow on his combat knife and roasted it over the grill. "Has it just been you guys this whole time? You haven't found anyone else?"

He was speaking across the grill to Swift with a smirk on his face. The big Indian kept a straight face; he knew what he was supposed to say. And it would be the truth, wouldn't it? Technically, these were the first Delta soldiers they had found...alive, anyway.

"Yes, it has," said Swift. "We haven't seen anyone but our troops since the LZ got overrun."

He seemed to accept that...but then Roberts got that feeling again. The other two Delta soldiers were shifting away...but why?

"Well, see...one of my buddies had a bit of an accident in the back and tripped over one of your bags. And, on accident, you understand...he found some pictures of a chopper that had crashed, it was all messed up, rotors gone, all that."

"Yes...and?"

Connors clicked his tongue, still smirking. "Thing is, it looked like one of our birds. And as fate would have it, one of our birds went down the other night due to rocket fire."

Flynn straightened his glasses up onto his nose. Perez tightened his grip on his M-4. Swift, being the silent man that he was, kept it cool.

"Yes, we came across it on our travels," he answered. "It was empty; I'm assuming one of your teams had already arrived to pull the bodies from the wreckage. We took pictures of the crash to keep for our records of this incident. You understand."

Seemed like an easy enough answer, thought Roberts. So why had that feeling of impending doom not gone away yet?

"Uh huh..." Connors popped the marshmallow in his mouth and stirred the coals with the tip of his knife. "And uh...did you take a helmet to keep on record as well?"

That was why. And with a sinking feeling, Roberts knew whose bag from they had found the helmet: LaSalle. The helmet that the rookie had taken from the battle as a souvenir. He glanced over, and sure enough, LaSalle's face had turned pale white, realizing what his eagerness had landed them into.

"Yeah, we found the helmet with the pictures, and we know it's ours. 'Prove it', you may say. 'Gladly', I reply. It's a small, black helmet, used for tactical missions more so than actual warfare. Our men wear them because on the kinds of missions we do, we're more concerned with hitting our heads on a door frame than we are taking a bullet to the noggin. It looks more like the helmet you'd see on a biker or a skateboarder. I'm reciting this all from memory, though if you look on our sergeant's head, you can get a good description yourself."

"Very interesting, but we found it laying by the wreckage and simply thought-"

"But you know how I know," The Delta gunner was ignoring everything he was saying now, and that was not a good sign, "that it's one of ours? The names. All over that helmet are these names written in yellow highlighter. And you wanna know how I know that makes it ours?"

"How?" Swift asked, but the rest of the men started getting restless. Out of the corners of his eye, he saw Perez grip his M-4 and start to stand. Flynn shifted over to the right. Boyd stood with his back to the shelves, his M-4 resting but ready to be brought up if needed. LaSalle did not move; he stood in front of one of the drink coolers, still frozen in shock.

"Because," Connors said, and now a shift of tone in his voice could be noted, "one of my friends' wife is pregnant. She's going into labor soon, might even be in it right now. We got called away on this op and he didn't even have time to see his wife deliver his first child. And they had not named him or her yet, so he was writing down names on his helmet to recommend to his wife when he got home.

"Now, no one just 'takes' a helmet from the battlefield. Most soldiers that need a helmet already have one. It's usually as a trophy, but mostly it's a trophy one gets from a kill. Now, I can't understand why one of your men would be carrying around one of our helmets unless it was just that- a trophy from a kill."

There was an overwhelming hush that fell over that little convenience store when Connors finished his speech. And it was at that moment that Roberts realized that both sides had, either subconsciously or knowingly, moved to be in an attacking position; either by cover or in a shooting position. And he knew then that diplomatic relations had just broken down.

Connors leaned forward, that smirk still on his face, but it was not friendly anymore.

"You're not here to help us, are you?"

Swift smiled, also dropping the pretense of alliance.

"No."

The Delta gunner nodded. "Are you here to kill us?"

"Yes."

And there it was. The hammer dropped. There was no point in pretending anymore, the captain thought, as he reached for the .44 magnum that rested in its holster by his side. There were six of them and four of Delta; numbers stated the winner, but did not dictate them.

Connors's smile widened to show his teeth.

"Well, then," he said. "That makes things pretty simple-"

In that one second, everything went to hell. In that one second, Roberts lost all control. In the one second- or was it a second? It felt like one- that Connors pulled out his Desert Eagle and aimed it at Swift's chest and pulled the trigger and sent that fifty caliber bullet through the Indian's chest so that it left a rather large hole coming out, Captain Roberts knew that they had lost the battle. His men never stood a chance.

Swift's eyes went wide and his mouth let out a bloodcurdling scream as he fell backwards due to the sheer force of that heavy bullet that had passed through him and had reduced much of his inner organs to mush. As he fell, both sides sprung into action; Bradley ducked behind the door as Boyd, Flynn, and Perez bolted behind the shelves, firing their weapons blindly and not hitting a soul as they fell behind cover.

LaSalle had not moved a muscle, too shocked by what was unfolding before him, and Foley took advantage of that as he pulled out his M-9 and aimed. Three quick pulls of the trigger meant three 9mm bullets that slammed into the young Umbrella soldier's chest. He hit the cooler with a thud, his eyes wide, his mouth open but unable to make any noise. He slid wordlessly to the floor and died sitting against the glass doors, bloodstained from the trail of his wounds sliding down.

Bradley peered out from behind the door he was on. From his position, he had a good bead on one of the Umbrella men, the one with the glasses. No one had started shooting near his position, so he pulled out his silenced pistol and aimed it at his target. Real quick, now...

Flynn had emptied his entire rifle during the hurry, and now was in the process of reloading. Just as he finished, however, there came a sudden soft pew noise and then the side of his neck let out a geyser of blood. His rifle fell to his side as his hands sprung to his neck, his eyes wide, a gurgling sound producing from his lips as his legs jerked and spasmed.

"Flynn's down!" Boyd cried, and then he made a big mistake, and ironically, the last mistake of his life. His mistake was standing up and making a move to go over to help his friend. That mistake was quickly picked up on by Connors, who without a second's hesitation aimed his heavy magnum at the target.

There was a heavy thud and a large sickening splash sound and Boyd's head was gone in a flash of red. He fell to his knees, then onto his chest, everything above the jaw line gone, leaving just a gaping crater where his head used to be.

Roberts lay on the ground, looking over at Perez, who just stared at him with a scared expression. Four of their men had gone down in under a minute, which was insane. Flynn was still twitching and choking on blood; the rest of the men were all completely still. None of the Delta soldiers were even wounded. Roberts could not believe the rut they were in. He had known that Delta was good, but no soldiers were that good.

He looked up at the corner mirror that store users put up to keep an eye on potential shoplifters. The Delta men were moving forward in an arching position towards them, all except the black soldier, Jones, with their sidearms drawn; Jones had his MP-5. Their sniper, Foley, was walking alongside the cash counter, his M-9 still trained on LaSalle's corpse.

Roberts looked at Perez and nodded. His associate nodded, fear gripping him but resolve strengthened. He closed his eyes. One...two...three-

Both men stood up. Perez fired off a wild shot that hit the wall past Jones. Roberts, on the other hand, was a tad bit luckier. Aiming properly, he fired a .44 round that hit Foley right in the left shoulder. The Delta sniper spun and toppled over the counter and out of sight.

The captain's joy was immediately cut short when his right shoulder and arm exploded with pain as two bullets from Bradley's pistol slammed into the bone. As he fell, he heard Jones' sub-machine gun open up and saw Perez jerking wildly as the bullets hit him in the chest, one after the other. He flew into one of the glass freezer doors, the force of his body breaking the glass. He fell inside and lay still, his boots hanging out, unmoving.

Bradley moved up to his men, looking around. All six Umbrella soldiers, down for the count. The one he had shot had stopped twitching and was still, although there was still a low gurgling sound emitting from his throat. The only one still alive was the captain, as he had intended it, although the man was not without his own injuries.

But neither were they...

"Foley! You okay?" he called over.

There was a low groan, then Foley stood up, his arm hanging limp by his side, his face looking like one in pain, but there was no sign of any blood on the uniform.

"God damn, that hurt like a son of a bitch," he groaned. "Good thing I put that Kevlar plating in under my vest."

"You actually wore that thing?" Connors asked, raising an eyebrow. Rarely did any of them men use the added protection of the plating, as it was too heavy and cumbersome for them to move and shoot efficiently.

"Well shit, I needed it, didn't I? Shoulder's sore as hell, but at least there ain't no bullet in it."

Which is a welcome relief, Bradley thought. Foley was gonna be black and blue in the morning, but at least he could still use his arm, and in their situation, that was the best news he could ask for. His sniper being out of commission would make things a hell of a lot harder.

He turned his attention back to Roberts, who had been forced onto his back by Connors. The machine-gunner was aiming his Eagle right at his head. He moved over and glared down at the captain, who stared back with a cold, pained gaze.

"Tie him up," he said to his men. "Make him as least comfortable as possible."

He bent down so that the two were face to face. The hatred in the captain's face was very much evident, but there was fear there, fear at what they would do to him. And that was what made Bradley smile harder than he had in days.

"Now," he said silently to his new prisoner, "tell me again what you guys were doing in this city."

Nothing more to say, really. Hope you enjoyed. Review if you wanna.