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, re-
port . . .
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 basi-
cally 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 posi-
tively 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 every-
one 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 carry-
ing 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.
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 well-
worn 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, grab-
bing 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 cou-
ple 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!
