Herald of death

Recognizing one of them, Ethan advances at a slow pace towards the improvised roadblock.

The biggest of them, who sports tattoos all over his arms and some on his face, approaches. Tapping a bat on his shoulder and with a Beretta in his pants, he threatens, "There is a toll to pay now."

"Don't I already pay you enough?" Ethan retorts.

The young man takes one step back. "Fuck man, you can't scare me like that."

"Mind if we have a chat?" Ethan inquisitively asks.

His interlocutor nods his head to an alleyway and turns to the others, yelling, "Watch the bike, and don't touch it." Some of them emit a tut, but none deny his order.

They walk aside, and Ethan removes his helmet. "Quite the display; are you planning on taking over the place?"

"Yeah, our police got overrun by monsters, and with those video game classes, we grow stronger as we fuck them up," the young man says playfully. "But I wouldn't try anything against you; you get me?"

"The army is on the move, and they won't be lenient when they encounter you. You probably have until tomorrow morning," Ethan warns.

"Seriously? Fuck, thanks for the warning, man."

"Anything for me?" Ethan asks.

"I kept some guys on it. Your man has a lot of visitors; they swarmed to the warehouse when it all started," he begins. "And they got real weapons, military guns and all."

"How many?"

"Twenty something. And there is a boat that landed half an hour ago," he precises. "What's with the medieval bag?"

"I couldn't find another one," Ethan lies. He pulls half a grand from his pocket and hands it to the youngster. "I hope it will still have value in a few days," Ethan adds.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the young man quips, moving out of the alleyway.

Ethan parks a few buildings away from a warehouse next to the Seine. He vaults a fence and enters another building, checking it for any sign of activity. Satisfied, he quickly changes, equipping himself with his gear. Getting to the higher floors of the building, he places a table far away from the windows and uses it to lay down with his DMR.

Ethan witnesses many arrivals but no departures as the hours go by. His target is a short, bald man with a scar on his face, an unmissable sight he cannot catch at the windows of the warehouse.

Hired guns load the boat with crates from the warehouse.

In Ethan's original plan, he would have killed him during a meeting with one of his clients. It would have been in an art gallery during an exposition, where he could have disguised himself as a waiter to poison him. 'It's starting to get dark. He could escape by boat, by road, or by using the sewers. My only surefire option is to go in and kill my way to him,' Ethan thinks repeatedly.

As the evening nears its end, Ethan steps down from the table. He exits his hiding spot and moves from building to building. Edging the warehouse, he arrives from an alley where the cameras have a blind spot.

Finishing his patrol, a guard opens a door with his key card and receives a silenced bullet to the head. His body jams the door, forcing it to remain open. Ethan rushes to the door and drags the man inside, closing the door.

Exactly as in the most recent plans of the building, the security room lies a few meters away. A camera watches the door but is unable to see the rest of the corridor. Ethan approaches the room, 'predator's sight, piercing shot' he thinks. The supervisor silhouette appears, and he shoots his head through the brick wall. The man's form falls on his desk. 'Should have reinforced those walls,' Ethan mocks in his mind.

Emptied of Ether, Ethan sips a drop of his potion and places it back in the haversack.

Ethan passes a window through which he sees a laboratory where chemists are working. Armed guards are watching them, the chemists body language betraying their fear. The target's real name is unknown, but his pseudonym is the Plague Merchant. He sold countless chemical weapons to terrorists. And he flooded markets with many synthetic drugs, such as methamphetamine and fentanyl.

Descending a set of stairs, he guns down two mercenaries who were guarding the underground floor, playing cards on a table.

"You leveled up," the voice announces.

Ethan peeks inside a singular room filled with electrical transformers, switchboards, and UPSs. He kicks a service trap and closes the fire sprinkler supply line. Leaving for the stairs, he throws his incendiary grenade at the electrical transformers.

Only a few seconds pass before the building's power shuts down. Guards start screaming orders. Sundering gun fire appears in the space sheltering the laboratory before suddenly quieting down.

Using predator's sight, Ethan sees the movements of the guards, who spread from what he knows to be another underground space. The ones coming towards him die like flies as he shoots them through walls or instants after they pass a corner.

Smoke starts building up as he arrives at the stairs of the underground room. Four guards are waiting, aiming their rifles toward the staircase. A host of weak pulses hide in a corner.

He unpins both a flash and a fragmentation grenade, tossing them inside. None of the four guards survived the explosion.

"You leveled up."

Going in, he sees that the other inhabitants are behind bars. Another laboratory has been set up here. Arachnoid monsters lay on its tables, dissected.

As Ethan approaches to scan the faces, hoping his target will be among them, he finds civilians in a wandering state. Their eyes are bloodshot red, and they formed a purplish foam at the mount. Seeing Ethan, they dash at their bars, trying to grab him.

A computer screen flashes in the room. "I am afraid you missed your opportunity to kill me. Seeing as your face is hidden on my cameras, I guess you're one of the Reapers," a coarse voice announces. The subtle sound of a car engine tells Ethan that the man isn't lying.

Ethan starts moving out without caring for the man's monologue. "Wait, don't you want to see my latest creation?" he says as a scraping metallic sound resonates. Like rabid dogs, the prisoners exit their cell to rush Ethan, almost trampling each other.