Chapter 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 estateChief? 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 min
utes 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.