PROLOGUE
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 living
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 Umbrella
was footing his bills.
He snatched up the receiver with one dripping hand
and tried not to sound too out of breath.
"Hello?"
"Carlos, it's Mitch Hirami."
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 an
hour to report, and we leave in two, that's 1500 hours,
comprende?"
"Si-uh, yes, sir." Carlos had been fluent in English
for years, but he was still getting used to speaking it
full-time. "Is there any info on what kind of situation?"
"Negative. You'll be briefed along with the rest of us
when 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 people
... 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 Countermeasure
Service: an impressive title for a group of hired
ex-mercenaries and ex-military, most with combat experience
and shady backgrounds. The recruiter in Honduras
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 revolutionaries,
of living in mud shacks and eating out of
cans, the promise of real employment - and at an astonishingly
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 possibly
be worse man shooting it out with a bunch of
coked-up pendejos in some anonymous jungle, wondering
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 determined
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 pharmaceutical
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 industrial
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, surrounded
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. Hirami
had said they were calling in everyone - four platoons,
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 supposed
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 definitely
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 monitoring
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."
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