84: Chapter 84 Welcome to Hell

"I need a favor."

Chen Feng didn't ask for details, nor did he say anything unnecessary. He knew Sarah too well—for her to take the initiative to say those four words, things had already reached a certain level of severity.

"Speak."

"Keep an eye on my mom and Amy's side," Sarah's voice was calm, unnaturally so. "From now on, I'm not sure if it's safe around me anymore."

Chen Feng leaned back in his chair, his thumb unconsciously rubbing the edge of his phone. She didn't say "help me catch someone," nor did she say "help me check intelligence"—she said to take care of her family.

This meant she had already prepared for the worst.

"Okay," Chen Feng said. "Marcus will arrange for people to go there. You don't need to worry."

"Thanks."

"Sarah."

"Yeah?"

"Don't carry it all alone."

There was two seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, and then it hung up.

Chen Feng put the phone on the desk and sat there for about five seconds. Then he stood up and pushed open the office door.

Marcus was still waiting in the hallway.

"Two things." Chen Feng held up his fingers. "First, arrange for people to go to Sarah's mother's side for twenty-four-hour close protection, including Amy."

Marcus nodded.

"Second—" Chen Feng paused. "Bring up B-05-02 and B-05-03."

Marcus's expression didn't change, but his eyes flickered: "Two Nemeses?"

"Don't bring weapons," Chen Feng said as he walked toward the elevator. "Put Umbrella logos on their chests and backs. Let's not have any misunderstandings; the South District is currently full of police and National Guard whose nerves are as tight as steel wires."

"Target?"

"Sarah."

Marcus kept pace with him: "Does she know?"

"She doesn't, and she doesn't need to." Chen Feng pressed the elevator button. "Just follow her in secret. With her temper, if she knew I sent things to watch her, she'd turn on me."

The elevator doors opened, and the two walked in.

"But she's currently 'Viper's' number one target," Chen Feng said. "Those people use military-grade C4 and work even more efficiently than the CIA—the few people at the South District Police Department can't hold them off."

Marcus didn't ask any more questions. When the elevator reached the sixth basement floor, he went straight toward the modification room.

—

Forty minutes later, news came back from Marcus: the two Nemeses had already set out, but they were a step late.

Sarah had already led her people away from the South District Police Department.

"Where did she go?" Chen Feng frowned.

"Not sure. After the Nemeses reached the police station, they made a judgment based on the parking lot's vehicle dispatch records and the access control card swipe times—" Marcus's tone carried a bit of surprise. "They analyzed for themselves that Sarah had called for a SWAT Rapid Response Team's equipment vehicle, and combined with the direction of the encrypted communication on the police radio frequency band, they locked onto a signal being transmitted toward the Port Area."

Chen Feng was stunned for a moment.

The Nemeses analyzed it themselves.

No one had given the command to track radio signals, nor had anyone told them to check the parking lot records. They reached an empty target point and then collected clues on their own, deducing the target's whereabouts.

The degree to which the NE-α Parasite enhanced intelligence was even higher than estimated.

"Have them follow," Chen Feng said.

"They're already on the way."

Chen Feng hung up the communication, leaned back against his chair, and stared at the ceiling.

This isn't good.

—

Meanwhile, the Los Angeles Port Area.

At 1:40 AM, four unmarked black vans and a SWAT armored personnel carrier parked on the outskirts of the port. After the engines were turned off, only the sound of the sea breeze hitting the breakwater remained.

Sarah jumped down from the passenger seat, a dark jacket over her bulletproof vest, a Glock 19 at her waist, and a spare SIG Sauer P320 in her thigh holster.

Her informant had given a very specific address—an abandoned fish processing factory next to Pier 23 in the Port's East District. The intelligence claimed that six core members of the "Viper" group were receiving a shipment from South America there tonight. With a large quantity and concentrated personnel, it was a perfect window to catch them all at once.

"Deputy Chief." SWAT team leader Bob walked over. He was short and stout, bald, with an expression like granite. "My people are ready, twelve of them, all veterans. But I have to say something unpleasant."

"Speak."

"This intelligence came too conveniently." Bob was straightforward. "They blew up three of our spots three days ago, and now an informant suddenly pops up saying the core members are all gathered together? Something doesn't smell right."

Sarah didn't argue. She naturally knew something didn't smell right.

"I know it might be a trap," she said. "But if it really is a transaction window and we miss it, who knows when these people will show up again. The people of the South District can't afford to wait."

Bob opened his mouth but didn't say anything else.

"Two-group advance. Bob, you take Team A through the main entrance; I'll take Team B through the side loading dock." Sarah opened the satellite map on her phone and drew two lines on the screen with her finger. "Maintain radio silence; we'll act in unison once we reach the designated positions. If you find anything wrong, retreat immediately."

"Copy that."

At 1:55 AM, the two groups split up.

The exterior of the processing factory looked like any other abandoned building—rusted corrugated iron walls, shattered windows, and the air filled with the smell of rotting fish and the saltiness of seawater. Sarah led six people as they crept in along the loading dock, their boot soles on the slippery concrete floor, trying to control the sound of every step.

Through the night vision goggles, the interior of the processing factory was a huge open space. Conveyor belts, freezers, dissection tables—all rusted and scrapped equipment.

No one.

No lights, no sound, no sign of any activity.

Sarah's heart skipped a beat.

Bob's lowered voice came through the walkie-talkie: "Team A in position. Main entrance area clear, no personnel or cargo found."

Empty.

She scanned the area and noticed a detail—although the floor was covered in dust, the part near the central area had been cleaned. Not the kind of marks from natural trampling, but intentionally cleaned by someone.

Why clean it?

To clear footprints, or—

"Everyone, retreat!" Sarah suddenly shouted out.

Before she could finish, a dull metallic clanging sound came from behind her.

It was the iron door of the loading dock.

At the same instant, a loud noise also came from the direction of the main entrance—the hydraulic-driven fire-resistant rolling shutter door slammed down from above, sealing the exit with a "thud." The side windows, vents—every place that could serve as an exit was blocked by steel plates in almost the same second.

The entire processing factory turned into a sealed iron box.

Then, the lights came on.

Not illumination lights, but hundreds of small red dots.

Infrared lasers.

From the steel frame walkways on the second floor of the processing factory, from the sandbag fortifications behind the abandoned conveyor belts, from the crane arms overhead—dense red dots were projected onto Sarah and her team members.

The loudspeaker hummed, and a voice processed through a voice changer came out, exactly like the one on the phone.

The tone was even the same—lazy and carrying a laugh.

"Welcome to hell, Officer."

Sarah's pupils constricted to the extreme.

Gunshots rang out.

It wasn't sporadic crossfire, but an overwhelming barrage of bullets. Heavy machine guns, automatic rifles, grenade launchers from at least two directions—the firepower was so fierce it didn't seem like they were dealing with a twelve-person police squad, but more like they were wiping out an infantry company.

The first round of volleys knocked down two people from Team B.

The moment the gunshots rang out, Sarah dove behind a scrapped freezer, sparks flying as bullets hit the metal surface. She reached out and fired four consecutive shots at the position on the second-floor walkway where the muzzle flash was brightest.

Someone tumbled down from the walkway.

"Everyone in Team B, retreat toward the cold storage!" Sarah roared into the walkie-talkie. "Bob! What's the situation on your end?!"

The walkie-talkie was full of gunshots and shattering sounds. Bob's voice was intermittent: "Team A—two KIA—firepower too heavy—can't ret—"

An explosion drowned out the words that followed.

Sarah gritted her teeth and rolled out from behind the freezer, crawling low toward another piece of cover. The magazine of the Glock in her right hand was empty; she reloaded and continued firing.

The four remaining members of Team B who could still move fought while retreating. One team member was shot in the thigh while providing cover and was dragged back by a companion.

Sarah used the gaps in the cover to observe the other side's deployment—at least thirty people or more, well-equipped, with a well-trained rhythm of fire suppression. These weren't street gangs at all; these were professional mercenaries.

Within sixty seconds, more than half of her people were casualties.

"Cold storage!" Sarah pointed at the heavy iron door at the deepest part of the processing factory. "Go there!"

She fired three consecutive shots to suppress a machine gun position on the right, then pushed off the ground and sprinted. Bullets kicked up a trail of sparks at her feet, and one grazed the outside of her left arm. The burning pain made her gasp, but she didn't stop.

The remaining members of Team B followed her into the cold storage.

Three people from Bob's side also made it back alive.

Including Sarah, there were seven people in total.

Twelve went out, and seven came back.

The cold storage door was an industrial-grade insulated isolation door, a twenty-centimeter-thick steel-core polyurethane board. Sarah and Bob worked together to push the door shut. The moment the bolt locked, bullets from outside hit the door, making dull "thud-thud" sounds, but they didn't penetrate for the time being.

Everyone leaned against the corner, panting heavily. The cold storage was pitch black, with only the beams of tactical flashlights swaying.

"Casualties?" Sarah asked.

Bob's voice was hoarse: "Team A has three KIA, one seriously wounded. I brought out two plus myself."

On Team B's side, one member had been shot in the left leg and the bleeding was stopped, while another had a gash in their ribs from a shrapnel fragment.

Sarah touched her left arm—a graze, not deep, she could still move.

Bob leaned against the cold storage wall, despair appearing in his eyes for the first time in fifteen years of service: "Deputy Chief, this is a dead end. They've blocked all the exits, and this cold storage—"

Before he could finish, the sound of machinery operating came from overhead.

The cold storage's refrigeration system had started.

The temperature began to plummet.

Then, a faint sweet scent came from the ventilation ducts.

Sarah's expression changed instantly.

"Cover your mouth and nose! All of you, cover up!"

Too late. That sweet scent had already spread. Within a few breaths, a team member's flashlight dropped to the floor, and the person slumped down.

Anesthetic gas.

They didn't intend to storm the cold storage.

They wanted to freeze them to death, or capture them alive.

Sarah covered her mouth and nose with her sleeve, but she knew it was useless—in a confined space, the gas concentration would reach a lethal dose within minutes.

She picked up the walkie-talkie and pressed the emergency call button for the headquarters frequency.

"This is South District Deputy Chief Sarah Mitchell—Port East District Pier 23—fish processing factory—ambushed—request immediate reinforcement—"

She gathered her fading consciousness, trying to say every word clearly.

"Enemy numbers exceed thirty, equipped with heavy firepower—seven of our people trapped in cold storage—some wounded—"

There was only the rustle of static on the other end of the walkie-talkie. She didn't know if the signal had gone out.

Her vision began to blur.

Bob had already slid down against the wall, his eyes half-open and half-closed.

Sarah turned her head and looked at the people around her who had rushed in with her—every one of them was a good cop who put their life on the line.

She pressed the transmit button on the walkie-talkie, her throat feeling like it was stuffed with sandpaper, but every word was still clear: "It has been an honor to fight alongside you all."

The flashlight's light grew dimmer and dimmer—it wasn't a battery issue, but her eyes losing focus.

She leaned against the icy wall, her breathing becoming shallower and shallower.

In the last second before her consciousness dissipated, what popped into her head wasn't the chief, wasn't the case, wasn't that line of Spanish graffiti.

It was that bastard who had called and said only one sentence: "I've been waiting for your call for two days."

The phone slipped from between her fingers and hit the floor, the screen lighting up.

On the screen was the last unread message sent by Chen Feng: "Are you okay? What's the situation?"

—

Los Angeles, Umbrella Headquarters, underground monitoring room.

Chen Feng stared at the red warning box that suddenly popped up on the screen.

That was the passive signal monitoring he had set up when Sarah set out—the "signal analyzer" provided by Umbrella to the South District Police Department had captured the distress signal on the emergency frequency. The coordinates, voice content, and real-time firing frequency data were all pushed to him.

Port East District. Pier 23. Fish processing factory.

Firepower parameter analysis: 7.62mm heavy machine gun × 4, 5.56mm automatic rifle × 20+, 40mm grenade launcher × 2.

Enemy strength: No less than thirty people.

Sarah's side: Seven people trapped, signal interrupted.

Chen Feng's hands stopped above the keyboard, and he watched for three seconds without moving.

Then he opened the real-time positioning for the Nemeses.

BQ-02 and BQ-03, two green dots of light, were moving toward the Port Area at high speed.

Distance to target: 1.4 kilometers.

Estimated time of arrival: Three minutes.

Chen Feng looked up, the light from the screen reflecting on his face.

He had no expression.

But the fingers tapping out the communication command pressed the keycaps with a force that made them clack.

"Command change."

"Priority: Highest."

"Objective: Protect Sarah Mitchell."

"Enemy personnel—"

He paused for a moment.

"Eliminate them all."