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 dis- memberment suggest ritualistic behavior, as does the
presence of decomposed flesh found on some of the
victims - like the killers are carrying parts of previ-
ous unknown victims to their attacks. We've got saliva
and tissue samples from four separate human assail-
ants, 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 off-
limits 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 dry-
erase 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 contrib-
uted something. She knew the cult aspect was reach-
ing, 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 terror-
ism 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 lis-
tened 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 hap-
pened - the entire system blanking out or being seri-
ously 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 arse-
nal of rifles and handguns shelved above boxes of ammo. Wesker turned to the rest of them, his expres-
sion as bland as ever but his voice brisk with au-
thority.
"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 barri-
cade," 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, check-
ing 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 foot-
steps 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.
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