EPILOGUE
MILES AWAY, WESKER HEARD THE EXPLOSION, and could see the smoke rising shortly afterward, thick black plumes of it. He thought about circling the jet back, but decided against it; there was no point. If Alexia wasn't dead, his people would find out soon enough; hell, the world would find out soon enough. "I hope you were in there, Redfield," he said softly, smiling a little. Of course he was; Chris wasn't bright enough or fast enough to have gotten out in time. . . . . . although he might be lucky enough. Wesker had to concede that much; Redfield had the luck of the devil. It was a shame about Alexia turning him down. She'd been something, terrifying and evil, but definitely some - thing. His employers weren't going to be happy when he came back without her, and he couldn't blame them; they'd shelled out plenty for the Rockfort attack, and he'd practically promised them results.
They'll live. If they don't like it, they can find them-selves a new boy. Trent, on the other hand. . .
Wesker grimaced, not looking forward to their next meeting. He owed the man. After the Spencer fiasco, Trent had - quite literally - pulled his ass out of the fire, and arranged for him to be fixed up, better than new. And he'd been responsible for Wesker's introduction to his current employers, men with real aspirations for power, and the means to ob - tain it.
And. . .
And he'd never admit to it out loud, but Trent scared him. He was so smooth, well-mannered and soft-spo - ken, but with a glitter in his eyes that made him always seem to be laughing, like everything was a joke and he was the only one who got it. In Wesker's experience, the ones who laughed were the most dangerous; they didn't feel like they had anything to prove, and were usually at least slightly insane. I'm just glad we're on the same side, Wesker assured himself, believing it because he wanted to. Because going up against someone like Trent was a bad, bad plan. Well. He could worry about Trent later, after he'd made the proper apologies to the proper agents. At least Boyscout Redfield was dead, and he was still alive and kicking, working for the side that was going to win when all was said and done. Wesker smiled, looking forward to the end. It was going to be spectacular. The sun had come out and was reflecting against the snow, creating a brilliant radiance, blinding in its perfec-tion. The small plane shot away, its shadow chasing it across the sparkling plains.
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