Umbrella Surveillance System
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Behemoth Any given day in the life of Albert Wesker is a busy one. A man responsible for so many lives, who does so much good for the world, is constantly engaged; whether it's an unbearable volume of paperwork or rubbing elbows with politicians and generals, rare is the downtime. By the time he's left his office, wrapping up a meeting with a clever subordinate over group finances and some things that may have gotten lost in transit, the sun has well and truly set. It's a cold, windy night, enough to shake some of the windows a bit loose in their frames-- the rumbling of the glass is all that can be heard on the quiet street in front of the building, mostly empty save for Wesker's car, parked beneath a happy, shiny streetlight. Two large men stand on the opposite side of the road. They're watching Wesker's exit unsubtly.
Albert Wesker In Wesker's case, busy is by design. Not only does it tend to serve his reputation-- he has a lot to do. And a lot that's wisely delegated among associates. Late nights are nonetheless certainly the norm. The Colonel barely flinches as he steps out from the heated building and into the chill, drawing a deep, bracing breath as a chill wind whips the tails of his longcoat wildly about his legs. His hands gloved against the cold, his eyes concealed behind shades, it's easy to conclude that Wesker simply does not notice the looming pair eyeballing him; but far more likely that's simply what he wishes to convey. With smooth, unhurried grace, Wesker approaches the black sedan serving as his transport of the moment and unlocks the vehicle with a press of a button, triggering a subtle beep and flicker of lights; just in case whoever stole your keys needs to know what car is yours, and all.
Behemoth The watchers shrug as Wesker approaches his beeping sedan and turn away from him. Their conversation is muted and low energy, ending in one getting slugged in the shoulder before they both walk north toward the intersection. Behind them, the office road loops around the fenced-in parking lot. There's only one way to go in the dark--forward, unto the breach. As Wesker slips in, starts up, and drives off, he notices absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.. until, as he's preparing to turn, from the corner of his eye he sees a flash of motion in the distant peripheral, and his ears pick up twin engines roaring in unison. He has only a handful of seconds to respond as the world slows to a crawl, his heightened awareness giving him one precious opportunity.
Albert Wesker Always wear your seatbelt, boys and girls. For most, it's the kind of moment that's out of the blue. Even when you're Albert Wesker, and almost -expect- people to try to kill you at any moment, an ambush like this can quickly and amply Nick Fury a man. That other Colonel didn't have the superhuman senses and reflexes of this particular specimen, however.

Rather than make any attempt to -avoid- the wreck (car chases aren't really his forte), Wesker violently turns the wheel and careens headlong -into- one of the cars seeking to pancake his vehicle from either side and trap him within, readily accomodating a forceful, head-on crash.

The airbag slams him in the face, bloodying his nose as it inflates to stall his forward momentum, and demanding a moment taken to reorient his shades back to proper positioning on his face; as he draws his Samurai Edge from one of the paired shoulder holsters he wears more or less all the time at this point. For -some- reason.
Behemoth There's a screech of tires and the shattering of glass as Wesker's windshield shatters like waved-away cobwebs. The horrific impact crushes the front of the car, and a host of sparks from the grinding metal skid over the streets. The engines continue to roar as the other vehicle continues for a few more meters, competing for momentum with the sedan and driving it back bit by bit-- leaving scorched rubber on the ground and the smell of burning wheels. The other car whips around, having missed the crash, and makes a second pass. A handful of men within open fire on the drive-by, while the other vehicle's windshield is kicked out by a large, armed passenger who proceeds to shoot at Wesker blindly through the obscuring glass.
Albert Wesker Wesker's vehicle... the poor, battered thing that's already likely totalled, is all but -perforated- by gunfire. A tire blows out, safety glass shatters everywhere, rounds penetrate the sides hither and yon, because let's be fair, there aren't many bullets modern car paneling will stop, as a rule. 'Armored car' just got added to Wesker's list of protective necessities, though.

The veteran operative is on the move even as the first rounds echo off the man-made canyon walls around them, dropping prone as he frees himself from his belt, and forcefully kicking open the rather harried door on the -opposite- side from the direction the drive-by shooters race, so as to exit out of their line of sight. He launches himself smoothly from the vehicle in much the same way, never so much as popping his head up until he's dropped to a crouch beside his car.

Creeping swiftly, silently, and as out of sight as he can keep himself, Wesker moves along the vehicle, and then the one smooshed against it, containing the still-firing enemy. As the man empties a clip into the windshield of his once spiffy automobile, Wesker calmly pops up just enough to peak in the window, and perforate that first assassin with rounds from his M92F, in triplicate, peppering the fellow from chest to shoulder.

The injured assailant's allies may be left wondering where the shots even -came- from, as Wesker is loathe to give up his concealment-- hell, it's hard to tell whether the guy who got -shot- knows: his input into the mystery is a garbled, gargled mess as blood flows into his throat, and a pierced lung fills.
Behemoth There's shouting not in English as Wesker's shots tear through the driver of the crashed car. He coughs and blood pours from his mouth and nose; the shivering and far-off look in his eyes, mixed with convulsions, make it clear he's gone into shock and needs immediate medical attention that he isn't going to get. The others quickly shuffle out of their vehicle, armed with a mix of handguns and shotguns-- and most of them are wearing bullet proof vests, though the unfortunate driver, who wasn't expecting to be involved in the firefight, foolishly wasn't. All together, there's about four or five men (it's hard for Wesker to tell, concealed behind the car-- he's judging from foot steps and voices) spreading out and communicating with one another. If he understands Spanish, he hears a few insults, the native equivalent of 'cocksucker', and 'Blood for El Papa' is noted at one point.

He's unseen for the moment, but the window of opportunity is narrow and fading fast to do something. The men are spreading out and surrounding the car, smart enough to understand he must be there still, maybe underneath, maybe on the other side. The other car, the one not damaged, is parked and empty nearby, the front tires partially on the curb.
Albert Wesker Some men achieve position, reputation through means that don't reflect reality; some are just that damn good. Wesker certainly considers himself in that latter category. As the men fan out and move to surround him, to consolidate their firing angles into overwhelming force, the Colonel makes his next move. He pops up from the other side of their vehicle, quickly moving to slip behind it as he draws a bead on one man, and then the other, smoothly squeezing the trigger twice.

A half-dozen 9mm rounds fill the air in the span of an eyeblink, the first burst ripping into the target's hip, then into and through the vest he wears, its force stymied by the armor. A nearly identical wound is delivered to the second, each burst soundly delivered to center mass, in accordance with training for such a firefight. The quick succession of precise shots under stress is testament to just that training and experience-- the target of these half-dozen or so assassins barely seems tense. Simply focused, calm; icy.

"El Papa is going to be missing a lot of men tonight; I suggest using your words!" Wesker calls out in fluent Spanish that, of all things, conveys dry sarcasm. Alongside an entirely arrogant amount of certitude. "I have more than enough rounds for all of you." It's a magnanimous offer, diplomacy. Even if they don't realize the creature they're attacking is a monster in several senses of the word, actions speak loudly.
Behemoth Three of the group are already downed and bleeding out; their labored breathing and grimacing faces paint an awful portrait of unpreparedness in the face of a monstrous elite. It was such a good plan, they think-- spin the car out, bash it up, and riddle it with bullets. Any normal person would be stunned and injured from the impact alone; even a talented one would fall to the storm of lead afterwards. And if by some miracle of divine intervention the bleeding, stunned figure crawled his way out of the smoldering wreckage... well, they had more than enough boots on the ground to stomp his head in with.

How, then, are they losing?

Wesker's taunting invitation incenses the two men crouching their way around the crashed cars. They can hear their own heartbeats and feel them crawl into their throats. They slow, in unison, despite being blind to the other's actions. One of them calls out, "You scared, fucker? Heh! You should be! You been stickin' your nose where it don't belong. We been ordered to kill you, man.. but you good, you good. Throw that gun, come with us quiet, maybe El Papa give you a job, eh?"
Albert Wesker Wesker actually smirks, darkly; not that anyone but himself can really appreciate it. But who else really matters? He pokes around the side of the vehicle, already pointing his pistol at the man creeping up that side, inexorably aware of the fellow's approach, slowed or no. "Do I -seem- scared to you?" The tone is just as dry; the impatience, clear. These men are likely used to ruling through fear, though-- they should know what it looks like... and what it decidedly does -not- look like.

"Holster your weapons, and not only will I come quietly and discuss this... misunderstanding with the kind fellow who sent you, I'll use the First Aid Spray in my coat to keep your comrades alive, and forget that you just tried to kill me in future dealings with your... organization." It's a fair counter-offer, with a weighty alternate.

"That, or we finish this, and when I'm the last man standing, I'll use the Spray on the first living man who'll tell me everything I want to know."
Behemoth Wesker sees through their false bravado. These men are not hardened soldiers or veteran killers; they're thugs, replaceable, pilfered from local gangs that through the chain of command are owned by El Papa and his cartel. They need numbers, the shock of blitzkrieg, and fear to carry them through-- in other words, they're classic bullies, and when they're so clearly outmatched they don't care enough to throw their lives away. El Papa might have them killed for this... Wesker will absolutely kill them. "Okay," one of them says, and the Colonel can hear a shotgun hitting the asphalt. It's followed by another a few seconds later. "Okay."

There's a click from afar, the sound of something heavy splitting the air around it with a terrible keen, and Wesker's instincts have him moving before he consciously knows why. "Get fucked, bastard!", shouts a rough voice from the shadows, firing from an alley half-guarded by a heavy green dumpster. The crashed cars are bathed in a holocaust of flame.
Albert Wesker For a moment, it's hard to see what happened. Anyone looking at the scene just gets fire and wrath, a momentary, miniature sun that consumes the crashed vehicles in a roaring fireball. Steel is shorn, bits of car thrown in every direction, ripping into the facades of several nearby buildings, and tearing the man's erstwhile allies asunder. One cartel thug screams, and screams, and screams as he burns to death, lucky enough to be on the outskirts of the explosion, before his cries are suddenly silenced by a -roaring- secondary explosion as gas tanks go up, flipping what's left of each car upwards in uncontrolled, chaotic flips.

The man with the rocket launcher, confident in the outcome of his assault, surveys the scene for a moment to properly confirm the kill-- not quite the amateur approach of his once-brethren. For his trouble, he's gifted to the sight of Wesker, not only still standing, but -advancing- on him, stepping out of the last vestiges of dying flame, some distance from the vehicles.

In those instants of rocket-flight, the Colonel found cover, the explosion washing around rather than through him-- even as the flames and shrapnel that resulted from it did a -brutal- number, and threw him clear of the secondary blasts. It only adds to the effect, in this instance-- the shattered lens of his shades, the torn and charred bits of clothing covering a sleek, body-hugging armored suit beneath, the flames that still burn on his overcoat, wreathing him in fire for the moment it takes him to schluff off the garment. A decidedly sharp span of metal impales his left shoulder, dangerously close to the heart. His luxurious hair is burnt at the tips, uneven and haggard.

Still he comes, steadily, implacably, and he looks -pissed-. The rocket-man runs, but it's too late. Despite his wounds, the veteran operative is on him in a moment, disabling the fellow's favored arm with his fighting knife, which he utilizes to nearly take the limb off at the shoulder, before gifting the lead assassin with glorious unconsciousness-- by brutally bouncing his head off the alleyway wall. Darkness takes him; before Wesker does. The poor fellow just stacked the lottery, and became the Colonel's source of answers.