"Thanks." Seemingly caught off guard, Norman squeezed out a word of gratitude from his stone-cold face.
"I told you, Mr. Li's a civilized guy," Freeman said with a grin, clearly thrilled to have a new topic. He clapped Li Yexing on the shoulder, addressing Norman.
…
On the pitch-black roadside, a short-haired, muscular man in heavy clothing checked his phone to confirm the time. His earpiece crackled: "Chris, the roadblock's set. Me and the others are in position, ready to strike."
"Good." The man named Chris nodded, inspecting his gear—a well-worn M4A1 assault rifle.
"They've got five trucks," he said. "When the convoy hits the designated spot, disable the lead vehicle, and we move in."
"Simple and brutal—your style," the voice on the other end teased. "But they've got five trucks. Even if one's carrying the target, that leaves four, and they've got numbers. We're only twenty, and air support's still en route."
"Not quite," Chris shook his head. "Intel says only two trucks carry personnel. The front, middle, and rear three are cargo. We don't know which one's got our target."
"Smoke and mirrors, huh?" The voice scoffed. "What's the point? They'd be safer packing those trucks with more guns."
Chris didn't respond.
"By the way, you keeping tabs on WilPharma?" the voice changed topics.
"That new pharma company? I always keep an eye on those types."
"What's your take on WilPharma?"
"I hope they go bankrupt."
"Harsh, man," the voice laughed. "They just got a T-virus sample. Plenty of disease control centers have those. If WilPharma pulls off a T-virus vaccine, Raccoon City won't happen again."
"A private pharma company legally researching Umbrella's legacy? If WilPharma gains a foothold, it'll set a bad precedent for global bioscience," Chris said, smacking his lips. "After the media exposed their human experiments in India, they and their political backers are scrambling. Locals are protesting hard—nobody wants a Raccoon City repeat."
"You're always right, BSAA's war hero, frontline fighter against bioterrorism, Mr. Chris Redfield," the voice said with a chuckle. "God help us pull this off smoothly. Honestly, I'm a little spooked."
"That's not like you, Newman," Chris said, frowning. "What's got you rattled?"
"I read your file, Chris. Frontline fighters like us have high casualty rates, sure, but your teammates' death toll is something else. Hardly anyone who works with you comes back in one piece—or at all."
"They were good people, but the fight's brutal. I couldn't protect them," Chris said after a long pause.
"Don't sweat it too much. War's like that. And the things we're up against? Straight out of a horror flick. We chose this path, and those who fell? I bet they don't regret it."
Listening to Newman, Chris looked up at the starless night sky.
"Let's hope so."
He thought of the comrades he'd worked with, the ones who didn't make it. They were the best, united for a greater cause, fighting side by side, only to fall one by one. Chris carried that regret—they'd never see the day bioterrorism was wiped out. But he was still here, and as long as he was, he'd fight. Not just for himself or his fallen allies, but for the world.
"Heads up, vehicles approaching!"
The radio snapped Chris out of his thoughts. The ground vibrated as the roar of truck engines grew closer. His eyes caught the glow of headlights.
"Report from the front: five black trucks, three carrying cargo in the front, middle, and rear. It's them—they're here!"
Newman's voice came through. Chris cleared his mind, flicked off his rifle's safety, and donned his night-vision goggles, watching the black convoy roll past. Suddenly, a blue flash erupted under the lead truck, its headlights went dark, and with a screech, it skidded a dozen meters before stalling in the road. Chris gripped his rifle in his right hand, pressing his earpiece with his left.
"All units, engage! And… come back alive!"
Ambush!
The moment the lead truck's brakes screeched, Li Yexing knew what was up. The four trailing trucks ground to a halt behind it.
"What the hell? Why'd we stop?" Freeman sounded panicked, still clueless about the situation.
Norman, though, was quick on the draw. As the radio reported the lead truck's breakdown, he calmly ordered everyone out, using the trucks as cover to prepare for a counterattack.
Li Yexing flicked off the safety on his AR-15 and followed. Strangely, the former wage-slave felt no nerves. Staring at his gun in the tense atmosphere, he was oddly calm, as if he belonged here—not at some smoky barbecue joint or his cramped rental. In that moment, his mundane soul and wild memories fused completely. In a voice too low for anyone to hear, he muttered, "Only God has mercy."
A burst of bullets pinged off the truck's roof. Li Yexing crouched beside Norman behind the vehicle, recognizing it as warning shots. Sure enough, a voice rang out: "We're the European branch of the Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance. We suspect your cargo violates UN regulations. Stand down and submit to inspection."
Freeman, still inside the truck, was cursing and fumbling to report to his superiors. Norman, unfazed, signaled his team with tactical gestures while shouting into the darkness: "We're Roples-based security contractors. The cargo is conventional arms ordered by local militias and other contractors. The keys are with the client—we can't open the trucks until we reach the destination. We hope you understand and let us pass. After the mission, our superiors can provide documentation to the BSAA's European branch through government channels. I'm sure your bosses don't want you meddling in local conflicts, right?"
"We have solid evidence your cargo contains organic bioweapons banned by the UN. I repeat, we have evidence. Stand down and submit to inspection, or we'll take forcible measures under UN law!"
The response from the hillside made Li Yexing's brow furrow. He turned to Norman. "You've got BSAA on your tail—what the hell are you hauling?"
The old Li Yexing wouldn't have asked. He'd have waited for talks to collapse and jumped into the firefight. But this Li Yexing, with his outsider's knowledge of Resident Evil, knew what "organic bioweapons" meant. Flashbacks of the virus-laden truck from Resident Evil: Retribution made him hesitate to even fire his gun, terrified of blowing a hole in those tanks.
Norman met his gaze, his expression unreadable behind those sunglasses—though Li Yexing swore it was complicated.
"Do your job," Norman said after a pause. He flicked off his safety and shouted, "Looks like we couldn't agree. So be it…"
With a wave of his hand, a flare shot into the sky, exploding with a bang. In the harsh light, shadowy figures were faintly visible in the roadside woods.
"Here's to a pleasant life," Norman deadpanned, then barked into the radio: "Open fire!"
Gunshots erupted. Norman's team, using the trucks as cover, unleashed a barrage into the woods. Norman himself was rigging something on his rifle. Li Yexing's eyes widened—holy shit, a grenade launcher!
"You're not worried about blowing up the truck and leaking whatever's inside?!" Given their attitude, Li Yexing was now 80% sure those tanks held a virus or worse. Norman glanced at him, shaking his head. "It's explosion-proof. Won't break."
So he wasn't denying it was a virus?
Seeming to sense Li Yexing's concern, Norman cracked a grin—a creepy one, blooming on his deadpan face. "Don't worry. What's in there is our insurance. Good stuff."
That just made Li Yexing more worried.
He weighed his options. He was just a guide—did he really need to risk his life? The pay was good, but a guide's job was guiding, not fighting. He could hang back, right? Slip away while the client wasn't looking? It wasn't about lacking professionalism—the situation was way above his pay grade. Wasn't the first level of a Resident Evil world supposed to be fighting zombies to get the hang of things? Not clashing with BSAA!
A loud boom—Norman fired his grenade launcher. The round arced gracefully, exploding in the hillside woods. As he turned to reload, he caught Li Yexing's hesitant look.
"Why aren't you shooting?" Norman asked. "You're not thinking of running, are you?"
Li Yexing figured this bald bastard wouldn't let him slip away. So he popped out from cover, fired two shots up the hill, and put on his most serious face, like he was ready to die a hero.
Caught off guard by the sudden escalation from negotiation to grenades, the BSAA team was briefly thrown. But they quickly regrouped, returning fire with precision, pinning Norman's team down. One security soldier peeked out to shoot and instantly took a headshot, his helmet exploding, brains splattering the ground.
"Now I get why you don't wear a helmet," Li Yexing said with a cold smirk.
"Sniper," Norman said calmly, as if it wasn't his man who just died.
Li Yexing stayed low, lighting a cigarette behind cover. "This isn't sustainable. They're BSAA—they've got backup. We don't." He took a hard drag, glaring at Norman, who glanced back but said nothing.
Feeling snubbed, Norman vented his frustration with another grenade, the blast lighting up the woods. Seizing the moment, Li Yexing, cigarette clenched in his teeth, leaned out, fired, and darted to the third truck for cover, putting some distance between him and the crazy bald guy.