Infinity, progressing from Arasaka

Fine, you USF are well-equipped, but we UBCS are treated like stepchildren!

He felt a little uneasy, but he just laughed it off and turned to chase after Gil's retreating figure.

Hearing hurried footsteps behind him, Jill teased, "Hey, gentleman, got rejected?"

Carlos shrugged: "There's nothing I can do, they don't seem to need my help..."

Bang!

Another loud bang, and as the two were talking, a cannonball was fired from the spot where the signal flare had been raised, the muzzle flashing.

The black dot pierced through the air at an astonishing speed and slammed into a tyrant.

The restraints on the tyrant came off, and before it could even react, the long-bodied cannonball easily pierced its skin and flesh, knocking off the restraints on its chest and leaving a charred hole the size of a human head on its chest.

Boom!

The next moment, a huge cloud of black smoke, wrapped in fireballs, rose from the building behind the tyrant. Glass shards and stones flew everywhere, mixed with pieces of flesh and blood and torn trench coat fabric.

Hiss hiss—

In the distance, two more firing positions began to spew fire, forming crossfire. Dense bullets rained down like a storm, emitting a sharp whistling sound.

This time, Carlos understood.

He and Jill exchanged a glance and said in unison, "MaDeuce!"

The M2 Browning heavy machine gun, a family heirloom of the US military, is an old relic that has served for more than half a century. Carlos and Gil are very familiar with its gunshot.

The 12.7×99mm armor-piercing incendiary rounds created dazzling bursts of blood and sparks on the Tyrant's body.

Just like a craftsman using a gouging knife to peel a pineapple, the several tyrants that rushed out, regardless of whether the restrictions were lifted, had their flesh and bones sliced ​​off in an instant, splattering a large amount of blood.

It turned into a bluish-black honeycomb briquette with a hint of pink.

The two tyrants, whose upper limbs had just mutated, had their kneecaps broken and were forced to kneel. One of the tyrants turned around, picked up a wrecked car from the side of the road, and made a move to smash it towards Chris.

"стрелять (fire)!"

Several more rockets, trailing plumes of fire, were fired.

The two tyrants whose lower limbs had been severed earlier were hit by another bullet before they could repair their limbs. The tyrant that was trying to lift the car fared even worse. One bullet detonated the car's fuel tank, and the other directly blew off its head. With the explosion, the burning headless corpse fell to the ground.

clatter! clatter! clatter!

Chris had already approached, less than ten meters from the tyrant in the front row. He raised the assault rifle codenamed 'Copperhead' and fired bullet after bullet into the tyrant's head, whose chest had been pierced by a recoilless rifle, until the skull was shattered and his brain tissue was in complete disarray.

boom!

The new armor-piercing tandem slug struck yet another tyrant on the head, splattering a cloud of blood mist—it was another USF soldier who had taken action.

With prior intelligence and the combat experience shared by Chris, a survivor of the battle against BOW, the USF soldiers, following the follow-up weapon regulations, worked closely together, wielding either 'Tactician' or 'Defender' light machine guns, to dismember and tear apart the BOWs that entered Raccoon Avenue.

Literal dismemberment.

Whether the person is lying down or not, they are treated equally. First, they are shot in the head until it is smashed and separated from the torso. Then, they are shot in the limbs, followed by napalm grenades and thermite grenades.

He acted with extreme sophistication.

Or perhaps, they were meant to be this experienced.

Biological weapons and BOWs are all about surprise and psychological intimidation. With sufficient intelligence, psychological preparation, and experience in dealing with them, and with adequate military equipment, BOWs are even easier to deal with than humans.

"Truly brutal."

Far away, on a half-collapsed two-story rooftop equipped with an M2 heavy machine gun and a recoilless cannon, Carlos and Jill, who were being picked up by the USF, sighed with regret.

Just ten minutes ago, they were being chased relentlessly with nowhere to run and in a very sorry state.

Gunfire continued.

Jill noticed that the operators, who had never seen the new recoilless rifles and rocket launchers before, seemed to be taking notes.

Listening to their conversation, it seemed they were exchanging ideas on setting parameters, such as penetration depth and the appropriate setting for the delay fuse, like weapons testers, constantly writing down improvement suggestions in a small notebook.

"You must be Jill. Give me the things."

"...good."

Nodding, Jill handed the USF soldier in front of her the backpack containing evidence of Umbrella's crimes in Raccoon City collected by STARS, emphasizing, "Please protect it. Umbrella's bastards must be destroyed..."

Because the swear words slipped out of her mouth, Jill immediately paused, looked at the umbrella-shaped insignia on the USF soldiers, coughed, and quickly corrected herself, "Ahem, I meant them, the hostile Umbrella."

"I know."

After briefly inspecting the backpack, the USF officer, who appeared to be in a command position, said calmly, "Umbrella...we won't be anymore soon."

Without giving the words a second thought, Jill looked at him. "Could you give me a gun? Those bastards chasing me—not BOWs, but living people, Umbrella's hired guns—they definitely won't..."

"Oh, it's those guys from UTS. Those hyenas are the ones who do the dirty work of destroying evidence and eliminating individuals who are detrimental to the company. Ignore them; they won't be chasing you anymore."

As he finished speaking, he looked to the other side of the firing position: in front of several USF technicians carrying communication backpacks with antennas and operating some kind of tablet, a burly man was talking into a microphone.

“That’s our leader. The UTS’s pursuit of you should be resolved by now.”

With questions in mind, Jill walked over, and as she got closer, she could vaguely hear the other person shouting something in Russian.

"Oh? You're the woman Redfield was talking about. You certainly have a commanding presence. Is there a problem?"

After a while, he put down the microphone and looked at Jill, this time in English, still with a Russian accent.

How did you solve that UTS problem?

Jill asked, then seemed to realize that asking was inappropriate, and added, "If it's inconvenient, just pretend I didn't ask."

"The director admires the Redfield brothers, so it's no harm in telling you."

Because he was fully armed, Jill couldn't see his face. The burly man said in a hearty manner, "It's nothing more than building rapport. The Umbrella armed forces, like many of them, are the same kind of people who came out to make a living after what happened in '91. And now that I'm doing better, I'm just using that power to intimidate others."

He asked, "Do you know who we and Redfield are working for in Raccoon City?"

"Who?"

“Ms. Vera Adelhead Russell, Head of Umbrella USA Region, Director of Black Umbrella Division, and First Director of California Division.”

As he spoke, he pointed to the squad that had joined up from the other side of the floor's firing point. Among the squad were several people, some wearing white lab coats and others in suits, with red and white umbrella-shaped pins on their collars.

Undoubtedly, they were research staff and administrative personnel from Umbrella's Raccoon City branch.

In the middle of the group, several USF soldiers carrying highly sealed military-grade silver briefcases looked at the burly man, glanced at Jill, an outsider, and only spoke after the captain nodded:

"Captain Andreilov, the search and rescue operations at Raccoon City Central Hospital and Umbrella Raccoon Building are complete. These are the 'survivors,' who are willing to expose William Birkin and the Board's conspiracy to the Director."

"Very good, keep it safe, take it out."

Andrelov then turned to Jill and said, “It’s that simple. I told my old comrades in UTS that Umbrella is sinking and no one can control what’s going on in Raccoon City. They asked if we could hitch a ride on our director’s ship and survive without being purged. And they agreed.”

"You don't know yet, do you? Just now, Umbrella USA officially announced its separation from the Paris headquarters."

Andrelov handed over something square.

Jill looked closely.

It resembled a standalone LCD screen with a clear picture, displaying small squares. As Andrelov clicked on one of the squares, an interface resembling a television news broadcast appeared.

The scene appears to be at an airport, San Francisco Airport, where numerous reporters are surrounding a tall woman with light blonde hair, creating a noisy atmosphere.

Andrelov raised his voice.

Although the noise from nearby gunfire was still deafening, it was enough for Jill to hear the information inside.

"I, Vera Adelheid Russell, in my capacity as a member of the Umbrella Board of Directors, hereby announce that Umbrella’s California and USA regions are, effective immediately, separated from Umbrella’s Paris headquarters."

------

Chapter 032 Umbrella Falls

"...Umbrella's California and USA regions are to be separated from Umbrella's Paris headquarters immediately."

At San Francisco International Airport, outside Terminal 3, reporters from various newspapers gathered as Umbrella Corporation made its explosive announcement of its split, with flashes of light and the clicking of camera shutters filling the air.

Amidst the barrage of cameras and microphones, Vera, having finished her speech, turned her head away. A black-clad bodyguard, bowing slightly, whispered in her ear, "Director, Captain Andrelov from Raccoon City has already met up with the survivors of STARS."

"Well, I see."

Vera nodded slightly, then her brows furrowed, and with a formulaic expression of worry and annoyance, she gave a brief nod to the reporters present.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the questioning session will end here. As a responsible corporate citizen, I cannot turn a blind eye to the disaster that has occurred in Raccoon City. Even though my conflict with William Birkin has never disappeared, we were once in the same company. The Raccoon City incident has already happened, without a doubt. Now, I will not shirk my responsibility. Both the California branch and I will contribute our share to help Raccoon City overcome this difficult time."

Understanding her employer's intentions, the bodyguard team immediately stepped forward and, together with the SFPD airport police maintaining order, separated the reporters. Vera then took the opportunity to walk toward the Boeing 777 private plane, which had been waiting on the airport runway for a long time and was painted with a red and white umbrella-shaped logo.

"Director Russell, as a company employee, executive, and director, is it legal for you to unilaterally leave headquarters and the board of directors?"

"Director Russell, why was your first reaction after the Raccoon City incident to announce your departure from Paris headquarters? Is there some hidden secret behind this...?"

……

Vera naturally ignored the reporters who were shouting questions.

I called you here to give you information, not for you to ask me questions.

As expected of American journalists, it's no wonder that various American TV shows portray them as a high-risk group and troublemakers. The questions they ask are getting sharper and sharper, and they speak without thinking or restraint. Some tabloid reporters even try to steer the questions towards scandals at times like this.

Click.

As she walked up the stairs, boarded the private jet, and the cabin door closed, Vera's worry and anger vanished instantly.

Snapped!

"These reporters."

Sitting in the comfortable luxury seat and fastening her seatbelt, Vera pouted; of course, she wasn't going to hold a grudge against the reporter.

This is their livelihood. Within the rules, it's their freedom to ask whatever they want, and it's also Vera's freedom to answer or not.

Of course, if any journalist dares to steal, violate privacy, dig too deep, or resort to underhanded tactics, Vera will definitely teach him a lesson in the iron fist of a monopolistic capitalist.

This includes, but is not limited to, having him diagnosed with mental illness on the spot, being subjected to various forms of abuse in a mental hospital, and then being hanged to commit suicide, a one-stop service until his burial.

"The media industry, you old fogies, let you wield your influence for a while longer, then you'll have a chance to get involved."