Bang!
The bulletproof glass shattered without breaking, fragnts scattering inside the military vehicle.
A sharp tallic clang rang out.
The high-carbon steel-core round smashed against Chris' matte-black cybernetic arm, sparks flashing for an instant as the deford and fragnted projectile scattered again. One larger shard struck the seat not far from Vela, embedding itself.
It seed she wouldn't need to use her Quinque armor for backup after all…
This trip to Afghanistan—the final scene—was complete.
What followed would be Militech Security's turn.
Of course, outwardly, she couldn't show it.
Vela lowered her gaze slightly, turning her head and 'instinctively' raising a hand to shield her face, leaning back against the seat.
She didn't scream or panic like the stock blonde in a Hollywood action flick, but to those unaware—Militech's black-suited bodyguards, Chris, and the escorting U.S. officers—this looked like fear.
The Army major in the passenger seat looked alard, almost throwing himself over the back to shield her, barking into the radio: "What's going on?!"
"Sir, we've got a shooter! Left side, enemy numbers unknown!"
"Need backup!"
"All units, secure Russell! Mine-clearance vehicle, lead the way!"
In an instant, the convoy's comms were filled with shouts from soldiers.
Vrrr…
Engines roared as Humvees and LAV-3 armored vehicles accelerated, flanking Vela's vehicle.
Inside, the two Militech security guards opposite Vela and Chris moved even faster.
Click, click—they yanked open ballistic briefcases, unfolding and locking them against the side doors, blocking the windows. Militech's high-strength composite material provided a asure of armored protection.
One guard pulled out a polycarbonate ballistic vest. "Boss!"
He passed it to Vela.
As Vela donned the vest—
Outside—
A few more rockets hit.
Boom, boom—showers of shattered rock and dust rained onto the vehicle. Rat-tat-tat…
Gunfire erupted from all directions—Arican, Militech rcenaries, and attackers alike—mixed with the crack of explosions.
Bzz—whoosh—whirr—
Combat drones took to the air.
The convoy deployed flares and smoke.
Militech rcenaries in exoskeletons jumped from vehicles.
The autocannons of the fire-support vehicles spun up—then unleashed scorching tongues of fla, a storm of tal tearing into the attackers' positions.
Cover was shredded, rocks and dust flying like disturbed hornets. In one gulley, a 'dry grass pile' burst like a bubble when hit, blooming into a mist of blood.
"More shooters! Looks like they're pulling back!"
"Then wipe them out!"
"Take prisoners!"
Militech's ard personnel and U.S. escorts coordinated fluidly.
Part of the convoy stopped—desert-camouflaged troops in EXO suits, fully ard, broke into fire teams, moving in arrowhead formations up steep, bare slopes under covering fire.
Whoosh—!
The vehicle jolted hard as speed increased.
"Thank you, Chris."
Vela's gratitude was genuine.
Yes—she ant it.
Of course, her thanks weren't only for Chris 'protecting' her…
"It's nothing, just my duty."
Sitting sideways to shield Vela's left flank, nerves taut, Chris flexed his right arm—slightly numb from the bullet impact—then turned his head. "You don't seem surprised?"
She was too calm.
Not even the slightest gesture to adjust her emotions—Vela simply sat there, as if she had expected this.
"Just call Vela."
She gave a faint smile, her eyes locking on Chris.
"Let's just say—it's nothing unbelievable. Inevitable, really."
She could almost picture Chris' surprised look as he turned back.
Chris frowned. "Why?"
"Because Militech's expansion has already squeezed too many people's interests."
Vela spoke freely, ignoring the U.S. Army major and driver in the vehicle. "My enemies, Militech's opponents, competitors, vultures who want to claim Militech for themselves, those who wish to warn or force into concessions… all possible."
Stir the waters.
Yes—confusion was the goal.
"Chris, tell —was that shot a warning or a pure assassination attempt? Or was soone jealous of this arms deal, trying to ruin it?"
Leaning back, her indigo eyes glinted with a chilling light as she spoke casually.
"…"
Chris stayed silent, lost in thought.
Vela didn't press him. She closed her eyes, sighing inwardly, waiting patiently. The vehicle fell into quiet, save for the low, beast-like rumble of the engine.
The Army major in the front passenger seat pressed a hand to his earpiece, nodded, then turned. "Ms. Russell, the attackers have been killed."
"Killed? No prisoners? Can you confirm their identities?"
Vela asked knowingly.
In her 'Afghanistan Trip' script, "no prisoners" was written in from the start.
"They were fanatics. When they failed and couldn't escape, the diehards executed all their comrades like executioners."
Unaware of the whole truth, the major shook his head in dread. "Madn!"
"Is that so."
Lowering her gaze, Vela picked up her Militech intranet PDA, scrolling through blurry combat footage from linked recorders—while discreetly checking attached data packets.
Beep-beep.
[Red Queen: Target eliminated.]
A line of text flashed quietly in the corner.
Dead.
As expected.
A missed sniper shot left no second chance.
Having achieved her goal, Vela's eyes dropped as she shut off the PDA.
A miss was still a hit.
No need to fully clear suspicion—in fact, better to let the event beco tangled, full of doubt, and ripe for conspiracy theories.
After all, she had no interest in disappearing into so terrorist stronghold in Afghanistan's mountains.
That would be too much—and irresponsible toward Militech's stock.
Militech wasn't just an arms manufacturer—it had massive security and military contracting divisions. She couldn't let a minor incident tarnish its security brand.
If they couldn't even protect their own CEO, what good was their security?
Self-sar—just enough to make a point.
Different environnts ant the sa tactics had to be applied differently.
In the Resident Evil world, stirring the waters in the dia could paint Militech as just another victim of the 'North Arica April Airstrike Chain Incident,' deflecting accusations and muddying perceptions.
The rest? The dia would argue in her favor.
Vela recalled the personal details from the Militech Counter-Intelligence Division on the perpetrator of this incident.
A young man who had a past grudge against her and Militech.
His parents' small family business had gone bankrupt under the pressure of Militech's market expansion.
He had fallen into a long slump afterward, frequenting bars and nightclubs—exactly when Counter-Intelligence marked him.
For certain covert false-flag operations—designed to break public opinion deadlocks—they needed soone like this: a man who openly criticized Militech and also had personal vendettas.
From the outside, such a person going to extres made sense—logically and emotionally.
While he was blackout drunk in a nightclub, Counter-Intelligence implanted into his brain a self-destruct-capable focus-enhancent control chip—directly provided by Vela herself.
The man wasn't talentless. After his 'turnaround,' Counter-Intelligence assigned a handler to guide him, encouraging him to join Militech's rival company, Tricell.
He never knew that his 'life ntor' was his enemy—Militech's own agent. Once he successfully joined Tricell, the handlers cut off his dication, letting paranoia, nervous exhaustion, and schizophrenia return. Then, with just a small push, they could drive him to take desperate action.
Though Counter-Intelligence was still small and under Vela's protection, the resources they already had were far from weak.
He was not the only one of his kind.
They chose him simply because he had been reassigned to Afghanistan.
As for really aiming at Vela?
Never mind the difficulty of hitting a high-speed target—in a location with comms relay and strong enough signal, with Vela's authorization, the Red Queen AI could keep constant watch on him using partial override permissions on the implanted chip.
"Ms. Russell, the support team has arrived."
From the passenger seat, the Army major's voice ca again. Outside, the distant thrum of helicopter rotors grew closer.
The military's support unit from Bagram Air Base had arrived.
After linking up, the last ten minutes of the journey passed without incident, and Vela returned safely to the base.
Skrrt! Brakes hissed.
They had arrived.
Outside, the noise of a gathered crowd was already audible.
Click, click.
Two black-suited bodyguards knocked twice on the ballistic shield, stowed the bulletproof briefcases, and silently opened the door.
Wearing her ballistic vest, Vela stepped out from behind BSAA's anti-biohazard hero, Chris Redfield.
Whoosh—
Seeing Vela erge in such a state, combined with the chaos of U.S. troops scrambling out of the base ten minutes earlier, the journalists still lingering for arms deal and Afghanistan coverage went into an instant frenzy.
The scent of a big story was in the air!
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