TWO
JILL WAS DEEPLY RELIEVED TO HEAR THE
sound of Wesker's voice as she jogged toward the
open door of the S.T.A.R.S. office. She'd seen one of
their helicopters taking off as she'd arrived, and been
positive that they'd left without her. The S.T.A.R.S.
were a fairly casual outfit in some respects. But there
also wasn't any room for people who couldn't keep
up-and she wanted very much to be in on this case
from the beginning.
"The RPD has already established a perimeter
search, spanning sectors one, four, seven, and nine.
It's the central zones we're concerned with, and Bravo
will set down here ..."
At least she wasn't too late; Wesker always ran
meetings the same way-update speech, theory, then
Q and A. Jill took a deep breath and stepped into the
office. Wesker was pointing to a posted map at the
front of the room, dotted with colored tags where
the bodies had been found. He hardly faltered in his
speech as she walked quickly to her desk, feeling
suddenly like she was back in basic training and had
shown up late for class.
Chris Redfield threw her a half-smile as she sat
down, and she nodded back at him before focusing on
Wesker. She didn't know any of the Raccoon team
that well, but Chris had made a real effort to make her
feel welcome since she'd arrived.
". . . after a fly-by of the other central areas. Once
they report in, we'll have a better idea of where to
focus our energies."
"But what about the Spencer place?" Chris asked.
"It's practically in the middle of the crime scenes. If
we start there, we can conduct a more complete
search."
"And if Bravo's information points to that area,
rest assured, we'll search there. For now, I don't see
any reason to consider it a priority."
Chris looked incredulous. "But we only have Umbrella's
word that the estate is secure..."
Wesker leaned against his desk, his strong features
expressionless. "Chris, we all want to get to the
bottom of this. But we have to work as a team, and the
best approach here is to do a thorough search for
those missing hikers before we start jumping to conclusions.
Bravo will take a look-see and we'll conduct
this by the book."
Chris frowned, but said nothing more. Jill resisted
the urge to roll her eyes at Wesker's little speech. He
was doing the right thing, technically, but had left out
the part about it being politic to do as Chief Irons
wanted. Irons had made it clear time and again
throughout the killing spree that he was in charge of
the investigation and was calling the shots. It
wouldn't have bothered her so much except that
Wesker presented himself as an independent thinker,
a man who didn't play politics. She had joined the
S.T.A.R.S. because she couldn't stand the bullshit
red-tape that dominated so much of law enforcement,
and Wesker's obvious deferral to the chief was irritating.
Well, and don't forget that you stood a good chance
of ending up in prison if you hadn't changed your
occupation. . .
"Jill. I see that you managed to find the time to
come in. Illuminate us with your brilliant insight.
What have you got for us?"
Jill met Wesker's sharp gaze evenly, trying to seem
as cool and composed as he was. "Nothing new, I'm
afraid. The only obvious pattern is location. . ."
She looked down at the notes she had on the stack
of files in front of her, scanning them for reference.
"Uh, the tissue samples from underneath both Becky
McGee's and Chris Smith's fingernails were an exact
match, we got that yesterday . . . and Tonya Lipton,
the third victim, had definitely been hiking in the
foothills, that'd be sector-seven-B. . . ."
She looked back up at Wesker and made her pitch.
"My theory at this point is that there's a possible
ritualistic cult hiding in the mountains, four to eleven
members strong, with guard dogs trained to attack
intruders in their territory."
"Extrapolate." Wesker folded his arms, waiting.
At least no one had laughed. Jill plunged forward,
warming to the material. "The cannibalism and dismemberment
suggest ritualistic behavior, as does the
presence of decomposed flesh found on some of the
victims - like the killers are carrying parts of previous
unknown victims to their attacks. We've got saliva
and tissue samples from four separate human assailants,
though eye-witness reports suggest up to ten or
eleven people. And those killed by animals were all
found or found to be attacked in the same vicinity,
suggesting that they wandered into some kind of offlimits
area. The saliva traces appear to be canine,
though there's still some disagreement. . ." She
trailed off, finished.
Wesker's face betrayed nothing, but he nodded
slowly. "Not bad, not bad at all. Disprove?"
Jill sighed. She hated having to shoot her own
theory down, but that was part of the job-and in all
honesty, the part that most encouraged clear, rational
thinking. The S.T.A.R.S. trained their people not to
fixate on any single path to the truth.
She glanced at her notes again. "It's highly unlikely
that a cult that big would move around much, and the
murders started too recently to be local; the RPD
would've seen signs before now, some escalation to
this kind of behavior. Also, the level of post-mortem
violence indicates disorganized offenders, and they
usually work solo."
Joseph Frost, the Alpha vehicle specialist, piped up
from the back of the room. "The animal attack part
works, though, protecting their territory and all that."
Wesker scooped up a pen and walked to the dryerase
board next to his desk, talking as he moved. "I
agree."
He wrote territoriality on the board and then turned
back to face her. "Anything else?"
Jill shook her head, but felt good that she'd contributed
something. She knew the cult aspect was reaching,
but it had been all she could come up with. The
police certainly hadn't come up with anything better.
Wesker turned his attention to Brad Vickers, who
suggested that it was a new strain of terrorism, and
that demands would be made soon. Wesker put terrorism
on the board, but didn't seem enthusiastic about
the idea. Neither did anyone else. Brad quickly went
back to his headset, checking on Bravo team's status.
Both Joseph and Barry passed on theorizing, and
Chris's views on the killings were already well known,
if vague; he believed that there was an organized
assault going on, and that external influences were
involved somehow. Wesker asked if he had anything
new to add (stressing new, Jill noticed), and Chris
shook his head, looking depressed.
Wesker capped the black pen and sat on the edge of
his desk, gazing thoughtfully at the blank expanse of
board. "It's a start," he said. "I know you've all read
the police and coroner reports, and listened to the
eyewitness accounts."
"Vickers here, over." From the back of the room,
Brad spoke quietly into his headset, interrupting
Wesker. The captain lowered his voice and continued.
"Now at this point, we don't know what we're
dealing with and I know that all of us have some . . .
concerns with how the RPD has been dealing with the
situation. But now that we're on the case, I..."
"What?"
At the sound of Brad's raised voice, Jill turned
toward the back of the room along with everyone else.
He was standing up, agitated, one hand pressed to the
ear piece of his set.
"Bravo team, report. Repeat, Bravo team, report!"
Wesker stood up. "Vickers, put it on 'com!"
Brad hit the switch on his console and the bright,
crackling sound of static filled the room. Jill strained
to hear a human voice amidst the fuzz, but for several
tense seconds, there was nothing.
Then. "... you copy? Malfunction, we're going to
have to . . ."
The rest was lost in a burst of static. It sounded like
Enrico Marini, the Bravo team leader. Jill chewed at
her lower lip and exchanged a worried glance with
Chris. Enrico had seemed . . . frantic. They all listened
for another moment but there was nothing
more than the sound of open air.
"Position?" Wesker snapped.
Brad's face was pale. "They're in the, uh, sector
twenty-two, tail end of C ... except I've lost the
signal. The transmitter is off-line."
Jill felt stunned, saw the feeling reflected in the
faces of the others. The helicopter's transmitter was
designed to keep working no matter what; the only
way it would shut down was if something big happened
- the entire system blanking out or being seriously
damaged.
Something like a crash.
Chris felt his stomach knot as he recognized the
coordinates.
The Spencer estate.
Marini had said something about a malfunction, it
had to be a coincidence - but it didn't feel like one.
The Bravos were in trouble, and practically on top of
the old Umbrella mansion.
All of this went through his head in a split-second,
and then he was standing, ready to move. Whatever
happened, the S.T.A.R.S. took care of their own.
Wesker was already in action. He addressed the
team even as he reached for his keys, heading for the
gun safe.
"Joseph, take over the board and keep trying to
raise them. Vickers, warm up the 'copter and get
clearance, I want us ready to fly in five."
The captain unlocked the safe as Brad handed the
headset to Joseph and hurried out of the room. The
reinforced metal door swung open, revealing an arsenal
of rifles and handguns shelved above boxes of
ammo. Wesker turned to the rest of them, his expression
as bland as ever but his voice brisk with authority.
"Barry, Chris I want you to get the weapons into
the 'copter, loaded and secured. Jill, get the vests and
packs and meet us on the roof." He clipped a key off
his ring and tossed it to her.
"I'm going to put a call in to Irons, make sure he
gets us some backup and EMTs down at the barricade,"
Wesker said, then blew out sharply. "Five
minutes or less, folks. Let's move."
Jill left for the locker room and Barry grabbed one
of the empty duffel bags from the bottom of the gun
safe, nodding at Chris. Chris scooped up a second bag
and started loading boxes of shells, cartridges, and
clips as Barry carefully handled the weapons, checking
each one. Behind them, Joseph again tried hailing
the Bravo team to no avail.
Chris wondered again about the proximity of the
Bravo team's last reported position to the Spencer
estate. Was there a connection? And if so, how?
Billy worked for Umbrella, they own the estate-
"Chief? Wesker. We just lost contact with Bravo;
I'm taking us in."
Chris felt a sudden rush of adrenaline and worked
faster, aware that every second counted - could mean
the difference between life and death for his friends
and teammates. A serious crash was unlikely, the
Bravos would have been flying low and Forest was a
decent pilot. . . but what about after they'd gone
down?
Wesker quickly relayed the information to Irons
over the phone and then hung up, walking back to
join them.
"I'm going up to make sure our 'copter's outfitted.
Joseph, give it another minute and then turn it over to
the boys at the front desk. You can help these two
carry the equipment up. I'll see you on top."
Wesker nodded to them and hurried out, his footsteps
clattering loudly down the hall.
"He's good," Barry said quietly, and Chris had to
agree. It was reassuring to see that their new captain
didn't rattle easily. Chris still wasn't sure how he felt
about the man personally, but his respect for Wesker's
abilities was growing by the minute.
"Come in, Bravo, do you copy? Repeat. . ."
Joseph patiently went on, his voice tight with
strain, his pleas lost to the haze of white static that
pulsed out into the room.
Wesker strode down the deserted hall and through
the shabbier of the two second-floor waiting rooms,
nodding briskly at a pair of uniforms that stood
talking by the soda machine.
The door to the outside landing was chocked open,
a faint, humid breeze cutting through the stickiness of
the air inside. It was still daylight, but not for much
longer. He hoped that wouldn't complicate matters,
although he figured it probably would. . . .
Wesker took a left and started down the winding
corridor that led to the helipad, absently running
through a mental checklist.
. . . hailing open procedure, weapons, gear, report
. . .
He already knew that everything was in order, but
went through it again anyway; it didn't pay to get
sloppy, and assumptions were the first step down that
path. He liked to think of himself as a man of
precision, one who had taken all possibilities into
account and decided on the best course of action after
thoroughly weighing all factors. Control was what
being a competent leader was all about.
But to close this case...
He shut the thought down before it could get any
further. He knew what had to be done, and there was
still plenty of time. All he needed to concentrate on
now was getting the Bravos back, safe and sound.
Wesker opened the door at the end of the hall and
stepped out into the bright evening, the rising hum of
the 'copter's engine and the smell of machine oil
filling his senses. The small rooftop helipad was
cooler than inside, partly draped by the shadow of an
aging water tower, and empty except for the gunmetal
gray Alpha helicopter. For the first time, he wondered
what had gone wrong for Bravo; he'd had Joseph and
the rookie check both birds out yesterday and they'd
been fine, all systems go.
He dismissed that train of thought as he walked
toward the 'copter, his shadow falling long across the
concrete. It didn't matter why, not anymore. What
mattered was what came next. Expect the unexpected,
that was the S.T.A.R.S. motto, although that basically
meant to prepare for anything.
Expect nothing, that was Albert Wesker's motto. A
little less catchy, maybe, but infinitely more useful. It
virtually guaranteed that nothing would ever surprise
him.
He stepped up to the open pilot door and got a
shaky thumbs-up from Vickers; the man looked positively
green, and Wesker briefly considered leaving
him behind. Chris was licensed to fly, and Vickers had
a reputation for choking under the gun; the last thing
he needed was for one of his people to freeze up if
there was trouble. Then he thought about the lost
Bravos and decided against it. This was a rescue
mission. The worst Vickers could do would be to
throw up on himself if the 'copter had crashed badly,
and Wesker could live with that.
He opened the side door and crouched his way into
the cabin, doing a quick inventory of the equipment
that lined the walls. Emergency flares, ration kits . . .
he popped the lid on the heavy, dented footlocker
behind the benches and looked through the basic
medical supplies, nodding to himself. They were as
ready as they were going to be ...
Wesker grinned suddenly, wondering what Brian
Irons was doing right now.
Shitting his pants, no doubt. Wesker chuckled as he
stepped back out onto the sun-baked asphalt, getting a
sudden clear mental image of Irons, his pudgy cheeks
red with anger and crap dribbling down his leg. Irons
liked to think he could control everything and everyone
around him and lost his temper when he couldn't,
and that made him an idiot.
Unfortunately for all of them, he was an idiot with
a little bit of power. Wesker had checked him out
carefully before taking the position in Raccoon City,
and knew a few things about the chief that didn't
paint him in a particularly positive light. He had no
intention of using that information, but if Irons
attempted to screw things up one more time, Wesker
had no qualms about letting that information get
out...
...or at least telling him that I have access to it; it'd
certainly keep him out of the way.
Barry Burton stepped out onto the concrete carrying
more ammo cache, his giant biceps flexing as he
shifted his hold on the heavy canvas bag and started
for the 'copter. Chris and Joseph followed, Chris with
the sidearms and Joseph lugging a satchel of RPGs,
the compact grenade launcher slung over one
shoulder.
Wesker marveled at Burton's brute strength as the
Alpha climbed in and casually set the bag down as
though it didn't weigh over a hundred pounds. Barry
was bright enough, but in the S.T.A.R.S., muscle was a
definite asset. Everyone else in his squad was in good
shape, but compared to Barry, they were pencil-necks.
As the three of them stored the equipment, Wesker
turned his attention back to the door, watching for
Jill. He checked his watch and frowned. It had been
just under five minutes since their last contact with
Bravo, they'd made excellent time ... so where the
hell was Valentine? He hadn't interacted with her
much since she'd come to Raccoon, but her file was a
rave review. She'd gotten high recommendations
from everyone she'd worked with, praised by her last
captain as highly intelligent and "unusually" calm in
a crisis. She'd have to be, with her history. Her father
was Dick Valentine, the best thief in the business a
couple of decades back. He'd trained her to follow in
his footsteps, and word had it that she had done quite
well until Daddy had been incarcerated. . . .
Prodigy or no, she could stand to buy a decent watch.
He silently urged Jill to get her ass into gear and
motioned for Vickers to start the blades turning.
It was time to find out how bad things were out
there.
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