Chapter 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.