The earpiece buzzed to life with a short static pulse before Barry's voice came through, low and clear.
"Setup's going as well as expected. Got Wesker and Irons tied up with a fake tip about a weapons deal happening across town. They won't bite, but it'll hold their attention long enough."
Jasen crouched behind a rusted-out vehicle on the edge of the Iron Serpents' perimeter, eyes scanning the shifting shadows of their compound.
"The rest?" he asked quietly.
"Marvin's locked and loaded. RPD's waiting two blocks down in unmarked cars. S.T.A.R.S. units are suited up and in motion. They'll hit the back as soon as you give the signal."
"Copy that," Jasen said, tightening the strap of his gear bag.
"Oh, and what should I call you on comms, just in case this goes sideways?"
Jasen smirked faintly. "Call me Badger."
There was a short laugh on the other end. "Badger?"
"Yeah. Digs deep. Never backs off. Doesn't stop until the threat's gone."
Barry chuckled. "Fine, Badger. Just be careful."
"Roger that."
Jasen slipped into motion. His figure melded into the shadows, a wraith in black tactical gear. The Iron Serpents' perimeter was sloppy—cameras misaligned, patrols distracted, lights flickering. Just as Ada had promised. He slipped through a drainage trench and climbed silently into the compound's underbelly.
Every movement was calculated. Every breath, measured.
It didn't take long to reach the warehouse interior. He paused just beneath a metal stairwell leading to the second floor, where the gang leader's office overlooked the compound. Voices echoed faintly above—gruff, irritated. Jasen crouched beneath the stairwell and listened.
"We leave in ten. Grab the rest of the drive. I ain't coming back here for another damn week," one voice said.
"You want the cash moved too?"
"No, just the sensitive shit. The Umbrella files, those lists. If that gets out, we're cooked."
Jasen waited until the steps above groaned and the two figures walked out of the room, heading toward the front garage entrance. Once their footsteps faded, he slipped up the stairwell.
Inside, the room smelled of smoke, cheap alcohol, and steel. A heavy desk sat against the far wall, cluttered with documents, a laptop, two secure lockboxes, and a stack of burner phones.
Jasen moved fast.
He plugged a small flash drive into the laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as he initiated a silent data transfer. The files began copying—folders labeled with vague titles like "Client A," "Route 7," and "Umbra-2."
His eyes scanned a printed logbook on the desk.
Client Lists. Logistics. Payments. Hideouts.
Then he found something that made his jaw tighten.
Names.
A separate document, hastily printed and half-crumpled, detailed several assignments from a known Umbrella executive—pickups, transfers, even covert contracts for "live acquisitions." There were lists of men and women, most marked with aliases and nicknames, tied to different warehouse numbers.
And beside one of the logs, underlined in red ink:
"Deliveries to B. Irons – Confirmed. VIP"
Jasen stared at the page, blood cold. So this was how Irons did it. How he got away with the murders no one could ever tie to him. The Serpents had supplied him with victims, covered the trails, and Umbrella had paid the bill.
He quickly pocketed the documents, snatched two hard drives, and stuffed them in his bag alongside the flash drive.
The last file hit 100% just as he heard the warehouse doors groan open below. The leader and his right-hand man were back.
Jasen unplugged the flash drive, wiped the keyboard with a static cloth, and exited through the narrow window onto the metal scaffolding outside.
He slipped back into the dark, vanishing without a trace.
Jasen had just found the first piece of evidence that could burn Irons' entire world to the ground.
The warehouse creaked under the weight of footsteps and muffled voices below as Jasen slipped back down to the first floor, ducking behind a stack of crates. The stolen data and incriminating documents already weighed heavy in his gear bag, but this next step was just as vital.
He crept into a side room nestled in the back corner of the warehouse—a room poorly guarded and sloppily organized. It was lined with crates and duffel bags, stacked with loose bills and rows of weapons. The Serpents weren't just arms dealers. They were vaults of chaos.
Jasen wasted no time. He found the thickest, most durable duffel bag he could and began stuffing it with stacks of cash—high denominations, clean wraps. He kept his movements quiet but fast, fingers moving with urgency. The weight built fast.
Next came a second bag. This one he loaded with small arms—pistols, magazines, a few preloaded SMGs. He tossed in extra suppressors and spare tactical gear from the shelves. His eyes then landed on a small, locked black box sitting atop a crate marked "PRIVATE."
Something about it screamed importance.
He picked it up and tucked it into the second duffel without hesitation.
The moment he zipped the bag shut, the door behind him creaked.
He spun.
Standing in the threshold was the Serpents' right-hand man, a tall, wired-up enforcer with a face full of old scars and a hand already moving toward the pistol at his hip.
"Who the hell—"
Jasen moved.
He lunged forward and slammed the man into the wall before the weapon cleared the holster. The two tumbled into the room, fists flying. Jasen took a punch to the ribs but responded with a knee to the gut and a sharp elbow across the man's temple.
The enforcer snarled, slamming Jasen into a crate and grabbing his throat. Jasen kicked out, toppling both of them onto the floor. They rolled, grappling, exchanging short, brutal strikes.
The man reached for his knife—too slow.
Jasen seized his moment, locked in a choke from behind, legs tightening around the man's waist.
"Sleep."
The enforcer thrashed, slammed Jasen into a metal locker, but Jasen held firm. Slowly, the man's strength faded. He went limp.
Jasen released the hold, panting hard, chest heaving as he backed away. Blood trickled from his lip, his side ached, but he was alive.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and pressed the comm in his ear.
"This is Badger. Begin Operation Snake Eater."
A second of silence.
Then Barry's voice. "Copy that, Badger. RPD and STARS en route. Five minutes to breach."
Jasen hauled the two duffels over his shoulders and bolted for the south exit. Alarms hadn't gone off yet. With the right-hand man out cold, the others hadn't noticed anything amiss.
Yet.
He slipped through the same drainage grate he entered from, crawling out onto the back lot behind the warehouse. His SUV waited right where he left it, hidden between stacks of old shipping containers. He loaded the bags into the back, slammed the door shut, and slid into the driver's seat.
The ignition clicked.
The engine turned over.
Headlights off, he rolled down the back alley, slow and silent until he hit the outer road. A pair of guards strolled by the main gate on the other side of the compound, oblivious to the storm about to hit.
Then the first siren echoed through the distance.
"Right on time," Jasen muttered.
He floored it, wheels spitting mud as he tore down the road, weaving through side streets, turning at random intervals to lose any would-be followers. He didn't stop until he reached the edge of the industrial sector, where an abandoned storage warehouse sat untouched for years.
He parked the SUV in the shadows and grabbed a scope rifle from the backseat.
Minutes later, he was on the rooftop, prone against a concrete ledge, watching from the perfect vantage point. Flashing red and blue lights lit up the street in the distance. Tactical units poured in from both ends. RPD cruisers, unmarked STARS vans, Marvin's squad leading the charge.
From his view above, Jasen watched the takedown begin.
And in that moment, he knew:
Irons wouldn't be able to cover this up.
Not this time.