With a shrill howl from air friction—BOOM!
The explosion hit just fifteen ters away. The deafening blast nearly knocked Jill's hearing out.
Plap.
"Fuck!"
Wincing, Jill dove into a combat roll to avoid the flying debris and searing-hot shrapnel.
Whoosh whoosh! The blast's heat ca with a visible shockwave, sending dust skyward and making her instinctively squint.
"Jill, you okay?" Chris finally arrived, pulling Jill up and shielding her in a half-crouch tactical stance.
Then he exchanged a quick nod with the man beside him, who had just gotten back on his feet—disheveled hair, thick beard, and a red-and-white umbrella patch on his shoulder.
"Na?"
"Carlos Oliveira."
As the two spoke, the firelight faded, revealing the T-103 Tyrant nearly blown in half and slumped to the ground.
Its entire chest cavity had been ripped open!
Beneath its blue-black skin, raw, writhing tissue and shattered ribs and spine were exposed. But the Tyrant wasn't dead yet—it coughed up blood and roared grotesquely in Jill's direction.
Tsssht! Its remaining muscles bulged and burst, spraying blood.
"Again?"
Jill knew the drill. This B.O.W. was entering "Stage Two." But before she could even say it—BANG! One shot. BANG BANG! Two more.
The first bullet was a .50 caliber high-energy round straight to the face. The Tyrant's skull exploded, blood spraying out in a fan. The lower jawbone didn't escape—the second shot blew off everything above the neck. The third shattered the final vertebrae and rib joints.
Clack.
Jill turned at the sound of a pull ring and pressure latch—a U.S.F. soldier with Chris tossed a red-painted grenade.
WHOOM!
The resulting blast engulfed the Tyrant's remains in searing fire.
A thermite grenade.
"Don't stare, Jill."
Chris patted her shoulder and gestured at her backpack. "The evidence you collected—U.S.F. will send soone to retrieve it. For now, fall back to our temporary city outpost and get patched up."
"Hoo... Damn, where'd you get this killer gear? You look like you walked out of Future SWAT. Are they all Umbrella?"
Though Chris hadn't removed his helt, the familiar movents and voice let Jill, who had just barely escaped death and witnessed a Tyrant's brutal execution, relax enough to crack a rare joke.
Seeing Chris in that full-body dark tactical gear stunned her.
Heavy ballistic vest with inserted armor plates, a sealed helt with professional-grade respiratory filters, unfamiliar NVGs, glowing armbands—even that gun in his hand—everything was sleek and high-tech.
The rifle looked part Kalashnikov, part U.S. M16/M4 family—but thicker, edgier, with next-gen chanical aesthetics. Every line was smooth and refined, an example of unparalleled craftsmanship.
And strapped to his thigh—a large-bore, short-barreled combat shotgun with a compact fra?
"Borrowed it from Russell."
Chris answered bluntly.
Ratatatatat! Gunfire erupted again. The booming shots and muzzle flashes made Jill wince, but Chris and the U.S.F. soldiers were already forming a firing net.
ROAR! ROAR!!
From the alley blasted open earlier, another batch of T-103 Tyrants stord out, dusty and battered from the drone delay tactics—but full of rage.
Carlos instinctively raised his M4A1 carbine and fired a few rounds.
"Alright, U.B.C.S. rookie, leave the fireworks to us. Your 5.56mm pea shooter isn't gonna do jack here. Standard low-charge urban rescue rounds are useless against B.O.W.s. They won't even feel a tickle."
A U.S.F. soldier gestured dismissively, urging Carlos to fall back with Jill.
Carlos: "...."
Fair point.
The noise from these U.S.F. rifles was on another level. Judging by the barrels, they were maybe 7.62 to 7.92 caliber, but the chamber pressure must be insane. Each shot tore into the monsters' blue-black skin, blowing out chunks of flesh the size of a bowl. Blood and tissue sprayed like a geyser, painting the ground.
New weapons, new ammo...
Damn it, how's a guy supposed to keep up? Sa company roof, and they get next-gen ammo while U.B.C.S. gets scraps?
Fine. You U.S.F. guys have the gear, and we U.B.C.S. are the stepchildren.
A little bitter, Carlos still managed a wry grin before chasing after Jill.
Hearing his footsteps, Jill teased, "Hey, gentleman, got dismissed?"
Carlos shrugged. "What can I say? Doesn't look like they need my help."
BOOM!
Another thunderous blast. While they spoke, a shell fired from the flare site. The muzzle flashed, and a black projectile shot through the air, slamming into a Tyrant.
Still in the midst of shedding its restraint coat, the Tyrant hadn't even reacted when the shell pierced its skin and flesh, shaking off the chest harness. A charred hole the size of a human head was left in its chest.
KA-THOOM!
Behind it, an adjacent building exploded into a plu of fire and smoke. Glass and masonry rained down, along with torn flesh and scraps of trench coat.
Hssssss—
From afar, two more firing points opened up, laying down intersecting fields of fire. Bullets poured in like a monsoon, each round slicing the air with a piercing shriek.
This ti, Carlos recognized it.
He and Jill locked eyes, blurting out in unison: "Ma Deuce!"
The M2 Browning heavy machine gun—an old U.S. military relic in service for over half a century. That sound was unmistakable.
12.7×99mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds sparked spectacular bursts of gore on the Tyrants.
Like a craftsman carving a pineapple, the charging Tyrants—restrained or not—had their flesh and muscle flayed clean. Bright sprays of blood erupted from every impact.
They looked like honeycombs, red and pink under blackened skin.
Two partially mutated Tyrants had their kneecaps shattered and collapsed to the ground. Another one turned, picked up a wrecked compact car from the roadside, and prepared to hurl it at Chris.
"стрелять (Open fire)!"
Rocket-propelled rounds, trailing fire, shot in.
The two Tyrants with crippled legs didn't get the chance to regenerate—each took another hit. The one lifting the car got it worse: one rocket ignited the gas tank, the other blew off its head. The burning, headless corpse crashed down in flas.
Rat-tat-tat!
Chris had already closed in—less than ten ters from the frontmost Tyrant. Raising his assault rifle, codena "Copperhead," he unloaded round after round into its head—the sa one whose chest had been punctured by the recoilless cannon. He fired until its skull was pulp, brain matter churned into a ss.
BANG!
A new-style armor-piercing, explosive tandem round struck another Tyrant square in the head—a shot fired by one of the U.S.F. troops.
Ard with prior intel and Chris's real combat experience against B.O.W.s, the U.S.F soldiers coordinated seamlessly. Following proper execution protocol, they wielded either the "Tactician" or the "Defender" light machine guns to systematically dismber and neutralize every B.O.W. that entered Raccoon Avenue.
Literal dismbernt.
It didn't matter if the targets were down or not. First, shoot the head until it's pulp and disconnected from the torso. Then the limbs. Follow up with napalm gel accelerants and thermite grenades.
They were frighteningly efficient.
Or rather—they were supposed to be this good.
Bioweapons like B.O.W.s relied on ambush and psychological terror. Once you had intel, ntal preparedness, combat experience, and proper firepower, they were arguably easier to deal with than human enemies.
"Brutal."
From a half-collapsed rooftop fortified with an M2 heavy machine gun and a recoilless cannon, Carlos and Jill—finally recovered by the U.S.F—watched in awe.
Ten minutes ago, they were the ones being hunted, cornered, and desperate.
Gunfire echoed without pause.
Jill noticed the operators unfamiliar with these new recoilless rifles and rocket launchers were jotting down notes.
From their conversation, it sounded like they were exchanging data on penetration depth, delay fuse timings—like field testers scribbling performance feedback into little notebooks.
"You're Jill. Hand over the goods."
"...Alright."
Nodding, Jill passed the backpack containing the evidence S.T.A.R.S. had collected on Umbrella's cris in Raccoon City to the U.S.F soldier.
She stressed, "Please keep it safe. Umbrella's bastards want to destroy—"
She caught herself mid-rant, glancing at the red-and-white umbrella insignia on his uniform. Coughing, she corrected herself, "Ahem, I ant the enemy Umbrella."
"I know."
After a cursory check of the bag, the soldier—seemingly a squad leader—responded calmly, "Umbrella... we won't be part of it much longer."
Jill didn't dwell on his cryptic tone. Instead, she asked, "Can I get a gun? The people who were trying to kill aren't B.O.W.s—they're human. Umbrella-hired assassins. They're not going to stop—"
"Ah, the U.T.S. guys. That pack of hyenas—specialists in destroying evidence, eliminating inconvenient individuals, and doing Umbrella's dirty work. Don't worry. They won't be coming after you anymore."
He looked toward the other side of the firepower platform, where U.S.F. tech personnel, backpacks sprouting antennas and fingers tapping away on tablets, were stationed. One burly man stood among them, shouting into a mic.
"That's our CO1. The U.T.S. problem is taken care of."
Curious, Jill walked over. As she approached, she caught snatches of Russian being barked into the mic.
"Oh? You're the woman Redfield kept going on about. Got that fierce look to you. Sothing on your mind?"
After a mont, the man lowered his mic and addressed her in heavily accented English.
"What did you do to the U.T.S.?"
Jill asked, then imdiately backtracked. "Sorry—if that's classified, forget I said anything."
"Director Russell has high regard for the Redfield siblings. No harm telling you."
His face hidden behind full tactical gear, the burly man replied heartily, "Just a little networking. Most of those Umbrella troops? Sa kind of folks I ran with back after the '91 incident. Now that I'm in a better position, I used that to lean on them."
He asked, "Do you know who Redfield and I are working for in Raccoon City?"
"Who?"
"Director of the Black Umbrella Division, Regional Head of Umbrella USA, and Chief Director of the California Branch—Ms. Vela Adelheid Russell."
As he spoke, he pointed to a squad regrouping from the other side of the rooftop's fire support zone. In the squad were several individuals wearing lab coats or formal suits, each with a red-and-white umbrella pin at the collar.
Clearly, these were research and administrative personnel from Umbrella's Raccoon City division.
Among them, a few U.S.F. soldiers were carrying sealed military-grade silver lab cases. They looked at the burly man, then at Jill. Only after he nodded did one of them speak:
"Captain Andreilov, search and rescue for Raccoon City Central Hospital and Umbrella Raccoon Tower is complete. These are the 'survivors.' They're willing to testify to Director Russell about William Birkin and the board's conspiracy."
"Excellent. Ensure their safety. Get them out."
Andreilov turned to Jill.
"It's that simple. I told my old comrades in U.T.S. that Umbrella's sinking ship can't be saved, not after what happened in Raccoon City. I asked them: do you want to join our Director's crew—live, and avoid the purge? They agreed."
"You probably haven't heard. Just now, Umbrella's USA Division officially declared independence from the Paris headquarters."
Andreilov handed her a square device.
Jill took a closer look.
It looked like a standalone LCD display. The picture was crisp, showing multiple small icons. Andreilov tapped one, and a news-style broadcast interface opened.
The scene: an airport—San Francisco, it seed. Dozens of reporters surrounded a statuesque woman with light golden hair. The area was abuzz with noise.
Andreilov raised the volu.
Though the nearby gunfire still roared, it was enough for Jill to make out the broadcast.
"I, Vela Adelheid Russell, hereby announce in my capacity as a mber of Umbrella's Board of Directors that the California Branch and Umbrella USA Division are, effective imdiately, seceding from Umbrella Paris Headquarters."
Commanding Officer
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