Tsk. Time to speed up a little—without straying too far from the image of a mercenary. I might as well prepare my weapons while I'm at it. It would be better for me not to get into close combat. I can still calculate my strength somehow, but the pull of blood—that I can't control.
Or perhaps I should deal with them in such a way that not a single drop of blood spills?
After all, a ten-to-twenty-meter range for blood attraction is quite significant. Where did the first number come from? Oh, that's my only real achievement so far—I managed to reduce the effective range of the ability, though it requires extremely tight control.
It wasn't even acceleration so much as simply stopping myself from suppressing my natural speed of movement so much. I began rapidly closing the distance to the target.
Still not enough. The realization hit me hard.
Either I would have to expose myself, or we'd end up in a stalemate: they would kill the target, but I wouldn't let them leave afterward. Bad! Still, the life of some bystander is certainly less important than my own, and even professionals make mistakes—especially if I wipe out half or more of this squad. That would be enough evidence if it's played right. And by protecting the remaining targets, I can rehabilitate myself, preserving and even building a reputation for our small but ambitious agency.
So I allowed myself to relax a little and deliberately slowed my pace, as if shifting from a wild gallop to something more restrained—working for the audience, so to speak.
I approached the building from the rear just as the Umbrella mercenaries, deciding not to draw attention, stepped out onto the second-floor balcony of the five-story building and lowered the nearby spiral staircase (a common sight in America, they churn out those staircases everywhere). They were preparing to slip away unnoticed in case the alarm had already been raised on the other side. A shabby hotel, yes, but corpses among the staff hardly improve its image—and to craft the persona of ruthless terrorists, they had to "kill everyone."
Leaning against the wall around the corner and pretending to study the neighboring building, I waited until the entire squad descended to the ground.
Fourteen people.
That would do.
I'd start the elimination, and then we'd see whether to wipe them all out or leave someone alive.
Why leave anyone at all?
Let Umbrella start panicking. That would push its leaders into rash decisions—and they would pay for them. Beautiful.
After making sure that a drunk who had wandered onto the street, upon spotting a hulking man leaning against the wall, abruptly changed direction—and that no one else was around at this evening hour—I stepped into the alley.
Drawing two pistols, I opened fire from the hip.
A lucky break: the cleanup team had clearly planned to leave by another route. And I don't show up on thermal imaging. In fact, I don't show up on anything at all. I'm just that lovely bouquet of viruses.
With the first shots, I cut the squad's numbers in half, not risking getting too close and occasionally using trash containers and other junk for cover.
After all, I'm just a regular mercenary. Right?
***
Three blocks to the west. The "frightened drunk."
"Strange. Someone beat me to it—and the style is rather interesting. It's like I'm watching myself… or Hunk," muttered the man as he tore the "skin" from his face, just as quickly shedding his worn-out clothes. Beneath them was a coat quite similar to the hulking man's outerwear—only without the hood.
"Looks like I won't have to frame the corporation after all. A good outcome. What could be better than someone doing your work for you without even realizing it?" the man allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile. Beneath his black glasses, yellow eyes with slit pupils gleamed.
"And I should find out who has such excellent training. In times like these, wasting good personnel is far too extravagant. For now, though, I should prepare the information bomb."
He muttered this under his breath while leaving the scene of the crime, having destroyed every trace of his presence there.
***
A little later. Suburbs of that same ill-fated town.
"What do you mean you let them escape? Cain, don't lie to me. I know your capabilities inside and out! You could've pulled the whole thing off without stepping outside the limits of a normal human—and completely wiped out that squad! I can even understand your argument about a necessary sacrifice, but we'd better not screw up like that again. Otherwise our reputation will take a serious hit after failing a mission of this level. But letting someone get away… I just don't understand!"
Yamata's voice nearly burst through the earpiece transmitter. Toward the end she regained control of herself and continued in a tired voice.
"What a foolish girl. Ada was right when she gave you that assessment…" I sighed theatrically.
"Have you grown tired of living?" came the quiet reply from the other end.
"Very much so—but the trouble is, dying is frightening. Seriously though—listen closely, shut off the scientist in your head and switch on the fighter! I allowed two members of the squad to escape."
I emphasized the key word with my voice.
It seemed that someone with an overly enthusiastic nature had sunk too deeply into scientific research. Switching back to a different mindset and thinking in another framework was clearly difficult for her—she must have grown out of practice.
"You mean to say you intentionally let them go?"
"Hallelujah!" I replied with satisfaction.
(End of Chapter)
P@treon: /SadRaven
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