Author's note: I do not own Resident Evil or the character of HUNK. All I own are this story. Also, some may be disturbed at times by the content that is in this story. They do not reflect my own thoughts and intentions but rather that of character's. Hopefully, having this story told from a first person perspective doesn't throw too many people off. Whenever a sentence is capped off with an 'X', it means that the sentence is translated.

Vita brevis breviter in brevi finietur, Mors venit velociter quae neminem veretur, Omnia mors perimit et nulli miseretur. Ad mortem festinamus peccare desistamus. Life is short, and shortly it will end; Death comes quickly and respects no one, It destroys everything and takes pity on no one. To death we are hastening, let us refrain from sinning.

Llibre Vermell de Montserrat, 1399

June 7, 2002. Vaupes, Columbia.

Situated in Southeast South America, it borders the Amazonas and contains the Andes Mountains. A hot, arid section of the planet, filled with what remains of the Amazon rainforest. If it weren't for the activities of the native inhabitants, it would almost seem like a nice place. Almost.

The call came in approximately a day and a half ago. Someone within the South American government was in need of my services. It had been a while since a job of any real merit had come around and I could feel myself getting rusty. Besides, work is work. It keeps the mind fresh, the nerves sharp and the skills hardened. Once I got the details of the assignment as well as the price they were willing to pay, I accepted and boarded a plane to Vaupes. From there it was a long car ride through the sweltering heat of the country side. The driver knew well enough to not talk or ask questions to answers I wasn't going to give. He just drove for what seemed like hours until we finally reached what could only be described as a military compound. It stood out fairly well.

Thick, high, chain-linked fences lined with razor wire. Long fields, no doubt used for either exercises, drills, or weapons practice. There were several jeeps and light armored vehicles situated on the grounds as well. And finally a long line of barracks as well as a few hangars. The jeep comes to a halt, kicking up dust as it slides across the gravel strewn on the ground and I get out, making sure to grab the duffel bag in the back seat with my own personal items. I then follow the driver as he leads me to one of the barracks near the North end of the compound.

The barrack looks nothing more than a giant white box with windows. It's easy enough to tell that it's a base of operations or at the very least, a meeting place of some sort. This one is nicer than the others, kept in better condition, reinforced with extra concrete and decorated with a few flags. Incidentally this is a poor decision. Having any sort of sign makes it stick out too much, allowing the enemy to make it an easy target if they chose. But none of this is of much concern to me, as I am not the one in charge here.

The driver leads me to the front door where two men in fatigues and military helmets with M4 assault rifles in their hands stand guard. Without saying anything, he leaves me to enter the building. The guards standing before me say nothing. They don't even look at me, obliviously knowing of my reason for being here. If it were any other case, they would have asked to see some form of identification. Or they would have shot me on sight.

I climb a short distance of three concrete steps and enter the building only to be confronted by another soldier on the inside of the building. The man is dressed exactly like the guards outside, minus of course the M4.

"State your business" the man says in a thick Spanish accent, holding up a hand to halt me.

I look at him coldly before saying, "Major Chavez requested my presence here"

"Follow me" he orders, satisfied with my response.

I do as instructed and am led down a long hallway before turning to the right. Making the turn, I'm presented with a set of thick, metal doors. The soldier before me opens them and I step into a poor man's excuse for a board room. There is a long, wooden table with six chairs set up on each side of it. Two men are already situated on opposite sides of the table. They turn to look at me as I walk into the room and sit down, one chair away from a black man who looks to be about in his mid thirties. Across from me is a younger, Latino looking man. Well, man might be too much of a stretch. The kid hardly looks eighteen. Both are dressed in black fatigues, military boots and have shaved heads. Without looking at either of them, I can tell that they're checking me out, studying me to see if I'm just as much a soldier as they are. Sizing me up.

It's a male thing that I'm all too familiar with. Tiring of this little game of gazes I look to the front of the room where an older man, dressed in a traditional military suit complete with badges and patches above the left pectoral muscle, stands by an over-head projector. He has an equally traditional military style hair cut which has begun to gray, a sign of his age and perhaps his experience. His stone cold, gray eyes hide under a mess of thick eyebrows and within deepening sockets.

"Gentleman" he says with a Spanish accent that rivals the driver's who brought me here. "I thank you for coming. My name is Major Santiago Chavez. Let's get down to business"

Chavez kills the lights to the room and fires up the over-head projector. He clicks a small remote in his hand to shuffle through a series of pictures. The first that appears is of a younger man, in his forties from what I can tell.

"This is Raul Gomez" the Major says. "He's one of FARC's chief supporters and sits at number four on our list of men that we need 'rid of' "

Given the area of the world that I find myself in, as well as the extensive reading I've done on the various countries of this planet, it comes as no surprise to hear the man's words as they tumble out of his mouth like a rehearsed script.

The Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. A people's army. In Spanish it's known as Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia – Ejército del Pueblo and can be shortened to the acronym FARC. A guerrilla force, they're about 6,000 to 8,000 members strong, which quite literally makes them the largest insurgent group in the American continents. They will take next to anyone that they can get their hands on. Mostly the impoverished or those disillusioned with their current state of affairs. Men, women, even children, it doesn't matter. If they can fire a weapon, they're deemed capable by the groups standards. They also control somewhere around fifteen to twenty percent of Columbia's territory.

A long, sorry list of the thing's these people have done for ideological reasons include kidnapping ransoms, murders, assassinations, vehicle bombings, extortion, hijacking's, and attacks on any political, military, economical opposition as well as targeting civilians. The group finances itself through heavy involvement within the drug trade, primarily cocaine manufacture and transportation, as well as arms smuggling and trading.

All this alone is enough for various countries to label the group a terrorist organization. Hell, in my day I've been known to dabble in a few of these activities myself when the situation called for it. If someone were to ask me if this makes me a terrorist, I'd answer with a solid 'No'. Were someone to call me on that, question me as to why I believe that to be true, then I'd tell them strait faced. It's quite simple. A terrorist is someone who inflicts fear into others in order to accomplish goals for a given cause or radical ideal. I have no ideal or cause to follow. Me, I'm just a merc. All I know is war. All I know is whatever the mission entails. You tell me what needs to be done and I do it, so long as I get paid for my services. That is, if I survive the mission.

Fuck. I'd kill the Pope as long as someone was willing to convince me that the Vatican had started an armed conflict, and that my services were needed.

I continue to listen intently as Santiago continues to talk. It's important to gain and keep as much information as possible. You never know when it may save your life.

"Gomez is in charge of one of FARC's largest cocaine and arms distributions. He's also a tyrannical man who holds the surrounding communities in a state of unrest, fear, and death due to his and FARC's actions. Time after time our government has tried to take Gomez down but to no avail. We've lost good men. It's gotten so bad that we've called upon the United States as well as the UN for assistance in the matter"

He stops talking for a few moments, the strain of years of fighting with little result are getting to him. Chavez collects himself, taking a deep breath, and continues.

"Unfortunately both parties are not convinced that there is enough evidence to mount an attack on Gomez. Nor are they willing to risk the man power without knowing exactly what they'd be up against" the man says, making his words almost like a plea. "Guerrilla fighting is a risky tactic. That is why I've called upon you men. I need people who will get the job done quickly and discreetly. Men who will not hesitate to do what needs to be done in order to complete a mission. For the sake of our country."

Correction, the sake of his country. It makes sense. The major needs people who can get the dirty work done while still keeping a healthy image of himself and his military. He needs people who don't exist, to complete the mission. Men who don't have any qualms about doing the ugly and tough work that other governments wouldn't even conceive. In this part of the world, in order to save those that can't save themselves, the only option is to outmuscle the person responsible for it all. And the way you do it is to show up with more guns and more skills. And no one does this better than myself and the men that sit in the room with me.

III

No current badge, no insignia's, no tags. And no names. The only one who knows them are those who hired and sent us here. Chavez is obviously the one who called in for us. He made the calls to our parent companies and the companies call us on the basis of performance and reliability. I've worked this way before and it doesn't surprise me to see that this is how it's going to be once again. Sitting in the small room, I'm told that this will be a small, covert operation. Four men, including myself. We all get a designation. Men referred to as Units. Four men, four Units.

I'm dubbed Unit One. The black guy, Unit Two. And the younger, Latino guy, Unit Three. The absence of the fourth man makes me a bit cautious, but only for a brief moment. It passes once I hear Chavez address us again.

"Unit Four was introduced into Gomez's compound weeks ago under the pretense that he was a new FARC recruit. Since that time, he's been mapping out the layout of the house and documenting the defenses that it holds"

The Major clicks the remote again and a detailed map of the house comes up.

"He's also sent us information in regards to the number of hostiles the area holds. With all this gathered info, we are ready to launch an assault on Gomez"

Chavez turns away from the projector, his expression serious and business like as he addresses us.

"Unit One will act as field leader for this mission." he says, pointing to me.

As expected, like I haven't heard that before. The other two men turn their heads slightly to look at me. I can't tell whether it's because they didn't see the decision coming or if it's because they're wondering why I was chosen over them. Perhaps, if they're unlucky, they'll understand.

"To avoid suspicion, we had our people drop your needed equipment within the jungle here, here and here" Chavez says.

He clicks a button on the remote he holds and three red x symbols appear on the map.

"Each is a mile from the main compound and you can retrieve them by using these transponders that we provide you"

He slides a small, black device the size of a pack of cigarettes, to each of us. I stuff mine in a pocket while the other two men turn them over in their hands, intrigued.

"You'll be equipped with an M4 Carbine with mounted scopes, a side arm, and extra equipment such as suppressors and several extra magazines for each weapon. Not that you'll need them extra ammo" he smiles slightly. "Along with your body armor there is also a combat knife as well as night vision and infrared goggles provided"

After rattling off the list of supplies, the Major turns back to the topographical map and shines a laser pointer on it.

"From there you'll need to make your way on foot to the compound. It is imperative that you move through the jungle and stay away from the roads as much as possible. As you can see by these charts, the thickest roads are the ones with the most activity"

He moves the small red dot to the three thickest roads that cut through the jungle. It looks almost like a bird's foot.

"The thinner roads are not as much of a danger but I wouldn't advise travelling those routes either"

A concentration of smaller routes surround the larger ones and cut through the area. I study them in relation to the location of my equipment before the image on the over-head projector switches back to the housing compound.

"The main compound and housing area are here" the Major states, walking closer to the board and circling the area with the laser pointed. "It has a perimeter fence lined with razor wire at the top, about a hundred and fifty yards in every direction from the main house.

I eye the image slightly, thinking of the number. A hundred and fifty yards is a lot of ground to cover in a short amount of time without being seen.

"Intell tells us that four guard towers are situated at each corner of the fence, housing one guard. Snipers, well armed but not necessarily well trained. Once you make it to the compound, you will radio Unit Four who, from inside, kills the security system. You won't have to worry about automated lights or tripping any defenses after that. Those tower sentries will be priority number two. Without the motion sensor or flood lighting, you shouldn't be able to rouse too much suspicion. You then make your way through the fence taking out any remaining sentries around the outside of the house. And believe me. There will be at lease two on the first and second levels. Take them out and make your way inside where you'll be joined by Unit Four. From there, your orders are to apprehend Raul Gomez and to retrieve any and all data relating to FARC's drug and arms smuggling routes. You are to use any means necessary to extract the data. Lethal force is authorized for this mission. Gentleman, are we clear?"

There is a unanimous "Sir" from each of us as he push away from the table and head for the door, myself bringing up the rear of the trio. The information is received, digested and understood. Our orders are clear. Particularly the 'any means necessary part' which in itself is a good thing. The less red tape, the better.

For any soldier, two things must be understood: one, the mission comes first. Getting it done and done correctly are the primary objectives. And two: once the first bullet goes past your head, politics and all the other bullshit that goes with it, goes right out the window.

III

A few hours later and I find myself travelling through the thick jungle underbrush. Each Unit goes their separate way so as to not arouse suspicion from anyone who might be spying on the military encampment or in the surrounding area. We're each driven as far into FARC territory as we can get without being shot at. Eventually I'm let out and the driver turns around, leaving me to my work in the middle of nowhere.

The arid heat is intensified by the uniform and boots that I wear, clinging to me like a second skin. When the Major offered to give me a set of fatigues, I declined, more comfortable in what I had brought for myself. The stark black uniform hugs at my body, compounded by the number of belt straps wrapped around my waist, thigh and shoulders in order to hold the available ammo in place. A black balaclava covers my head, causing the hot weather to almost suffocate me. I ignore this and continue my trek through the thick jungle, jumping over logs and pushing my way through a collection of dense, tropical plants that I haven't taken the time to memorize. Nor do I take the time to stop and identify them.

Of course, the uniform and ski mask are not the only items that I have supplied myself. While a little unorthodox, the heavy, black, bowel like helmet will prevent me from getting shot in the head. And the gas mask rounds out my uniform. Why the gas mask? Well, when you've been doing what I've been doing for this long, you tend to guard yourself against any possible threat. You also stop asking questions and just go with what works.

The uniform gives me the illusion of something alien as I make my way deeper and deeper through the jungle, following the transponder's signal. Through the goggles in my mask, everything looks a light shade of red. Not that I need to see in color to find my way. All I need to do is follow the signal of the transponder in my gloved hand and hope I don't come across any unnecessary obstacles.

III

Several minutes later, the sky opens with a torrential downpour. Rather than be deterred by it. I see it as both a blessing and a curse. More noise and motion means less of a chance that my team and I will be spotted. Even if it is at the cost of easier travel. I continue to follow the transponder's signal, getting closer and closer to the equipment that is waiting for me. Being without a weapon makes me a bit nervous. Having no way to defend myself in such a hostile area isn't exactly the most appealing way to go about completing a mission.

My concerns are justified when I find myself required to cross one of the smaller roads to get to the equipment. Just as I near the tree line I hear something out of place in the jungle setting. Holding back, I wait and hope whatever comes my way passes. The sound of a jeep's engine cuts through the rain like an animal's roar and before I know it, a set of high beams shine through the foliage. Then the car stops, about seven feet away from me.

"Great" I curse inwardly.

The last thing I need is an unnecessary setback. Two men occupy the vehicle. From what I can see, both wear military fatigues and hats and are armed with AK-47's. FARC soldiers out for a late night joy ride. From the way they act, laughing and lightly hitting each other, they're most likely fucked up on cocaine and have decided to take this opportunity to stop for a small break. As much as it pains me, I'll have to wait for them to get over it and leave.

I stare at the watch on my left wrist. A minute goes by. Then two. Finally after five minutes I'm getting impatient. But without any weapons, there is no way to engage them from this distance without getting shot. I wait for a plan to come into my head before one comes and falls in front of my lap.

The passenger gets out of the car and walks my way. From the little bit of conversation I can hear through the rain, the man has to take a leak. And wouldn't you know it, he walks right towards me. My heart starts to pound in anticipation as the man nears. Then it settles as he walks right past me, not even seeing me in the darkness of the night. I hear a zipper open and the sound of liquid pouring on the ground. He's distracted. There's no more time to waste, so I act. Making sure the driver's back is turned, I pop up out of the foliage behind the man as quickly as possible and move behind him. My hands shoot out of the dark and I grab him by the head, cupping my right hand underneath his mouth and chin. My left hand grasps the occipital region of his head and I apply as much force as I know how in opposite directions.

Turning the head almost a hundred and eighty degrees around, the man's neck breaks with a satisfying snap. The sound reminding me of a chicken wing separating at the elbow. He goes slack and I let the body down softly to as not to arose suspicion. Looking up, I see that the driver has turned around and is staring towards me, perplexed. He hasn't seen me, but has noticed that his friend is missing. Now the driver walks towards me, gun leveled at the tree line.

I look down at the body and notice a combat knife sheathed in a holster on his leg. Removing it, I circle around behind the driver as quietly as I can, letting him walk deeper into the tree line. I walk, Heel to toe, heel to toe. The best way to cover the sounds of my footsteps.

"Emilio, astaza qué?" he calls out.

I'm right behind him now, my arms outstretched and aiming for the correct spot in his back. Just to the left of the spine, the fourth lumbar down. The abdominal aorta. Severing it will lead to massive hemorrhaging, leading the man to die due to exsanguination. I'm lined up perfectly now. I breath in and out, moving with the man, trying to predict where he'll go next. Finally I see. Satisfied, I move in and cup my hand over the his mouth, using my knife hand to strike into his back. I drive it in, hard, making sure that the blade goes as deep as it can. It's amazing how much damage the right tool can create in the hands of an experienced person. The man's shock is enough for me to hold the blade in place and arch his back, making sure that the knife does its job. Eventually, life leaves him as he bleeds out internally, and I let the body drop to the ground, leaving the knife in his back.

Looking down at my watch tells me that I'm behind schedule. Leaving the two corpses in the jungle for the animals to feed on, I move as fast as I can, letting the transponder guide my way.

III

Another two miles and the device leads me right to a duffel bag, hidden within the brush. Crouching down next to a fallen log, I open it and survey the items inside. Both sets of goggles are there and I check them to make sure that they work. Stuffing them into one of my side pockets, I reach in for the combat knife and magazines. Shuffling though them, I see that there are six total. Three sets of eight round .50's for the side arm and three sets of Colt, 20 round clips for the M4. I put them in the ammo holders strapped to my chest.

Reaching back into the bad, I see the sidearm isn't really a side arm. The weapon is an Israeli made Desert Eagle pistol. A bit excessive for this type of mission. But you can't argue with the results. I then remove the M4 and check to make sure both weapons are in working order. Slapping in a clip to each, I check the barrel, trigger, safety, slide, breech, hammer, and grip to make sure that each is flawless. The scope that sits on top of the M4 is also up to my standards as well as its stock.

The final piece in the bag is the silencer that I take and apply to the barrel of the M4, twisting it into place. The heavy, metal weapons help solidify me in this foreign environment. With everything set, I flip my watch up to look at the compass underneath. I have one more mile to cover North.

In due time, I find myself standing within the tree line of the compound. Looking out over it I see that it is just as Major Chavez described it. A large area several square yards big, wrapped by a chain linked fence, seven feet high. Taking out both sets of goggles, I can see the two twenty foot front guard towers, a man in each stands with a spot light affixed to the tower itself. Each are armed with a sniper rifle, although from this distance I can't tell the model of the weapon. Looking past the towers I see a large, white house that reminds me of some sort of plantation dwelling. Looking up and down the lavish, two story house, I see another two bodies moving along the balcony of the second story. Both men also appear to be armed. From what I can tell, there are no other signs of hostiles from where I stand. Using the infrared goggles, I can only see heat signatures of the four guards in the towers as well as the sentries at the front of the house. No doubt there are also some sentries near the other two units' positions.

I reach up and speak into the communicator hidden in my wrist cuff, "Unit One in position"

Touching the earpiece hidden underneath my helmet I wait for the others to respond.

"Unit Two and Three in position" their voices come through.

A few seconds later and I hear a new voice come into my ear, "Unit Four in position"

Everything is set up. All that remains is for me to give the signal. There is no time for waiting. No time to hesitate. No time for doubt.

"Kill the system" I say over the communicator.

Even though I can't see or hear it, I know that Unit Four is right where he needs to be. Within seconds I get another call over the radio.

"Security system is offline" Unit Four informs me.

That's done. Now I want to make sure that the others are ready.

"Units, targets in sight?" I ask.

I hear Unit Two and Three respond with a 'roger'.

"When you have a clear shot, take it" I order.

With my sights on my targets, I watch as the two sentries on the upper level of the house stop moving for a few brief seconds. The time is now. I take in a breath. Somewhere, a lighting strike occurs and the sky booms with thunder. Letting the air out of my lungs, I sight in on the first man and pull the trigger on the rifle. The weapon jumps in my arms as the M4's recoil kicks the gun's stock into my shoulder and drives the scope into my goggle. The rain compounded with the silencer make the shot virtually undetected. The soldier falls, never seeing the attack coming. The silencer eliminates the muzzle flash of the rifle as I target the second man on the balcony and drop him with a solid shot to the head. Changing my targets, I aim for the men in the guard towers. Closer targets mean that the shots will be more precise and I give each man two in the chest and one in the head, ending their lives.

From over the radio, I hear the almost miniscule sound of the other two units' weapons discharging.

"Unit's Two and Three what are your positions?" I call into the radio.

"West side of the house"

"Unit Four, meet us at the location"

"Roger" he responds.

I make it to the other two men's position as fast as I can. Once there I see that they have cut a man sized hole through the fence and are waiting for me on the other side, against the house, just underneath the second story balcony that wraps the upper floor. A few feet away and I can see the shapes of two other bodies lying on the ground floor. I dismiss them and focus on the task at hand. One step jump later and we're all inside the darkened house. A new man, dressed exactly like Units Two and Three meets us in order to allow us entry through an upper window.

"Sir" he says, "No hostiles within the house. Just Gomez, his wife and their daughter. Gomez has been in his office since 8 P.M."

"Good, lead the way" I tell him, giving him a quick tap to the shoulder.

Unit Four does as instructed, leading us down a series of hallways lined with an expensive looking carpet with some sort of oriental designs on them. Furniture and paintings line the walls along with photographs of people I've never seen before. Most likely relatives or comrades of Gomez. We walk in a single file line formation, myself bringing up the rear and making sure we aren't attacked from behind. Regardless of Unit Four's intell, I don't want any surprises. We each sweep the air around us as we walk , turn corners, and keep close to the wall and I silently thank that the men I'm leading aren't incompetent. Soon we're all standing at the entrance to the office. A thick cedar door stares back at us.

Taking the infrared goggles out again, I look through them, seeing only the heat signature of a single person. Putting the equipment away, I nod to the other Units who get into position. One man on each side of the door, ready to rush in once another kicks it in.

With weapons ready I say "Go"

Unit Four drives his booted foot into the door, turning it into splinters while the other two rush in and sweep the room. Following Unit Four, I go in last just in time to see a startled, forty year old man jump up from his desk and try to make an escape, only to be kneecapped by Unit Three. The man tumbles to the floor, the bullet wound oozing blood. By the time he pushes himself up against the wall, he sees that the four of us have our guns trained right on his face.

I don't have much time to take in the room, only noticing that it has a lavish wooden desk lined with papers and personal items, large selection of books housed in a book case and a few modest pieces of furniture laid out for guests. Mostly couches and a few chairs. The walls are decorated with either framed artwork or the heads of game that the man has hunted. There are carvings in the walls which, even through the red goggles of my mask, look like the walls are made of ivory or something to that effect. None of this matters to me as I move past the other Units. I crouch down and get into the man's face and right to business.

"Do you know why we're here?", I ask to which Gomez nods, still astonished. "Where is the data concerning FARC's drugs and arms smuggling?" I question.

"I…I don't have it" he stutters.

I hit the man across the face, hard. He doesn't say shit. I then take my weapon and press the barrel into the wound in Gomez's leg. He grits his teeth through the pain but still, he doesn't relent.

"I swear to God. I…I don't have it" he pleads. "One of my men is transporting it to another location"

Liar. Doing this long enough, I can tell when someone's lying to me. His speech fumbles, tripping over himself. The man's eyes dart back and forth, searching in vain for something to buy him more time or perhaps buy his way out of this. He sweats, his breathing is erratic. He looks like he's about to throw up. This is probably the first time he's had a gun pointed at him. I understand why this is perfectly. No one's had the balls to oppose the man thus far. And without anyone to back him up, it doesn't look to good for him. The only authority he has is when he can command others. Alone, he's a coward.

"Unit Four. Locate the wife. Tell her to lend a hand" I order.

Unit Four leaves the room, knowing what I mean. Gomez is breaking, but not yet broken.

Interrogation is a simple matter. When dealing with higher ranking officials torture should be used first. And if this doesn't succeed you find what the enemy holds dear and use it against him. Abduction or execution of family members is the next course of action, always beginning with female members.

Unit Four returns, carrying something in his hand. Gomez looks over to him and then back at me before the unit hands the object to me. I told him have Gomez's wife lend a hand. But apparently she'd rather give it up instead.

I hold the severed hand of Gomez's wife before him. The limb is delicate to say the least as I notice the clean cut that Unit four has made to remove it. Still fresh, blood drips from the raw stump where the hand used to be attached to the wrist. I take notice of the diamond ring adorned on the ring finger. Hopefully now he'll understand the severity of the situation that he's found himself in. Throwing the limb at Gomez, I resume with my round of questions, but to no avail. All he does is just look at his wife's hand, now sitting in his lap, with a look of shock and horror as he starts to hyperventilate. Still he keeps quiet. It would seem that the man is harder to break than I thought.

"Get the girl" I instruct.

Unit Four leaves again, only to return minutes later with a bright eyed, yet groggy little girl wearing a sky blue night dress. Her dark, brunette hair travels the length of her small back, tied off in French braid. She looks more bewildered than scared, unaware of what's happening. The girl can't be more than six years old.

XPapa, who are these men? What do they want?X she speaks with a small Spanish voice.

Immediately, Gomez starts speaking rapid Spanish to his daughter, giving her explicit instructions to give us the information that we came for. Only he's telling her to give us a dummy flash drive. He thinks that by speaking in another language that he can mask his intentions from us and hopefully save his life as well as his daughter's. After awhile, I just tune out the man's voice as it spills from his mouth.

He's putting more stock in his activities than in his family's lives. He's more stubborn than I anticipated. This gets boring relatively quickly.

XYou know, I speak SpanishX, I tell him, putting a hand on his daughter's shoulder.

I also speak German, Arabic, French, Chinese, Japanese, Latin, Russian, Polish and a little bit of Hindi. But who's counting anyway?

He goes white as a sheet. The man understands quickly that there is no dancing around this one. We have him by the preverbal balls and he knows it. He's defeated and this fact is quite evident. Hell, he probably knows that his own death isn't far off. I reach for the side arm housed in the holster on my hip and remove it, clicking the safety off the weapon as I do so. The Desert Eagle has a decent weight to it. It's heavy for such a small piece of equipment. Perhaps this reinforces the destructive capabilities that it holds.

I look right at Gomez and make sure that I'm understood.

XTo prove to you the severity of the situation I'm going to say this in your own language. Either you give us what we came here for and you and your daughter get to mourn your wife in peace. Or make this difficult and you're going to need a very small casket made up for someone in this roomX

Gomez's eyes go wide and he starts to cry. I can't tell whether it's due to his defeat or for the life of his daughter. His emotion doesn't deter me in the least.

XI'm going to count to threeX I say, pressing the barrel of the weapon to the back of the little girls head.

I let him mull it over in his mind for a few seconds before I begin, letting it sink in to his brain. Any other time I would just kill the man and start tearing the room apart. But we're pressed for time and I don't want to have to do that. Sometimes it's easier to take a more indirect route in getting something completed.

"Uno"

My thumb pulls back the hammer on the weapon, making an audible 'click sound' as it finds it's resting place.

XPapa, where is Mama?X

"Dos"

My index finger moves from the trigger guard to the trigger, tightening around it. The man starts to become extremely agitated. His breathing increases, his chest moving up and down in rapid succession. Through my gas mask I can see him start to sweat bullets while he shakes his head in denial. His eyes are frantic and large, darting back and forth between myself and the little girl I now hold at gunpoint.

"Tres"

XPapaX the little girl says one final time.

Part of him thinks I won't do it. This probably isn't the first time he's had his families life threatened. But this is the first time he's been in a situation like this were the threats have actually come to fruition. Gomez is quite tenacious and still doesn't relent with giving us what we want. What he doesn't seem to comprehend is that the mission objective comes first. Even if we have go to extreme lengths to complete it. It's a shame. This little girl could be the one to grow up and find a cure for cancer.

Oh well.

My finger applies the remaining pressure on the trigger and a deafening bang fills the room for a few seconds, only to be followed by a wet, slapping sound as blood, bone chips and thick chunks of brain matter spray the man in the face. Like taco meat mixed with raspberry preserves. The body of the little girl twitches for a few moments. Then she falls forward to the floor, making it unclear as to the extent of the damage. But, having a vast knowledge of weapons ballistics, it doesn't take much for me to paint a clear picture in my head. At such a close range the Desert eagle, loaded with .50 AE rounds would have enough force to not only enter the human skull and kill the target, but to cause an exit wound the size of a soft ball. This would destroy, if not completely obliterate, the target's face.

It takes a few more seconds for the man's shock to wear off. All he does is sit there, breathing in quick, rapid succession, almost to the point of hyperventilation. The gore, having sat long enough on his face, starts to run and trail down the fissures in his skin with parts of his, now late daughter's brain falling off in chunks. He sees the pool of blood start to appear underneath the little corpse and it all comes together. The man slowly starts to come out of his shock and, like a brittle piece of wood, snaps completely.

His screams and curses fill the room for what seem like hours. Several times I ask him where the data is but to no avail. After awhile, his cries start to get on my nerves. I don't have time for this. The man is completely gone so we go to plan B.

"Fuck it. We'll do it the hard way" I say frustrated.

With my sidearm still in my hand, I level it at the traumatized man. At the last second, with tear streamed eyes, he raises a hand in a weak defense. I don't even hesitate and pull the trigger. Another shot erupts through the room as the bullet hurtles into his skull in less than a second. A small, red hole appears in the man's upper left temple and his features go wide as his head snaps back and the exit wound splashes a brilliant color of red against the stark white wall behind him. He then slumps against the wall and falls to the floor on his side, next to the corpse of his daughter.

"Tear the room apart" I order.

We go to work. Books are thrown from the shelves, furniture is broken up, and carpet is torn from the floor in an attempt to find the data. About three minutes into the search, Unit Two produces the dead man's lap top computer. Thirty-eight seconds later, I discover a USB flash drive taped to the top of the ceiling fan in the room.

Opening the computer and powering it on, I see that there is no password protection, no line of defenses. This is a good thing. It makes the whole mission easier, like taking candy from a baby. I take out the flash drive that was discovered and plug it into the computer. A few key strokes later and this man's entire operation is ready to be downloaded into the computer. There's just one little snag. A factor that was not taken into consideration. There's so much information that the download time is quite long. At least fifteen to twenty minutes.

I turn to the others and address them.

"You three stay here while I go outside to secure our exit. When the data is downloaded, we rendezvous in the tree line in front of the compound. Are we clear?"

There are three 'Sirs' from each man. Satisfied, I turn and walk out of the room, leaving the men to their work.

III

I wait patiently in the tree line for the remaining three units to come out of the house. The mission is a success and we can all go back home. As I wait, I wonder about the consequences of my actions before dismissing them just as quickly as they had been brought up. I had an innocent wife and daughter killed for the sake of the mission. So what? 'Unaffiliated' and 'non-resistant' mean nothing to me. This is, what I do right now, is war. You do what is necessary in order to succeed and survive. There is no room for hesitation. No room for conscience. There is no place for compassion, or mercy or even remorse. You do what needs to be done. No questions asked.

Suddenly, I feel the rain that has hounded us through the night let up. I take my eyes off the house and look up to see the clouds dissipate, revealing a cold, pale moon in the sky. The shining orb illuminates the entire compound, the sudden light source both a blessing and a curse. We need this to be as silent and unseen as possible, regardless if this is the start or the end of the mission.

With my patience wearing thin, I reach up to talk into the communicator when I see three shapes making they're way across the sentry-less front lawn. Through the goggles in my mask, I can see the units moving in a single line formation. Two men facing me with the rear man facing back the way they'd all come, so as to not get shot in the back. At the rate they were walking, they'd reach me within several seconds.

With the rain and wind gone, the only sounds left are that of my breathing and the insects that roam this area of the night. So in other words, it's quiet. Which is why I'm able to hear what comes next.

KLICK

I know the sound of an anti-tank mine being triggered when I hear it. I only get to process it for a few seconds before a white, blinding light and a fucking deafening crack go off.

SHHHHBOOOOOOOOOOOM

Being close enough the blast, I'm thrown off me feet and into a nearby tree. Fighting against an insurmountable pain in my back and upper body, I try to get back up but my entire equilibrium is thrown off and there's a horrible ringing in my ears.

"No one said anything about any goddamn mines" I say to myself.

I try to walk, my movements sloppy and disoriented as I shake off the effects of the blast. I teeter back and forth, my vision hazy and unfocused. As I regain myself all I can think about is that some of the information was fouled up. It's true that dis-information is sometimes required for enemies and allies. But whoever said that never had to be knocked to his ass by explosives. I tear off my helmet and gasmask in order to breathe better as I look out at the grass. Searching for the other three men, the moon illuminates the area, showing me what I can only comprehend are bits and pieces of the Units. That, and a big fucking red circle with a width of a hundred meters.

"Fuck!" I yell as the realization hits me.

The other three men were extracting the data. And it, along with the men, just got blown to shit.

"Uhhhhhhhhngh"

A noise, several yards to my left grabs my attention. Walking towards it, I see that it's the body of Unit Three. Or, at least, what remains of Unit Three. The blast that had all but obliterated the other two men had not done nearly the same to the last. I neared him to assess the damage that had been done. Right away I knew he wouldn't make it.

"S….s…sir" the man called out weakly.

Moving closer, I kneel down and take the man's outstretched hand, holding it as he tightens his grip. I look over to his other hand to see that its holding something.

"Soldier" I say, "Do you still have the data?"

He immediately uncurls his fist to show the flash drive in his hand, unharmed. I silently breathe a sigh of relief and take the small object from his hand, depositing it into a side pocket. The mission is successful, even if it did cost two men their lives. Well, three if you count the man lying on the ground.

The mine had completely severed him in two, destroying his legs and a good portion of his pelvis. All that remained was a torso as well as the rest of the upper body. A smell, like that of cooked meat and chemical powder drifted through the air. I look down to see the charred and twisted remains of the man's pelvis, torn clothes and a collection of intestines that spill from the man's underside. Just by seeing the look in his eyes, I can tell that his brain hadn't caught up with what his body was going through. At this rate, if the blood loss doesn't kill him, the trauma would.

I let go of his hand and let it fall to the ground. He looks up at me with wide, scared eyes. Helpless eyes. The eyes of a child. Because that's all he really is. Just a kid. A kid who didn't ask for this. Didn't ask to die.

"Sir" he calls again. "Am I…g….g…gonna…make it?"

"No" I say without flinching.

"I…I…don't want to die. P….p…please s…save me" he pleads

"This is war. Survival is your responsibility" I tell him, not caring about his predicament.

Just by looking at him I can tell that what's left of his nervous system is giving into the pain. The man can feel it now. Death would come for him soon enough. No man should have to go through the pain that the kid is experiencing. Which is why I do what I do next. I pull the Desert Eagle from its holster and level at the young man's head. Without thinking twice, I squeeze off a round. It slams into his head with a loud 'thunk' and the kid stops moving. As I holster the weapon, the clouds return to cover the moon again as I fade back into the jungle to make the long trek back.

III

Two hours later and I'm back in the barracks where I received my orders. Major Chavez meets me and I hand the flash drive over to him. He's more than happy to receive it. I also hand over everything that was provided for me, save for the items that I supplied myself.

"Excellent work Unit One" he says. "What of the other members of the team?" he asks.

"KIA" I respond.

"I see" the man says without a hint of remorse. "Well then, I'll have your payment wired to your account"

"Are we done here?" I ask, ready to call it a day.

The man nods and I start to head for the door.

"Unit One"

I halt in my tracks, looking back at him with my peripheral vision before turning to face him. I'm agitated to say the least. Usually when someone says their through with my services, they mean it. I can only wonder what the man wants now. He reaches for a folder off of the table and grabs it, walking towards me as he does so. When the man is about two feet away from me, he speaks again.

"Do you know why I chose you for this task?"

"Sir, I have an idea" I say, without really caring to much. I know what he's going to tell me next, having heard the conversation many times before.

"You have a flawless performance record. You get the job done. I've talked to a lot of people all over the world and they all say the same thing. You're the best. But I'm a bit of a skeptic when it comes to the idea of 'best'. That was, until I saw this"

The man draws my attention to about half way through the now open folder and the sheet of paper resting within. My eyes go right to where his finger is pointing. Right underneath his fingernail are four little letters in bold print.

HUNK

"Once again, only you survived. I knew I could expect you to get the job done"

The reason I was chosen. The reason that I'm always chosen is due to my record. As dubious as some may be, they're always impressed with the results. And that is why I am called upon. Because, no matter what the odds, no matter what the danger, I can always get the job done. It puts men at ease when they can use a soldier who exceeds at what he does. Until something comes along to change it, I will always be labeled a Human Unit Never Killed. A soldier that can be called upon to deliver the gift of death who is akin to Death himself. And the Death can not die.