Russians. It shouldn't have been surprising, given Umbrella's penchant for squirreling away people of all nationalities like some kind of bizarre packrat.
McLeod watched as one of them, probably a commander given his authority, snapped at another of the same team, sending another, younger man to secure one of the exits.
McLeod himself was bruised and battered, given the number of times he had been hit, making his breath hard in coming. It had been chilling when he had fallen from the force of them, then surrounded by hit team, to learn- not one of them had pierced his vest.
Even so, he staggered to his feet to duck under of the long, tempered-glass windows, angling himself so he could see out of it without the risk of being a target.
McLeod glanced over his shoulder, taking the shadowy forms in stride. Given the poor light, he couldn't see their affiliation, whether they were Umbrella forces or hired hands. “What’s your affiliation,” he sent at the group of men, voice hoarse from exertion and his injuries.