THREE
JILL TURNED TOWARD THE DOOR OF THE
dim and silent S.T.A.R.S. locker room, her arms full
with two bulging duffel bags. She set them down and
quickly pulled her hair back, tucking it into a wellworn
black beret. It was really too hot, but it was her
lucky hat. She glanced at her watch before hefting the
bags, pleased to note that it had only taken her three
minutes to load up.
She'd gone through all of the Alpha lockers, grabbing
utility belts, fingerless gloves, Kevlar vests and
shoulder packs, noting that the lockers reflected their
user's personalities: Barry's had been covered with
snapshots of his family and a pin-up from a gun
magazine, a rare .45 Luger, shining against red velvet.
Chris had pictures of his Air Force buddies up and the
shelves were a boyish mess-crumpled T-shirts, loose
papers, even a glow-in-the-dark yo-yo with a broken
string. Brad Vickers had a stack of self-help books and
Joseph, a Three Stooges calendar. Only Wesker's had
been devoid of personal effects. Somehow, it didn't
surprise her. The captain struck her as too tightly
wound to place much value on sentiment.
Her own locker held a number of used paperback
true crime novels, a toothbrush, floss, breath mints,
and three hats. On the door was a small mirror and an
old, frayed photo of her and her father, taken when
she was a child and they'd gone to the beach one
summer. As she'd quickly thrown the Alpha gear
together, she decided that she'd redecorate when she
had free time; anyone looking through her locker
would think she was some kind of dental freak.
Jill crouched a bit and fumbled at the latch to the
door, balancing the awkward bags on one raised knee.
She'd just grasped it when someone coughed loudly
behind her.
Startled, Jill dropped the bags and spun, looking for
the cougher as her mind reflexively assessed the
situation. The door had been locked. The small room
held three banks of lockers and had been quiet and
dark when she'd come in. There was another door in
the back of the room, but no one had come through it
since she'd entered-
-which means that someone was already here
when I came in, in the shadows behind the last bank. A
cop grabbing a nap?
Unlikely. The department's lunch room had a couple
of bunks in the back, a lot more comfortable than
a narrow bench over cold concrete.
Then maybe it's someone enjoying a little "leisure"
time with a magazine, her brain snarled, does it
matter? You're on the clock here, get moving!
Right. Jill scooped up the bags and turned to leave.
"Miss Valentine, isn't it?" A shadow separated
itself from the back of the room and stepped forward,
a tall man with a low, musical voice. Early forties, a
thin frame, dark hair and deep set eyes. He was
actually wearing a trench coat, and an expensive one
at that.
Jill readied herself to move quickly if the need
arose. She didn't recognize him.
"That's right," she said warily.
The man stepped toward her, a smile flickering
across his face. "I have something for you," he said
softly.
Jill narrowed her eyes and shifted automatically
into a defensive position, balancing her weight on the
balls of her feet. "Hold it, asshole - I don't know who
the hell you think you are or what you think I want,
but you're in a police station . . ."
She trailed off as he shook his head, grinning
broadly, his dark eyes twinkling with mirth. "You
mistake my intentions, Miss Valentine. Excuse my
manners, please. My name is Trent, and I'm ... a
friend to the S.T.A.R.S."
Jill studied his posture and position and eased her
own stance slightly, watching his eyes for even a
flicker of movement. She didn't feel threatened by
him, exactly. . . .
. . . but how did he know my name?
"What do you want?"
Trent grinned wider. "Ah, straight to the point. But
of course, you're on a rather tight schedule..."
He slowly reached into a pocket of his coat and
pulled out what looked like a cell phone. "Though it's
not what I want that's important. It's what I think you
should have."
Jill glanced quickly at the item he held, frowning.
"That?"
"Yes. I've assembled a few documents that you
should find interesting; compelling, in fact." As he
spoke, he held out the device.
She reached for it carefully, realizing as she did that
it was a mini-disk reader, a very complicated and
costly micro computer. Trent was well-financed, whoever
he was.
Jill tucked the reader into her hip pack, suddenly
more than a little curious. "Who do you work for?"
He shook his head. "That's not important, not at
this juncture. Although I will say that there are a lot of
very important people watching Raccoon City right
now."
"Oh? And are these people 'friends' of the
S.T.A.R.S., too, Mr. Trent?"
Trent laughed, a soft, deep chuckle. "So many
questions, so little time. Read the files. And if I were
you, I wouldn't mention this conversation to anyone;
it could have rather serious consequences."
He walked toward the door in the back of the room,
turning back to her as he reached for the knob. Trent's
lined, weathered features suddenly lost all trace of
humor, his gaze serious and intense.
"One more thing, Miss Valentine, and this is critical,
make no mistake: not everyone can be trusted,
and not everyone is who they appear to be - even the
people you think you know. If you want to stay alive,
you'll do well to remember it."
Trent opened the door and just like that, he was
gone.
Jill stared after him, her mind going a million
directions at once. She felt like she was in some
melodramatic old spy movie and had just met the
mysterious stranger. It was laughable, and yet-
- and yet he just handed you several thousands of
dollars worth of equipment with a straight face and
told you to watch your back; you think he's kidding?
She didn't know what to think, and she didn't have
time to think it; the Alpha team was probably assembled,
waiting, and wondering where the hell she was.
Jill shouldered the heavy bags and hurried out the
door.
They'd gotten the weapons loaded and secured and
Wesker was getting impatient. Although his eyes were
hidden by dark aviator sunglasses, Chris could see it
in the captain's stance and in the way he kept his head
cocked toward the building. The helicopter was
prepped and ready, the blades whipping warm, humid
air through the tight compartment. With the door
open, the sound of the engine drowned out any
attempt at conversation. There was nothing to do but
wait.
Come on, Jill, don't slow us up here. . . .
Even as Chris thought it, Jill emerged from the
building and jogged toward them with the Alpha gear,
an apologetic look on her face. Wesker jumped down
to help her, taking one of the stuffed bags as she
climbed aboard.
Wesker followed, closing the double hatches behind
them. Instantly, the roar of the turbine engine was
muted to a dull thrum.
"Problems, Jill?" Wesker didn't sound angry, but
there was an edge to his voice that suggested he wasn't
all that happy, either.
Jill shook her head. "One of the lockers was stuck. I
had a hell of a time getting the key to work."
The captain stared at her for a moment, as if
deciding whether or not to give her a hard time, then
shrugged. "I'll call maintenance when we get back.
Go ahead and distribute the gear."
He picked up a headset and put it on, moving up to
sit next to Brad as Jill started passing out the vests.
The helicopter lifted slowly, the RPD building falling
away as Brad positioned them to head northwest.
Chris crouched down next to Jill after donning his
vest, helping her sort through the gloves and belts as
they sped over the city toward the Arklay Mountains.
The busy urban streets below quickly gave way to the
suburbs, wide streets and quiet houses set amidst
squares of browning grass and picket fences. An
evening haze had settled over the sprawling but isolated
community, fussing the edges of the picturesque
view and giving it an unreal, dream-like quality.
Minutes passed in silence as the Alphas prepared
themselves and belted in, each team member preoccupied
with his or her own thoughts.
With any luck, the Bravo team's helicopter had
suffered only a minor mechanical failure. Forest
would've set it down in one of the scraggly open fields
that dotted the forest and was probably up to his
elbows in grease by now, cursing at the engine as they
waited for Alpha to show. Without the bird in working
order, Marini wouldn't start the proposed search.
The alternative . . .
Chris grimaced, not wanting to consider any alternatives.
He'd once seen the aftermath of a serious
'copter crash, back in the Air Force. Pilot error had
led to the fall of a Huey carrying eleven men and
women to a training mission. By the time the rescuers
had arrived, there'd been nothing but charred, smoking
bones amidst the fiery debris, the sweet, sticky
smell of gasoline-roasted flesh heavy in the blackened
air. Even the ground had been burning, and that was
the image that had haunted his dreams for months
afterwards; the earth on fire, the chemical flames
devouring the very soil beneath his feet. . . .
There was a slight dip in their altitude as Brad
adjusted the rotor pitch, jolting him out of the unpleasant
memory. The ragged outskirts of Raccoon
Forest slipped by below, the orange markers of the
police blockade standing out against the thick muted
green of the trees. Twilight was finally setting in, the
forest growing heavy with shadow.
"ETA . . . three minutes." Brad called back, and
Chris looked around the cabin, noting the silent, grim
expressions of his teammates. Joseph had tied a
bandana over his head and was intently relacing his
boots. Barry was gently rubbing a soft cloth over his
beloved Colt Python, staring out the hatch window.
He turned his head to look at Jill and was surprised to
find her staring back at him thoughtfully. She was
sitting on the same bench as him and she smiled
briefly, almost nervously as he caught her gaze.
Abruptly she unhooked her belt and moved to sit next
to him. He caught a faint scent of her skin, a clean,
soapy smell.
"Chris . . . what you've been saying, about external
factors in these cases ..."
Her voice was pitched so low that he had to lean in
to hear her over the throbbing of the engine. She
glanced quickly around at the others, as if to make
sure that no one was listening, then looked into his
eyes, her own carefully guarded.
"I think you might be on the right track," she said
softly, "and I'm starting to think that it might not be
such a good idea to talk about it."
Chris's throat suddenly felt dry. "Did something
happen?"
Jill shook her head, her finely chiseled features
giving away nothing. "No. I've just been thinking that
maybe you should watch what you say. Maybe not
everyone listening is on the right side of this..."
Chris frowned, not sure what she was trying to tell
him. "The only people I've talked to are on the job."
Her gaze didn't falter, and he realized suddenly
what she was implying.
Jesus, and I thought I was paranoid!
"Jill, I know these people, and even if I didn't, the
S.T.A.R.S. have psycho profiles on every member,
history checks, personal references - there's no way it
could happen."
She sighed. "Look, forget I said anything. I just . . .
just watch yourself, that's all."
"All right, kids, look lively! We're coming up on
sector twenty-two, they could be anywhere."
At Wesker's interruption, Jill gave him a final sharp
glance and then moved to one of the windows. Chris
followed, Joseph and Barry taking the search up on
the other side of the cabin.
Looking out the small window, he scanned the
deepening dusk on automatic, thinking about what
Jill had said. He supposed he should be grateful that
he wasn't the only one who suspected some kind of a
cover up, but why hadn't she said anything before?
And to warn him against the S.T.A.R.S. . . .
She knows something.
She must, it was the only explanation that made
any sense. He decided that after they picked up Bravo,
he'd talk to her again, try to convince her that going to
Wesker would be their best bet. With both of them
pushing, the captain would have to listen.
He stared out at the seemingly endless sea of trees
as the helicopter skimmed lower, forcing his full
attention to the search. The Spencer estate had to be
close, though he couldn't see it in the fading light.
Thoughts of Billy and Umbrella and now Jill's strange
warning circled through his exhaustion, trying to
break his focus, but he refused to give in. He was still
worried about the Bravos - though as the trees swept
by, he was becoming more and more convinced that
they weren't in any real trouble. It was probably
nothing worse than a crossed wire, Forest had just
shut it down to make repairs.
Then he saw it less than a mile away, even as Jill
pointed and spoke, and his concern turned to cold
dread.
"Look, Chris!"
An oily plume of black smoke boiled up through the
last remnants of daylight, staining the sky like a
promise of death.
Oh, no!
Barry clenched his jaw, staring at the stream of
smoke that rose up from the trees, feeling sick.
"Captain, two o'clock sharp!" Chris called, and
then they were turning, heading for the dark smudge
that could only mean a crash.
Wesker moved back into the cabin, still wearing his
shades. He stepped to the window and spoke quietly,
his voice subdued. "Let's not assume the worst.
There's a possibility that a fire broke out after they
landed, or that they started the fire on purpose, as a
signal."
Barry wished they could believe him, but even
Wesker had to know better. With the 'copter shut
down, a fire starting on its own was unlikely and if
the Bravos wanted to signal, they would've used
flares.
Besides which, wood doesn't make that kind of
smoke. . . .
"But whatever it is, we won't know till we get
there. Now if I could have your full attention, please."
Barry turned away from the window, saw the others
do the same. Chris, Jill, and Joseph all wore the same
look, as he imagined he did: shock. S.T.A.R.S. sometimes
got hurt in the line of duty, it was part of the
job, but accidents like this . . .
Wesker's only visible sign of distress was the set of
his mouth, a thin, grim line against his tanned skin.
"Listen up. We've got people down in a possibly
hostile environment. I want all of you armed, and I
want an organized approach, a standard fan as soon
as we set down. Barry, you'll take point."
Barry nodded, pulling himself together. Wesker was
right; now was not the time to get emotional.
"Brad's going to set us down as close to the site as
he can get, what looks like a small clearing about fifty
meters south of their last coordinates. He'll stay with
the 'copter and keep it warm in case of trouble. Any
questions?"
Nobody spoke, and Wesker nodded briskly. "Good.
Barry, load us up. We can leave the rest of the gear on
board and come back for it."
The captain stepped to the front to talk to Brad,
while Jill, Chris, and Joseph turned to Barry. As
weapons specialist, he checked the firearms in and out
to each S.T.A.R.S. team member and kept them in
prime condition.
Barry turned to the cabinet next to the outer hatch
and unhooked the latch, exposing six Beretta 9mm
handguns on a metal rack, cleaned and sighted only
yesterday. Each weapon held fifteen rounds, semijacketed
hollow points. It was a good gun, though
Barry preferred his Python, a lot bigger punch with
.357 rounds. . . .
He quickly distributed the weapons, passing out
three loaded clips with each.
"I hope we don't need these," Joseph said, slapping
in a clip, and Barry nodded agreement. Just because
he paid his dues to the NRA didn't mean he was some
trigger-happy dumbass, looking to kill; he just liked
guns.
Wesker joined them again and the five of them
stood at the hatch, waiting for Brad to bring them in.
As they neared the plume of smoke, the helicopter's
whirling blades pushed it down and out, creating a
black fog that blended into the heavy shadows of the
trees. Any chance of spotting the downed vehicle
from the air was lost to the smoke and dusk.
Brad swung them around and settled the bird into a
scrappy patch of tall grass, snapping wildly from the
forced wind. Even as the rails wobbled to the ground,
Barry had his hand on the latch, ready to move out.
A warm hand fell on his shoulder. Barry turned and
saw Chris looking at him intently.
"We're right behind you," Chris said, and Barry
nodded. He wasn't worried, not with the Alphas
backing him up. All he was concerned with was the
Bravo team's situation. Rico Marini was a good
friend of his. Marini's wife had baby-sat for the girls
more times than Barry could count, and was friends
with Kathy. The thought of him dead, to a stupid
mechanical screw-up . . .
Hang on, buddy, we're comin'.
One hand on the butt of his Colt, Barry pulled the
handle and stepped out into the humid, whipping
twilight of Raccoon Forest, ready for anything.
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