Jasen leaned against a cold metal lamppost just outside Barry's truck as they finalized their exit from the secluded park. The wind bit at his collar, but his focus remained sharp.
"Make sure Marvin gets the memo," Jasen said quietly, his voice tight and measured. "He needs to be in the loop—but not all the way in. Just enough to keep him alert, watching Irons' moves." Barry gave a short nod. "He's a straight shooter. If Irons does anything sideways, Marvin will catch it."
Jasen looked down the road, scanning the sleepy horizon of the outer city. "Good. We need to box Irons in. Slowly. Keep pressure on him, enough to make him sweat but not panic. Not yet."They shook hands again before Barry climbed into his truck and rumbled away, leaving Jasen alone with his thoughts and the sound of crunching gravel under tires.
Later that afternoon, Jasen made his way across the outskirts of Raccoon City to an old auto garage buried between a rundown biker bar and a faded laundromat. The front had no sign, just a rusted neon light that blinked dimly in the corner window. Perfect place to get lost in. Jasen stepped inside, immediately hit by the sharp scent of oil, rubber, and burnt fuel. A heavy metal playlist echoed from a back room while a large man with sleeve tattoos and a crooked smile worked beneath a jacked-up muscle car.
"Philip," Jasen called, stepping into the open garage bay.
The man grunted, rolled out from beneath the car, and wiped his hands on a rag. He was tall, broad, and wore a black jumpsuit tied around his waist with a grease-stained T-shirt underneath.
"You Leo's guy?" Philip asked, squinting.
"That's me. Jasen."
Philip sized him up, then jerked his thumb toward the back lot. "Got something that might suit you. Said you needed something low-profile, tough, and disposable." Jasen followed him to the rear of the garage, where a dull black SUV sat between two rusted-out sedans. It was boxy, plain, and fitted with tinted windows that would make any surveillance team sweat. There were steel-plated bumpers, raised suspension, and reinforced tires built for backroad grit.
"Runs solid," Philip said, patting the hood. "Engine's been tuned. Won't win races, but it'll take a beating and keep you moving. Interior stripped down to the essentials. No GPS, no black box, no tags. You bring it back or leave it in a ditch, I don't care."
Jasen circled it slowly, inspecting. "How does it handle on dirt roads?"
"Better than most. Tuned for off-grid. You heading somewhere bumpy?"
"Let's just say I'm taking a scenic route through hell."
Philip smirked. "Aren't we all."
Jasen stopped at the driver's side door and nodded. "I'll take it."
"Leo already squared the payment. Just sign here." Philip handed over a simple paper form and a black Sharpie.
Jasen signed with a fake name Leo had prepped for situations like this.
Philip handed him the keys and a burner flip phone. "This number has direct contact to me only. Call it if you need a pickup or the car swapped. One-time use, encrypted line. Don't use it twice."
"Understood."
Jasen slid into the vehicle and turned the key. The engine rumbled with a low, steady growl. Functional. Clean. Reliable.
He glanced in the rearview mirror, catching his own eyes for a moment.
One week.
That's all he had until the raid. The vehicle would be his cover and his escape. If everything went smoothly, Irons would fall. The Serpents would be gutted. And the city would shift. But he wasn't betting on smooth.
He never did.
Before pulling off, he reached into his coat and unfolded Ada's blueprints again. His eyes locked on the entries and exits of the warehouse. A secondary vent tunnel would allow him to enter unnoticed if he slipped in just after midnight. The camera angles were exposed, the security pattern erratic.
She was too good.
He tucked the paper away and drove back into town, the hum of the engine matching the quiet beat of resolve in his chest.
The next steps had to be precise.
Because if he failed, the dominoes wouldn't stop at Irons.
They'd fall over everything.
Jasen spent the rest of the week submerged in recon and calibration. The Iron Serpents' compound wasn't a fortress—but it was close. He spent long hours watching from high rooftops and parked cars, tracking guard rotations, delivery schedules, and blind spots. Ada's blueprints were eerily accurate, down to the mismatched camera angles and the broken motion sensor on the southwest wall.
But Jasen didn't take anything for granted.
He counted bodies. Studied facial patterns. Noted where guards stood longer than others, where they slacked off, where the truck routes could bottleneck if pushed hard. He walked the outer sewer grates during early mornings, confirming a service line that hadn't been used in months.
No room for mistakes.
Three days before the raid, Jasen met up with Jill and Chris at the RPD shooting range. Chris was already halfway through a clip when Jasen arrived, the dull thump of rounds punching through targets echoing off the concrete walls.
Jill waved him over. "You brought the new toys?"
"You know it."
He laid out a matte black duffel on the bench and unzipped it, revealing a pair of custom sidearms, a compact SMG with extended mag, and a modified pump-action shotgun.
Chris let out a low whistle. "Kendo did these?"
"Yeah. Wanted to run 'em through the works. Wise man once said, 'Never trust a gun you haven't fired before.'"
Chris laughed. "Sounds like something out of a Western."
"Still true," Jasen replied, sliding a mag into the sidearm and stepping into his lane.
The guns performed perfectly. Clean trigger pull, minimal recoil, tight groupings. Kendo's craftsmanship was flawless.
"You shoot like someone who's expecting a war," Chris said after Jasen cleared the last mag with mechanical precision.
Jasen looked down the range. "Maybe I am."
Later that night, as he was cleaning his gear, his pager buzzed against the counter.
B. Bertolucci: "Judge confirmed. Warrant ready. Waiting on your word."
Jasen read it twice before nodding silently to himself. Another piece locked into place.
The time was near.
The next morning, Jill stopped by the apartment. She looked tired but sharp—like someone who was already bracing for whatever came next.
"Hey," she said, sliding into the kitchen where Jasen was finishing breakfast.
"Morning," he greeted. "Everything okay?"
Jill hesitated for a second. "I have to cancel our weekend plans. Something came up. It's... hush-hush. Department stuff. Even Chris doesn't know the full picture yet."
Jasen stepped over and kissed her gently. "No problem. Just reschedule it."
She smiled. "How does tomorrow sound? Late lunch, maybe?"
"Perfect."
They shared another kiss before she left, the silence that followed wrapping around Jasen like armor.
Four hours before the strike, the city was dark and drizzling. Jasen slipped through alleyways and back streets, trailing the two runners Barry had flagged. They were mid-20s, cocky, dressed like club rats but moved like gang soldiers.
The first one he took out behind a liquor store, choking him out and dropping his unconscious body inside a dumpster with duct-taped wrists and a note for RPD pinned to his jacket.
The second didn't go down as easy. He made a run for it.
Jasen caught him two blocks later, slamming him against a fence and whispering in his ear.
"Nothing personal. Just business."
Same deal. Out cold. Left for RPD with just enough ID and evidence to tie him to the Serpents.
No blood. No alarms. Just silence.
Midnight approached.
Inside an abandoned warehouse not far from the Serpents' territory, Jasen finished checking the last buckle on his tactical vest. The matte-black armor hugged close to his chest, reinforced but flexible. His boots were laced tight, his gloves sealed. Over his face, a dark balaclava masked everything but his eyes.
Holsters rested under both arms, and his SMG sat magnet-clipped across his chest. Suppressor in place. Knives at his hips. Comms in his ear.
Everything was ready.
The only sound was the rain tapping on the warehouse roof.
Jasen rolled his shoulders, stepped out into the shadows, and disappeared into the dark.
The operation had begun.