"Hello?"Carlos, it's Mitch Hirami." Carlos was just getting out of the shower when the phone rang. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stumbled out into the cramped liv-ing room, nearly tripping over a still unopened box of books in his haste to get to the bleating phone; he hadn't had time to get an answering machine since moving to the city, and only the new field office had his number. It wouldn't pay to miss any calls, particularly since Um-brella was footing his bills. He snatched up the receiver with one dripping hand and tried not to sound too out of breath.
      Unconsciously, Carlos stood up a little straighter, still clutching the damp towel. "Yes, sir." Hirami was his squad leader. Carlos had only met him twice, not enough time to get a solid read on him, but he seemed competent enough – as did the other guys in the squad. Competent, if not exactly up-front… Like Carlos, no one talked much about their past, although he knew for a fact that Hirami had been involved in gunrunning through South America a few years back before he'd started to work for Umbrella. It seemed that everyone he'd met on the U.B.C.S. had a secret or two – most of them involving activities not strictly legal.
      "Orders just came down on a developing situation.We're calling everyone in on this, ASAP. You got anhour to report, and we leave in two, that's 1500 hours,comprende?"Si-uh, yes, sir." Carlos had been fluent in Englishfor years, but he was still getting used to speaking itfull-time. "Is there any info on what kind of situation?"Negative. You'll be briefed along with the rest of uswhen you come in."
      Hirami's tone of voice suggested that he had more to say. Carlos waited, starting to feel chilled by the water drying on his body. "Word is, it's a chemical spill," Hirami said, and Carlos thought he could hear a thread of unease in the squad leader's voice. "Something that's making peo-ple… making them act differently." Carlos frowned. "Differently how?" Hirami sighed. "They don't pay us to ask questions, Oliveira, do they? Now you know as much as I do. Just get here." "Yes, sir," Carlos said, but Hirami had already hung up.
      Carlos dropped the receiver into its cradle, not sure if he should feel excited or nervous about his first
      U.B.C.S. operation. Umbrella Biohazard Countermea-sure Service: an impressive title for a group of hired ex-mercenaries and ex-military, most with combat ex-perience and shady backgrounds. The recruiter in Hon-duras had said that they'd be called upon to "deal" with situations that Umbrella needed handled quickly and aggressively – and legally. After three years of fighting in private little wars between rival gangs and revolu-tionaries, of living in mud shacks and eating out of cans, the promise of real employment – and at an as-tonishingly good wage – was like an answered prayer.
      Too good to be true, that's what I thought… and what if it turns out that I was right?
      Carlos shook his head. He wasn't going to find out standing around in a towel. In any case, it couldn't pos-sibly be worse man shooting it out with a bunch of coked-up pendejos in some anonymous jungle, wonder-ing if he'd hear the bullet that finally took him out. He had an hour, and it was a twenty-minute walk to the office. He turned toward the bedroom, suddenly de-termined to show up early, to see if he could get any more out of Hirami about what was going on. Already, he could feel the warm build of nervous adrenaline in his gut, a feeling he'd grown up with and knew better than any other – part anticipation, part excitement, and a healthy dose of fear… Carlos grinned as he finished toweling off, amused at himself. He'd spent too much time in the jungle. He was in the United States now, working for a legitimate phar-maceutical company -what was there to be afraid of? "Nada," he said, and, still smiling, he went to find his fatigues. Late September in the outskirts of the big city; it was a sunny day, but Carlos could feel the first whisper of autumn as he hurried toward the field office, a kind of thinning of the air, leaves beginning to wilt on the branches overhead. Not that there were very many trees; his apartment was at the edge of a sprawling in-dustrial area – a few dingy fabrication plants, fenced lots overgrown with weeds, seeming acres of run-down storage facilities. The U.B.C.S. office was actually a renovated warehouse on an Umbrella-owned lot, sur-rounded by a fairly modern shipping complex complete with helipad and loading docks – a nice setup, although Carlos wondered again why they'd decided to build in such a crummy area. They could obviously afford much better. Carlos checked his watch as he headed up Everett Street and started to walk a little faster. He wasn't going to be late, but he still wanted to get there before the briefing, see what the other guys were saying. Hi-rami had said they were calling in everyone – four pla-toons, three squads of ten in each platoon, 120 people all total. Carlos was a corporal in squad A of platoon D; ridiculous, how these things were set up, but he sup-posed it was necessary to keep track of everyone. Somebody had to know something… He took a right where Everett met 374th, his thoughts wandering, vaguely curious about where they were being sent…… when a man stepped out of an alley only a few meters in front of him, a well-dressed stranger wearing a wide smile. He stood there, hands jammed into the pockets of an expensive trench coat, apparently waiting for Carlos to reach him. Carlos kept his expression carefully neutral, studying the man warily. Tall, thin, dark hair and eyes but defi-nitely Caucasian, early to mid-40s – and grinning as though he meant to share an exceptionally funny joke. Carlos prepared to walk past him, reminding himself of how many crazies lived in any decent-sized city, an unavoidable hazard of urban life.
      He probably wants to tell me about the aliens moni-toring his brain waves, maybe babble some conspiracy theory… "Carlos Oliveira?" the man asked, but it was more of a statement than a question. Carlos stopped in his tracks, his whole body tensing, instinctively letting his right hand drop to where he wore a gun – except he wasn't carrying, hadn't since crossing the border, carajo… As if sensing the upset he'd caused, the stranger took a step back, holding his hands up in the air. He seemed amused, but not especially threatening. "Who's asking?" Carlos snapped. "And how the hell did you know my name?" "My name is Trent, Mr. Oliveira," he said, his dark gaze glittering with barely suppressed mirth. "And I have some information for you."

      IN THE DREAM, JILL DIDN'T RUN FAST ENOUGH. It was the same dream she'd suffered every few days since the mission that had nearly killed them all that terrible, endless night in July. Back when only a few Raccoon citizens had been hurt by Umbrella's secret and the S.T.A.R.S. administration wasn't completely corrupt, back when she was still stupid enough to think that people would believe their story.
      In the dream, she and the other survivors – Chris, Barry, and Rebecca – waited anxiously for rescue at the hidden laboratory's helipad, all of them exhausted, wounded, and very aware that the buildings around and beneath them were about to self-destruct. It was dawn, cool light coming in shafts through the trees that sur-rounded the Spencer estate, the stillness broken only by the welcome sound of the approaching 'copter. Six members of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad were dead, lost to the human and inhuman creatures that roamed the estate, and if Brad didn't set down quick, there wouldn't be any survivors. The lab was going to blow, destroying the proof of Umbrella's T-virus spill and killing them all. Chris and Barry waved their arms, motioning for Brad to hurry. Jill checked her watch, dazed, her mind still trying to grasp all that had happened, to sort it all out. Umbrella Pharmaceutical, the single biggest con-tributor to Raccoon City's prosperity and a major force in the corporate world, had secretly created monsters in the name of bioweapons research and in playing with fire had managed to burn themselves very badly. That didn't matter now, all that mattered was getting the hell away -
      – and we 've got maybe three minutes, four max
      CRASH! Jill whirled around, saw chunks of concrete and tar fly into the air and rain down over the northwest cor-ner of the landing pad. A giant claw stretched up from the hole, fell across the jagged lip -
      – and the pale, hulking monster, the one she and Barry had tried to kill in the lab, the Tyrant, leaped out onto the heliport. It rose smoothly from its agile crouch… and started toward them. It was an abomination, at least eight feet tall, once human, perhaps, but no more. Its right hand, normal. Its left, a massive, chitinous grasp of claws. Its face had been horribly altered, its lips cut away so that it seemed to grin at them through sliced red tissue. Its naked body was sexless, the thick, bloody tumor that was its heart shuddering wetly outside of its chest. Chris targeted the pulsing muscle with his Beretta and fired, five 9mm rounds tearing into its ghastly flesh; the Tyrant didn't even slow down. Barry screamed for them to scatter, and then they were run-ning, Jill pulling Rebecca away, the thunder of Barry's.357 crashing behind them. Overhead, the 'copter cir-cled and Jill could feel the seconds ticking away, al-most believed she could feel the explosion building beneath their feet. She and Rebecca pulled their weapons and started firing. Jill continued to pull the trigger even as she watched the creature knock Barry to the ground, slam-ming in a new clip as it went after Chris, firing and screaming, enveloped by a rising terror, "why won't it go down?"
      From above, a shout, and something thrown out of the 'copter. Chris ran for it, and Jill saw nothing else nothing but the Tyrant as it turned its attention to her and Rebecca, indifferent to the firepower that contin-ued plugging bloody holes through its strange body. Jill turned and ran, saw the girl do the same, and knew -knew that the monster was after her, the face of Jill Valentine embedded in its lizard brain. Jill ran, ran, and suddenly there was no heliport, no crumbling mansion, only a million trees and the sounds: her boots slapping the earth, the pulse of blood in her ears, her ragged breath. The monster was silent behind her, a mute and terrible force, relentless and as inevitable as death. They were dead, Chris and Barry, Rebecca, even Brad, she knew it, everyone but her – and as she ran, she saw the Tyrant's shadow stretch out in front of her, burying her own, and the hiss of its monstrous talons slicing down, melting through her body, killing her, no… No…
      "No!"
      Jill opened her eyes, the word still on her lips, the only sound in the stillness of her room. It wasn't the scream she imagined, but the weak, strangled cry of a woman doomed, caught in a nightmare from which there was no escape.
      Which I am. None of us were fast enough, after all.
      She lay still for a moment, breathing deeply, moving her hand away from the loaded Beretta under her pil-low; it had become a reflex, and one she wasn't sorry to have developed. "Useless against nightmares, though," she muttered and sat up. She'd been talking to herself for days now; sometimes, she thought it was the only thing that kept her sane. Gray light crept in through the blinds, casting the small bedroom in shadow. The digital clock on the nightstand was still working; she supposed she should be glad that the power was still on, but it was later than she'd hoped – nearly three in the afternoon. She'd slept for almost six hours, the most she'd managed to get in the last three days. Considering what was going on out-side, she couldn't help a flush of guilt. She should be out there, she should be doing more to save those who could still be saved…
      Knock it off, you know better. You can't help anyone if you collapse. And those people you helped…
      She wouldn't think about that, not yet. When she'd finally made it back to the suburbs this morning, after nearly forty-eight sleepless hours of "helping," she'd been on the verge of a breakdown, forced to face the re-ality of what had happened to Raccoon: The city was irretrievably lost to the T-virus, or some variant of it.
      Like the researchers at the mansion. Like the Tyrant.
      Jill closed her eyes, thinking about the recurring dream, about what it meant. It matched the real chain of events perfectly, except for the end -Brad Vickers, the S.T.A.R.S. Alpha pilot, had thrown something out of the 'copter, a grenade launcher, and Chris had blown up the Tyrant as it was going after her. They'd all got-ten away in time… but in a way, that didn't matter. For all the good they'd been able to accomplish since then, they might as well have died. It's not our fault, Jill thought angrily, aware that she wanted to believe that more than anything. No one would listen – not the home office, not Chief Irons, not the press. If they'd listened, if they'd believed…
      Strange, that all of it had happened only six weeks ago; it felt like years. The city officials and the local papers had enjoyed a field day with the S.T.A.R.S.'s reputation – six dead, the rest babbling fantastic stories about a secret laboratory, about monsters and zombies and an Umbrella conspiracy. They had been suspended and ridiculed, but worst of all, nothing had been done to prevent the spread of the virus. She and the others had only been able to hope that the destruction of the spill site had put an end to the immediate danger. In the weeks following, so much had happened. They'd uncovered the truth about the S.T.A.R.S., that Umbrella – technically, White Umbrella, the division in charge of bioweapons research – was either bribing or blackmailing key members nationally in order to con-tinue their research unimpeded. They'd learned that several of Raccoon City's council members were on the Umbrella payroll, and that Umbrella probably had more than one research facility experimenting with man-made diseases. Their search for information about Trent, the stranger who'd contacted her before the dis-astrous mission as "a friend to the S.T.A.R.S.," had turned up nothing, but they'd come up with some ex-tremely interesting background stuff on Chief Irons: it seemed that the chief had been in hot water at one point about a possible rape, and that Umbrella knew about it and had helped him get his position anyway. Perhaps most difficult of all, their team had been forced to split up, to make hard decisions about what needed to be done and about their own responsibilities to the truth. Jill smiled faintly; the one thing she could feel good about in all of this was that at least her friends had made it out. Rebecca Chambers had joined up with an-other small group of S.T.A.R.S. dissidents who were checking out rumors of other Umbrella laboratories. Brad Vickers, true to his cowardly nature, had skipped town to avoid Umbrella's wrath. Chris Redfield was al-ready in Europe, scoping out the company's headquar-ters and waiting for Barry Burton and Rebecca's team to join him… and for Jill, who was going to wrap up her investigation of Umbrella's local offices before hooking up with the others. Except five days ago, something terrible had hap-pened in Raccoon. It was still happening, unfolding like some poisonous flower, and the only hope now was to wait for someone outside to take notice. When the first few cases had been reported, no one had connected them with the S.T.A.R.S. stories about the Spencer estate. Several people had been attacked in the late spring and early summer – surely the work of some deranged killer, after all; the RPD would catch him in no time. It wasn't until the Raccoon Police De-partment had put up roadblocks on Umbrella orders, three days earlier, that people had started paying atten-tion. Jill didn't know how they were managing to keep people out of the city, but they were – nothing shipped in, no mail service, and the outside lines were cut. Citi-zens trying to leave town were turned back, told noth-ing about why. It all seemed so surreal now, those first hours after Jill had found out about the attacks, about the block-ades. She'd gone to the RPD building to see Chief Irons, but he had refused to talk to her. Jill had known that some of the cops would listen, that not everyone was as blind or corrupt as Irons – but even with the bizarre nature of the assaults they'd witnessed, they hadn't been ready to accept the truth. And who could blame them? "Listen up, officers -
      –Umbrella, the company that's responsible for building up our fair city, has been experimenting with a de-signer virus in their own backyard. They've been breeding and growing unnatural creatures in secret laboratories, then injecting them with something that makes them incredibly strong and extremely violent. When humans are exposed to this stuff, they become zombies, for lack of a better term. Flesh-eating, mind-less, decaying-on-the-hoof zombies, who feel no pain and try to eat other people. They're not really dead, but they're pretty close. So, let's work together, okay? Let's go out there and start mowing down unarmed cit-izens in the streets, your friends and neighbors, be-cause if we don't, you could be next."
      Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jill sighed. She'd been a little more tactful, but no matter how well worded, it was still an insane story. Of course they hadn't believed her, not then, not in the light of day and in the safety of their uniforms. It hadn't been until after dark, when the screaming had begun… That had been the 25th of September, and today was the 28th, and the police were almost certainly all dead; she'd last heard gunshots… yesterday? Last night? It could have been the rioters, she supposed, but it didn't matter anymore. Raccoon was dead, except for the brain-dead virus carriers that roamed the streets, look-ing for a meal. Between no sleep and a near constant pump of adrenaline, the days had blurred together for her. After the police force had been destroyed, Jill had spent her time looking for survivors, endless hours ducking down alleys, knocking on doors, combing buildings for those who'd managed to hide. She'd found dozens, and with some help from a few of them, they'd made it to a safe place, a high school that they had barricaded. Jill had made sure they were se-cure before going back out into the city, searching for others. She'd found no one. And this morning, when she'd gone back to the high school… She didn't want to think about it, but some part of her knew that she had to, that she couldn't afford to for-get. This morning, she'd gone back and the barricade had been gone. Torn down by zombies, or perhaps taken down by someone inside, someone who looked out and thought they saw a brother or uncle or daughter in the crowd of flesh-eaters. Someone who thought that they were saving the life of a loved one, not realizing that it was too late. It had been a slaughterhouse, the air fetid with the stink of shit and vomit, the walls decorated with great smears of blood. Jill had nearly given up, then, more tired than she'd ever been, unable to see anything but the bodies of those who'd been lucky enough to die be-fore the virus could amplify in their systems. As she'd walked through the almost empty halls, killing the handful of carriers that had still been stumbling around – people she'd found, people who had cried with relief when they'd seen her only hours before -whatever hope she'd held on to was gone, lost with the realization that everything she'd been through was worthless. Knowing the truth about Umbrella hadn't saved anyone, and the citizens she thought she'd led to safety – over seventy men, women, and children – were gone.
      She couldn't really remember how she'd made it home. She hadn't been able to think straight, and had barely been able to see through eyes swollen from cry-ing. Outside of how it affected her, thousands had died; it was a tragedy so vast it was nearly incomprehensible. It could have been prevented. And it was Umbrella's fault. Jill pulled the Beretta out from under her pillow, al-lowing herself to feel for the first time the immensity of what Umbrella had done. For the last few days, she'd kept her emotions in check – there had been people to lead, to help, and there'd been no place for any per-sonal feelings.
      Now, though…
      She was ready to get out of Raccoon and make the bastards who'd let this happen know how she felt. They had stolen her hope, but they couldn't stop her from surviving. Jill chambered a round and set her jaw, the stirrings of true hatred in her gut. It was time to leave.
 

TWO

 
      THEY WOULD BE IN RACCOON CITY IN JUST under an hour. Nicholai Ginovaef was prepared, and he believed his squad would do well – better than the rest, anyway. The nine others that made up squad B respected him; he had seen it in their eyes, and although they would al-most certainly die, their performance would be note-worthy. After all, he had practically trained them himself. There was no talking in the helicopter that carried platoon D through the late afternoon, not even among the squad leaders, the only personnel who wore head-sets. It was too loud for the troops to hear one another, and Nicholai had nothing to say to either Hirami or Cryan – or Mikhail Victor, for that matter. Victor was their superior, the commander of the entire platoon. It was a job that should have belonged to Nicholai; Victor lacked the qualities that made up a true leader.
      I possess them, though. I was chosen for Watchdog, and when this is all over, I'm the one Umbrella will have to deal with, whether they like it or not.
      Nicholai kept his face as stone, but he smiled inside. When the time came, "they," the men who controlled Umbrella from behind the scenes, would realize that they'd underestimated him. He sat near the A and C squad leaders against one wall of the cabin, soothed by the steady and familiar throb of the transport. The very air was charged with tension and heavy with the scent of masculine sweat; again, familiar. He had led men into battle before – al-though if everything went as planned, he would never have to again. He let his gaze wander over the taut faces of the troops, wondering if any of them would survive more than an hour or two. It was possible, he supposed. There was the scarred man from South Africa, in Cryan's group… and on his own squad, John Wers-bowski, who had taken part in an ethnic cleansing a few years back, Nicholai couldn't remember which one. Both men had the combination of deep suspicion and self-possession that might conceivably allow them to escape Raccoon, howevef unlikely – and it was un-likely. The briefing hadn't prepared any of them for what was ahead… Nicholai's own private briefing, two days earlier, had been a different matter; Operation Watchdog, they called it. He knew the projected numbers, had been told what to expect and how to most effectively dispatch the unclean, the walking diseased. They'd told him about the Tyrant-like seeker units that were going to be sent in, and how to avoid them. He knew more than anyone on the transport.
      But I'm also readier than Umbrella can possibly imagine… because I know the names of the other "dogs."
      Again, he suppressed a smile. He possessed addi-tional information that Umbrella didn't know he had, that was worth a great deal of money – or would be, soon enough. On the surface, the U.B.C.S. was being sent in to rescue civilians; that was what they'd been told, anyway. But he was one of the ten who'd been chosen to gather and record data on the T-virus carriers, human and otherwise, and on how they fared against trained soldiers – the real reason the U.B.C.S. were being sent in, aka Watchdog. In the helicopter that car-ried platoon A were two others, disguised as U.B.C.S.; there were six already planted in Raccoon – three sci-entists, two Umbrella paper pushers, and a woman who worked for the city. The tenth was a police officer, a personal assistant to the chief himself. Each of them probably knew one or two of the others that Umbrella had handpicked as information collectors – but thanks to his well-developed computer skills and a few "bor-rowed" passwords, he was the only one who knew about all of them, as well as where each was supposed to be to file their reports.
      Wouldn't their contacts be surprised when they failed to report in? Wouldn't it be amusing if only one Watchdog survived and was able to name his price for the information that had been gathered? And wasn't it amazing to think that a man could become a multimil-lionaire if he was willing to expend thought, a bit of ef-fort, and a few bullets?
      Nine people. He was nine people away from being the only Umbrella employee to have the information they wanted. Most, if not all, of the U.B.C.S. would die quickly, and then he'd be free to find the other Watch-dogs, to take their data and end their miserable lives. This time he couldn't help it; Nicholai grinned. The mission that lay ahead promised to be an exciting one, a true test of his many skills… and when it was over, he was going to be a very wealthy man.
      In spite of the cramped seating and the dull roar of the 'copter's engines, Carlos was only faintly aware of his surroundings. He couldn't get his mind off of Trent and the decidedly weird conversation they'd had only a couple of hours ago, and he found that he kept replay-ing it, trying to decide if any of it was useful. To begin with, Carlos had trusted the guy about as far as he could toss him. The man had been way too happy; not outwardly so much, but Carlos had gotten the definite impression that Trent was laughing about something just beneath the surface. His dark eyes had fairly danced with humor as he'd told Carlos that he had information for him, stepping back into the alley he'd emerged from as if there had been no question Carlos would follow. There hadn't been really. Carlos had learned to be very careful in his line of work, but he also knew a few things about reading people – and Trent, though obvi-ously strange, hadn't been particularly threatening. The alley had been cool and dark and had smelled faintly of urine. "What kind of information?" Carlos had asked. Trent had acted as though he hadn't heard the ques-tion. "In the shopping district downtown, you'll find a diner called Grill 13; it's just up the street from the fountain and right next to the theater, you can't miss it. If you can manage to get there by" – he'd glanced at his watch -"say, 1900 hours, I'll see what can be done to help you." Carlos hadn't even known where to start. "Hey, no offense, but what the hell are you talking about?" Trent had smiled. "Raccoon City. It's where you're going."
      Carlos had stared at him, waiting for more, but Trent had seemed to be finished.
      God knows how he got my name, but this bato ain't playing with a full deck, "Uh, listen, Mr. Trent…" "Just Trent," he'd cut in, still smiling. Carlos had started to get irritated. "Whatever. I think you might have the wrong Oliveira… and while I ap-preciate your, uh, concern, I've really got to get going." "Ah, yes, duty calls," Trent had said, his smile fad-ing. "Understand, they won't tell you all you need to know. It will be far, far worse. The hours ahead may be dark ones, Mr. Oliveira, but I have faith in your abili-ties. Just remember – Grill 13, seven o'clock. Northeast corner of the city proper." "Yeah, sure," Carlos had said, nodding, backing away into the daylight, wearing a somewhat forced grin of his own. "Good deal. I'll make a note of it." Trent had smiled again, stepping out after him. "Be very careful who you trust, Mr. Oliveira. And good luck."
      Carlos had turned and started to walk quickly away, throwing a glance back at Trent. The man had watched him, hands in his pockets again, his stance casual and relaxed. For a nutbag, he sure didn't seem crazy…
      … and he seems a lot less crazy now, eh?
      Carlos had still made it to the office a little early, but nobody seemed to have heard anything off the grape-vine about what was up. At the short briefing presented by the U.B.C.S. platoon leaders, they'd all been told what few facts there were: a toxic chemical spill had occurred earlier in the week in an isolated community, causing hallucinations that bred violence. The chemi-cals had dissipated, but regular civilians continued to be harassed by those who'd been affected; there was evidence that the damage could be permanent, and the local police hadn't been able to get things under con-trol. The U.B.C.S. was being sent in to help evacuate the citizens who hadn't been affected, and to use force, if necessary, to protect them from harm. Top secret all the way. In Raccoon City. Which meant that maybe Trent knew something, after all… and what did that mean?
      If he was right about where we're going, what about the rest of it? What didn't they tell us that we need to know? And what could possibly be far, far worse than a mob of deranged and violent people?
      He didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing. He'd first picked up a gun at the age of twelve to help defend his family from a band of terrorists, and had gone pro at seventeen – for four years now, he'd been paid to put his life in danger for one cause or another. But he'd always known what the stakes were, and what he was up against. This was not at all cool, the thought of going in blind. The only consolation was that he was going in with over a hundred experienced soldiers; whatever it was, they'd be able to handle it. Carlos looked around, thinking that he was with a good group. Not good men, necessarily, but adept fight-ers, way more important in combat. They even looked ready, their eyes hard and watchful, their faces deter-mined -
      – except for the B squad leader, who was staring off into space and grinning like a shark. Like a predator. Carlos was suddenly uneasy, looking at the guy, Nicholai something-or-other, cropped white hair, built like a weight lifter. He'd never seen anyone smile quite like that… The Russian met his gaze, and his grin widened for just a moment, in a way that made Carlos want to sit with his back to a wall, a gun in hand