THREE
JILL FELT HER HEART QUICKEN AT REBECCA'S
words, a feeling that things were happening too
fast and that they weren't prepared. Her decision
seemed sudden, even though Jill really hadn't
doubted that she'd volunteer; Rebecca was a lot
stronger than she looked.
She glanced around Barry's wide, open living room,
discreetly noting the reactions of her teammates.
Chris's face was strained, his mouth drawn as he
stared absently at the map of Caliban Cove, while
Barry walked across to one of the living room windows,
staring out past the curtain and scowling at
nothing in particular.
They're worried about her, and maybe they should
be; Griffith sounds like a serious psycho . . . but would
any of us have hesitated if we'd been asked to go?
It just proved that Rebecca was as committed as
they were, also no great surprise. Getting to know the
young Bravo had been one of the only bright spots in
the frustrating days since the mansion had burned.
The girl had been unfailingly optimistic about their
chances against Umbrella even after their suspension,
and had worked tirelessly to keep all of their spirits
up. She was brilliant, too and yet she never flaunted
it, or came across as condescending when she was
attempting to discuss aspects of the T-Virus with
them.
Rebecca looked a bit distraught herself, glancing
around at the three men in the room. Even David
Trapp seemed vaguely uncomfortable with her decision,
probably because of Rebecca's youth.
Men. She's young, she's cute, and she's undoubtedly
smarter than all of us put together, but the young and
cute part tends to make them overlook the rest.
Jill caught her eye and smiled encouragingly. At
Rebecca's age, Jill had been a professional thief, and a
good one. She was worried about Rebecca, too, but
only because she'd grown to care about her. The fact
that she was a young woman wasn't a reason to
underestimate her talents.
Rebecca smiled back, and walked over to sit by her
as David nodded hesitantly at his newest teammate.
"All right, then. Good. There's a plane leaving for
Bangor at twenty-three hundred hours, with a connecting
flight to a field just outside of Exeter. I
thought we could all go over a bit of strategy here, and
then drop by your place on the way to the airfield so
you can pack a few things."
Rebecca nodded, and after cracking a window
open, Barry moved back to join them, leaning against
one arm of the couch. He folded his arms across his
massive chest and jerked his chin toward David.
"You're the strategist," he said, not unkindly.
"Why don't you start us off?"
The respect between the two men was obvious,
making Jill like David all the more. In spite of Barry's
screw ups in the Spencer fiasco, Jill had grown to trust
him, something she didn't do easily and he seemed
confident in David Trapp's skills.
"I don't mean to take over," David said, "but I
have a few thoughts on how we might approach this
situation. I've known about the S.T.A.R.S.'s betrayal
for several days now ... though I thought we all
might spend a few moments considering our course of
action. I realize that this must come as quite a shock."
Jill picked up on the same thread of bitterness she'd
noticed earlier, on the word "betrayal." The fact that
the S.T.A.R.S. were in bed with Umbrella obviously
wasn't sitting too well with Mr. Trapp ...
. . . probably not with Chris or Barry, either. Both of
them have more time invested with the S. T.A.R.S. than
me or Becca . . .
Jill was disappointed and angry that the S.T.A.R.S.
had sold out, but it wasn't going to be a factor in her
decision to work at bringing Umbrella down. Her
path had been determined on the day that the McGee
sisters had been brutally murdered. The two little
girls were the first innocent victims of the T-Virus
spill at the Spencer estate and they had been her friends.
She pushed the thoughts away, focusing on the
matter at hand. Without the S.T.A.R.S., their job was
going to be a lot tougher. Not impossible, but she had
to admit to herself that their chance of success had
just dropped to somewhere near zero. It was a good
thing she didn't mind being the underdog.
It doesn't matter anyway. Umbrella's going to pay
for what they've done, one way or another. . .
Barry's gruff voice broke the quiet in the room, his
gaze thoughtful. "Maybe we should go to the press.
Not local, but someone big, national."
David sighed, shaking his head. "I thought of that.
It's a good idea, but right now we don't have the proof
to make anything stick."
"Yeah, but at least Umbrella wouldn't move on us
with everyone watching."
"We couldn't count on that," Jill said. "If they got
to the S.T.A.R.S., they could get to anyone. And
without evidence . . . well, you gotta admit, the
story's the kind of thing even the tabloids wouldn't
buy."
There was a moment of sullen silence, as if her
words reminded them all of how insane it sounded,
how insane it would sound to anyone who hadn't
experienced what they'd been through.
A virus that accidentally turns people into zombies,
being used to create unspeakable monsters as living
weapons... invented and then covered up by a major
corporation that hires mad scientists to experiment on
human beings. All it needs is a Nazi war criminal with
an atomic weapon, we'd have a best-seller on our
hands...
"Well, what we were talking about before organizing
some of the other S.T.A.R.S.," Chris said.
"I've got a few people in mind, some of the guys I
trained with. And I know Barry's got a lot of contacts."
David nodded agreement. "Yes, I think that should
be a priority. My concern is how to get in touch with
them. The branch offices may already be tapped, and
we want to keep Umbrella from learning about our
plans for as long as possible. Unfortunately, we won't
have use of the S.T.A.R.S.'s resources for much
longer."
"Maybe we should look for a go-between," Jill said
slowly. "Someone who doesn't have ties to the
S.T.A.R.S"
Chris grinned suddenly. "I know a guy from back in
the Air Force who works for Jack Hamilton now, one
of the section heads for the FBI—I don't know much
about Hamilton, but Pete's about as honest as they
come. And he owes me a favor."
"Brilliant," David said. "Perhaps you could ask
him to help you look into the local police as well.
Once we have solid evidence from the Maine facility,
we can go to your friend, instigate a federal investigation."
It sounded good, but Jill found herself feeling
frustrated by the talk. She wanted to act. Waiting for
the S.T.A.R.S. to contact them had been bad enough;
knowing that Rebecca was going to be risking her life
while they waited idly by would be excruciating.
"You said you had some thoughts about what else
we could do," she said.
David nodded. "Yes, though once we involve the
government, it may not come to anything quite so
daring. I had been formulating a plan to infiltrate
Umbrella headquarters, a risky proposition at best. It
seems wisest to work on a smaller scale for now, but
I do believe the three of you should drop out of sight,
as soon as possible. I also think it would be prudent
for you to see what you can uncover on Mr. Trent,
though I have the distinct feeling that you won't come
up with much, if anything."
He smiled a little, and having met Trent, Jill
understood his doubts perfectly. Their strange benefactor
had struck her as a very careful man.
"I get the impression that we'll only find what he
wants us to find," David continued, "but it is worth a
look. And we'll need to arrange for a rendezvous site
after we've..."
His soft, musical voice broke off suddenly as he
tilted his head to one side, listening intently. Jill heard
it in the same instant and felt her heart freeze in her
chest.
A rustling in the bushes outside the window that
Barry had opened.
Umbrella!!!
"Get down!" Jill shouted, and rolled off the couch,
pulling Rebecca with her as the window shattered, the
curtains blown aside in an explosive burst from an
automatic rifle.
David dove for the floor as bullets riddled the chair
he'd been in, already grabbing for his weapon. Tufts of
padding floated past his wide eyes as a smoking trail
of holes tore across the wall, plaster and wood flying.
Bloody hell...
There was a split-second break in the onslaught,
just long enough for them to hear the crash of glass
breaking from the back of the house.
"Barry, lights!" he shouted, but Barry was way
ahead of him, the thunder of his Colt revolver drowning
out the intermittent spray of the machine gun.
Boom! Boom!
The room went dark as Barry's rounds found their
mark, glass raining down from above. Light still
streamed into the darkness from the hall, and there
was another hail of bullets from outside.
Chris scrabbled on elbows and knees for the hallway
and in one smooth movement rolled onto his side
and took out the additional lights. The living room
was now completely black, and the bursts of automatic
fire stopped.
Over the ringing in his ears, David heard boots
crunching on glass from back in the kitchen. The
heavy steps paused, the intruder probably waiting for
the window shooter to catch up and there will be more than two,
covering the exits. Kitchen door, front porch, someone watching the
windows. . .
Another set of steps entered the kitchen, these
hurried and shuffling, but they also stopped. The pair
was waiting, either for more of their team or for the
assembled S.T.A.R.S. to make a move. David's
thoughts raced independently of him, reflexively considering
and rejecting theories and options at lightning
speed.
We get upstairs, pick them off one at a time—
—unless they mean to torch the house—
—so we run straight through them, out the back—
—except they've got the firepower advantage, maybe
spook eyes and we'd be moving targets, no contest. . .
All he knew for certain was that they couldn't stay
where they were. There was no cover for when the
thugs got tired of waiting.
There was shuffling movement from the right as
Barry's hulking shadow crouched toward him. David's
eyes had adjusted enough to see Jill and Rebecca
on the other side of the coffee table, both of them
crouched and holding handguns. He couldn't make
Chris out, but he was probably still by the hall.
Barry's house was the last on the block, a wooded
park just past. If they could slip out, get into the
trees. . .
The thought stuck; even a bad plan was better than
none at all, and they didn't have time to work out
alternatives.
"Basement door?" David whispered.
Barry's gruff voice was soft and strained. "Yeah."
No good, it would be posted. They'd have to get out
through the second floor.
"We go through the park," he whispered quickly.
"Jill, get to Chris and prepare to lay cover on my
signal. Barry, Rebecca, as soon as we start, hit the
stairs fast to an east window, softest jump. We'll
follow. Ready? Go."
Jill was already moving around the couch, disappearing
silently into the thick shadows, Barry and
Rebecca right behind. David paused just long enough
to scoop up the papers that Trent had given him. He
stuffed them inside his shirt, the crinkling pages cool
against his sweaty skin. Nothing else in his briefcase
would be damaging.
He crept toward the yawning blackness of the
opening to the hall, edging to where Jill and Chris
were crouched. The entry faced the side of the stairs.
To the left was the front door and the foot of the steps.
To the right, the quiet kitchen at the end of the long
hall where the two Umbrella operatives waited.
They go right, I'll take left, when the shooting begins
the rest of the strike force should rush the front
door. . .
David hoped. If the timing wasn't perfect, they
were dead. Away from the faint light from the windows,
it was too dark for hand signals. He leaned
close between Jill and Chris, pitching his voice as low
as possible.
"Both right, Jill low and outside," he whispered.
They wouldn't be aiming for the floor, and Chris
could use the wall of the entry as a shield. "I've got
the front door. Keep it up for six seconds exactly,
no more. On zero, you need to be on the stairs, out of
the corridor. On my mark ... now!"
The three of them sprang into position, Chris and
Jill firing toward the kitchen, David whirling to the
left. He ran for the front door in a low crouch, the
count ticking.
... five... four...
Behind him, Barry and Rebecca lunged for the
stairs through the crash of bullets. David trained the
Beretta on the darkness in front of him and was
only a foot away from the door when someone kicked
it open.
Bam!
His shoulder connected with the heavy wood and
he threw himself into it, slamming it closed. He
dropped to the floor and jammed his heel against the
base.
...two ...
He fired into the door at an upward angle, five shots
as fast as he could pull the trigger. There was a
strangled scream, the sound of something heavy hitting
the porch, and he fired three more before rolling
to his feet, into the alcove at the foot of the stairs and
out of the line of fire. Their time was up.
David spun, saw Jill and Chris already on their way
Up and as his feet hit the first riser, there was a
sound like an explosion behind him. The front door
was suddenly a mass of flying splinters, heavy rounds
tearing through the wood as the Umbrella team
sought to end the battle. If the two Alphas hadn't
killed the men in the kitchen, they were surely dead
by now.
Halfway up the staircase, David turned and fired
twice more through the rapidly disintegrating door,
hoping he'd bought the S.T.A.R.S. enough time to
escape.
Ten, maybe twenty seconds before they realize we're
gone.
It was going to be close.
Rebecca stood on the dark landing, her heart
pounding almost as loudly as the booming shots that
chased Jill and Chris up the stairs.
Come on, come on. . .
Barry was to her right at the end of the landing's
hall, barely visible by the moonlight that streamed
through the open window. Jill was the first to reach
the top. Rebecca steered her toward Barry with a
touch, Chris following close behind.
Bam! Bam!
The muzzle on David's nine-millimeter flashed
brightly in the darkness on the stairs, and then he was
in front of her, materializing out of the gloom like a
sweaty ghost.
"This way. . ."
Rebecca turned and ran for the window, David at
her side. Jill had already gone and Chris was halfway
out, Barry gripping one of his hands as he struggled to
balance himself.
Please God, let there be a mattress, a pile of leaves. . .
BOOM!
The crash of the front door flying open was followed
by heavy footsteps and muffled male voices,
angry and commanding. Chris disappeared through
the window and then Barry was reaching for her, his
mouth a grim line. She jammed her pistol back in its
holster and stepped to the window.
Barry's warm hand on her back, Rebecca crawled
onto the sill and looked down. There were hedges
against the side of the house, lush and thick and
impossibly far below. She caught a glimpse of Jill,
standing on the lawn, aiming her weapon toward the
front of the house and Chris looking up at them, his
face tight with strain:
—don't think just do it—
Rebecca slid out the window, Barry's strong fingers
finding her hand. Her shoulder groaned as gravity did
its work, Barry leaning out to give her less of a drop,
her body suspended in mid-air.
He let go and before she could feel real terror, she
hit the bushes. There was small pain, twigs and
branches scratching at her bare legs, and then Chris
was pulling her out, lifting her easily from the twining
hedges.
"Take the back," he breathed, his attention already
fixed back on the window.
Rebecca snatched the revolver out as she stepped
onto the lawn, turning to face the shadows that made
up the backyard. To her left, a dark stand of trees
stood maybe twenty meters away, silent and still.
Hurry, hurry. . .
There was a thundering rattle of bullets inside the
house and a thrashing thump in the bushes to her
right, but she didn't turn, intent on her assigned task.
A movement, by the corner of the house. Rebecca
didn't hesitate, sending two shots into the thickening
of shadow, Barry's .38 jerking in her hands. The
figure crumpled, falling forward just enough for her to
see that she'd hit a man clutching a rifle and that he
wasn't going to get up again.
—never shot anybody before—
"Move!" Chris shouted, and Rebecca jerked her
head around, saw Barry climb out of the bushes and
stumble toward them. There was a shout from the
window, followed by a burst from an automatic rifle.
Rebecca actually felt the bullets hit the ground near
her feet, tearing up chunks of overgrown lawn. Dirt
pelted her legs.
Shit!
David and Jill fired back as they ran for the trees,
Chris leading the way. The shooter either ducked or
was shot; the dull clatter of the rifle fell silent. As they
reached the first of the wooded shadows, Rebecca
heard the wail of approaching sirens—followed
closely by shouts and running steps across Barry's
front porch. Seconds later, there was a squeal of tires.
Rebecca stumbled through the brushy copse, dodging
between narrow, gnarled trunks, trying to keep the
others in sight. The revolver felt too heavy in her slick
grasp and her entire body seemed to be pounding, her
legs shaking, her breathing sharp and shallow. Everything
had happened so fast. She'd known they were in
danger, that Umbrella wanted them out of the way,
but knowing something wasn't the same as really
believing it, as believing that violent strangers would
break into Barry's home and try to take their
lives. . .
. . . and I may have taken one of theirs instead.
The thought that she might have killed someone
. . . she forced it away before it could take hold,
concentrating on the pale shape of Chris's T-shirt
ahead. Her conscience would have to wait until she
had time to think it through.
Ahead of them, the thick woods opened into
a clearing, playground equipment gleaming dully in the
pallid light. Chris slowed to a jog and then stopped
where the line of trees ended, turning back to search
the shadows for the rest of them.
Rebecca caught up to him, Barry and Jill just
behind her, all of them breathing heavily and looking
as stunned and sober as Rebecca felt.
"David, where's David?" Chris gasped, and as they
all turned, straining to see past the dark, reaching
branches, Rebecca saw one of the shadows to their left
move. A stealthy, sliding movement.
"Look out!"
She dropped to the ground even as she yelled, fresh
terror surging through her system. . .
. . . and the shadow fired at them, twice, the shots
muted compared to the explosive thunder at the
house. There was a third shot, louder, closer, and the
shadow stumbled and fell, crashing against a tree
before collapsing silently to the dirt. Except for the
rising moan of sirens, the park was again still.
Rebecca slowly raised her head, craning to look
over her shoulder and saw David, standing, still
pointing his Beretta at the fallen shooter. Jill and
Chris were crouched next to her, both of them holding
their weapons out, staring around them with wide,
searching gazes . . .
. . . and on her other side, Barry was sprawled on the
ground, his face pressed to the blanket of dried pine
needles and long dead leaves.
He wasn't moving.
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