04:47.
A pale, fish-belly white crept over the eastern horizon.
Raccoon City was still silent; only the occasional bark of a dog proved the place hadn't yet become a ghost town.
A kilometre north of the Raccoon City Police Department lay a residential block of 1970s- and '80s-style American apartment buildings.
One of them, twenty-two storeys tall and looking newly built, stood on the main road into the city centre.
Right then.
A convoy—a black van, a white SUV, and a blue pickup—was travelling along that road.
The SUV at the head turned right, leading the convoy off the main road, then left into the forecourt of the high-end apartment block.
Every door opened at once; sixteen fully geared Omicron disembarked in four-man teams.
Sanders, in a suit, stepped out of the van and followed the four assault teams toward the lobby.
As a luxury complex, the front doors required key-card access and the building boasted the latest surveillance system.
Yet with a soft beep the lock 'automatically' released and the cameras went dark.
Thus Omicron and Sanders entered the ground-floor lobby unhindered.
In fact, all this was the red queen's covert handiwork; she had also cut communications so no guard could call for help.
'Hey! Who are you people?'
No sooner mentioned than a corpulent, balding guard in a white uniform burst from the security office on the right, baton in hand.
The moment he saw the intruders—fully armed Omicron with several rifles trained on him—he dropped the baton with a clang, raised trembling hands, and fell to his knees to show he posed no threat.
Seeing this,
the Lieutenant deliberately barked in Spanish, 'Esposarlo—cuff him.'
One Omicron stepped out, pulled zip-ties and tape from a pouch, bound the guard's wrists, gagged him, and dragged the helpless man back into the security office.
Door closed.
Back in formation.
The four teams advanced.
Teams A (the Lieutenant's) and B, plus Sanders, took the only two lifts straight to the ninth floor where Wesker lived.
Teams C and D waited in the stairwell and fire escape to ensure no one slipped out above.
Moments later,
on the ninth-floor landing both lifts arrived.
The doors slid open; eight Omicron from A and B teams slipped out and padded right along the corridor.
Carpeted floors above the second storey muffled their deliberate steps.
Sanders, with no combat experience, waited quietly by the lifts.
Soon
Teams A and B reached apartment 0907.
The Lieutenant signed for them to stack on either side of the door.
The rearmost B-team operator stepped forward, knelt, studied the lock, and produced two picks.
Within seconds he pocketed the tools and gave a thumbs-up—lock defeated—before rejoining his team.
Next,
the lead B-team operator turned the handle and eased the door inward.
No resistance.
Apparently Wesker never used the security chain—or there wasn't one.
Confirmed, the operator shoved the door wide and rushed in, the rest of B team on his heels.
Team A remained outside in support.
Inside, the four spread out, sweeping the living room.
The layout mirrored Sanders's own unit: open-plan kitchen and lounge, bathroom right, bedroom door shut on the left.
The lounge clear, three rifles covered the bedroom while one man stepped up to kick the door.
A bang—and the bedroom door flew inward.
He instantly stepped back, giving his teammates clear fields of fire.
Then—'Pu! Pu-pu!'—suppressed rounds thudded through the room.
Crack and thud of bullets shredding furniture, walls, mattress.
With perfect angles, two B-team shooters fired controlled bursts, leaving the bedroom in ruins.
Looking in,
they saw Wesker, clad only in black shorts, lying face-up on the carpet.
Half-open nightstand drawer within reach held a Beretta 92F-style Samurai Edge—the S.T.A.R.S. side-arm.
Instinctively alert, Wesker had woken the instant B-team hit the living room.
But as he rolled off the bed reaching for his pistol, the door burst open and two Omicron opened fire.
Bullets tore through abdomen, shoulder, arms, legs; blood soaked the carpet, leaving him combat-ineffective.
'Cough… cough…' Wesker spat blood, eyes flicking toward the two operators. With his last strength he rasped,
'How… did the Company find out…?'
He couldn't understand—no leak, no evidence until he actually moved—so why were USS here?
Yet no matter how careful, he hadn't counted on the time-traveller Sanders.
Silence.
The two Omicron ignored the dying man's question.
Moments later Sanders entered the bedroom. Seeing Wesker in a pool of blood, his stomach lurched.
Though he'd steeled himself for gore, the first sight—and the metallic reek—still turned it.
Still, it was bearable.
Borrowing a suppressed pistol from an operator, Sanders stepped to Wesker's side.
He levelled the muzzle at the man's hate-filled eyes, hesitated a heartbeat,
then—'Pu!'
'Thud.'
With a single squeeze of the trigger Sanders finished Wesker for good.