Leon Kennedy stood in the center of what looked like a warzone staged in a farmer’s worst nightmare. Bodies sprawled across the mud like discarded meat, their vacant eyes still twitching with whatever had taken their minds hostage. The chainsaw freak had gone down hard, but not before nearly dividing Leon in half. His shoulder ached from a close call, fabric torn, skin grazed, and blood soaking into his grey shirt. Not his, this time. Lucky him.

He pushed his bangs out of his eyes as he scanned the broken landscape of the village square—shattered windows, red-painted walls, farm tools doubling as ammunitions, and that godawful bell still ringing in the back of his head.

Leon tapped the side of his earpiece, static crackling through as he rolled his shoulder with another grunt.

“Condor One to Roost,” he muttered, voice low and laced with fatigue—and irritation, because Jesus Christ, it had been twenty minutes and he was already knee-deep in crazy cult bullshit. “You there, Hunnigan?”

Her voice cut through crisp and professional, like always. “Roost here. What’s your status?”

“Well,” he started, the sarcasm bleeding into every syllable, “the welcoming party was a little over the top. Your classic peasant uprising with bonus chanting. Real friendly folks.”

“Are you injured?” she asked, that calm tone not budging an inch.

“Nah,” he said, though the throbbing in his ribs begged to differ.

She didn’t bite. “And Baby Eagle?” The code-name for Ashley Graham, their target to reclaim back to the states.

Leon flicked his gaze toward the narrow path leading out of the square, where a chicken pecked aimlessly at a severed hand. Normal stuff. “No sign of Ashley yet,” he said, voice flat.

A pause.

“We suspected as much,” she said. “Stay on your guard, Leon.”

He let out a breath, short and sharp. “Wasn’t planning on taking a nap, Roost.”

“Keep me posted. Roost out.”

The line went static. Leon stood there a beat longer, listening to the breeze dragging through broken shutters and overturned carts. He wiped his blade clean on a torn apron laying on the ground and holstered it, lips drawn in a tight line.

“Great vacation spot,” he muttered, stepping over a twitching corpse. “Next time I’m asking for a beach.”