with that," John said softly.
Rebecca felt her excitement dwindle, could see the
same mixed emotions in the suddenly somber expres-
sions they all wore, staring down at the boxes. She'd
known that they were going to have to leave eventu-
ally, but had somehow managed to avoid thinking
about it, putting it off until it was in front of them.
It was in front of them now. And the Trisquads
would be waiting.
They stood at the north door in a dark and stuffy
hallway, tightening bootlaces, adjusting belts, putting
fresh clips into their Berettas. When David was ready,
he turned to John and nodded.
"Give it back to me."
"You, Steve, and Rebecca will take the one on the
left, northwest from here. Once we hear you get clear,
Karen and I go straight across. If your guess is right,
we'll be in block D; if you're upside down, block B.
Either way, we secure the building, find the test
number, and then wait for you to show up and give us
the go-ahead."
"And if I don't..."
Karen took up the recital. "If we don't hear from you in half an hour, we come back here and wait for
Steve and Rebecca. We complete the tests if it's
feasible..."
John grinned, a white flash in the gloom. "... and then get our asses over the fence."
"Right," David said. "Good."
They were ready. There were infinite variables in
the equation, any number of things that could go
wrong with the simple plan, but that was always the
case. There was no way to prepare for everything that
could happen, not at this point, and the decision to
split up was their best chance to avoid detection by
the Trisquads. "Any questions before we go?"
Rebecca spoke up, her youthful voice tight with
concern. "I'd like to remind everybody again to be extremely careful about what you touch, or what
touches you. The Trisquads are carriers, so try to
avoid getting close to them, particularly if they're
wounded."
David shuddered internally, remembering what
she'd told them before - that one drop of infected blood could hold millions, hundreds of millions of
virus particles. Not a pleasant thought, consider-
ing. A nine-millimeter round could inflict a lot of
damage. . .
. . . and they don't lie down when they're hit. The
three by the boathouse just kept coming, walking and
firing and bleeding. . .
They were waiting for his signal. David shook the
thoughts off and thumbed the safety on his weapon,
putting his other hand on the door latch.
"Ready? Quietly, now, on three - one . . . two . . .
three."
He pushed the door open and slipped outside into
the cool night air and the whisper of ocean waves. It
was much brighter than before, the almost-full moon
having risen high, bathing the compound in silvery
blue light. Nothing moved.
Straight in front of him about twenty meters away
was John and Karen's destination, and he was re-
lieved to see a door set into the concrete wall facing
block C; they wouldn't have to go around to get
inside.
David edged away from the door to his left, hugging
the narrow shadow of the wall. He could just make
out the front of the building he hoped was A, tall,
wind-bent pines to the left and behind it. There was a
darker shadow midway along its length, a door, and
no cover in the thirty-plus meters that spanned the
distance. Once they stepped away from C, they'd be
totally vulnerable.
If there's a team between the two lines of build-
ings . . .
He shot a glance back, saw Rebecca and Steve
tensed and waiting behind him. If they were going to
walk into a corridor of fire, at least he'd be in front;
Steve and Rebecca should have time to get back to
cover.
He took a deep breath, held it...
...and broke away from the wall, running in a low
crouch for the dark square of the block's entry.
Shapes of pallid light and shadow blurred past. His
entire being was waiting for the flash of an automatic,
the crack of fire, the sharp and piercing pain that
would take him down, but it was silent and still, the
only sound the violent stammer of his heart, the rush
of blood through his veins. Seconds stretched an
eternity as the door loomed closer, larger . . .
Then the latch was under his fingers and he was
pushing, bursting into a stifling blackness, spinning
around to see Rebecca and then Steve come lunging in
after him.
David closed the door quickly but quietly, sensing
the emptiness of the dark room, the lack of life and
then the smell hit him. Either Steve or Rebecca
gagged, a dry bark of involuntary revulsion as David
snatched for the torch, already dreading what he
knew they would see.
It was the same terrible stink that they'd come
across in the boathouse but a hundred times more
powerful. Even without the recent reference, David
knew the odor. He'd experienced it in a jungle of
South America and in a cultist's camp in Idaho, and
once, in the basement of a serial killer's house. The
smell of rotting, multiple death was unforgettable, a
rancid bile like sour milk and flyblown meat.
How many, how many will there be?
The beam snapped on and as it found the tottering,
reeking pile that took up one corner of the large
storage room, David saw that there was no way to be
certain; the bodies had started to melt into one
another, the blackened, shriveling flesh of the stacked
corpses blending and pooling from the humid heat.
Maybe fifteen, maybe twenty. . .
Retching, Steve stumbled away and threw up, a
harsh and helpless sound in the otherwise quiet room.
David quickly took in the rest of the chamber, finding
a door against the back wall, the letter A blocked
across it in black.
Without another look at the terrible mound, he
hustled Rebecca toward the far door, grabbing Steve
as they passed. Once they were through, the smell
faded to barely tolerable.
They were in a windowless corridor, and though
there was a light switch next to the door, David
ignored it for the moment, catching his breath, letting
the two young team members collect themselves.
Apparently, they'd found the Umbrella workers of
Caliban Cove; all but at least one of them, anyway
and David decided that if they ran across him, he'd
shoot first and not bother with any questions at all.
Karen and John stood at the door for a full minute
after the others had gone, cracked open just wide
enough for them to listen. Cool air filtered through
the opening, the far away hiss of waves, but no shots,
no screams.
Karen let the door close and looked at John, her
pale features masked in the dim light. Her voice was
low, even, and terribly serious. "They're in by now. You want to take lead, or would you prefer if I went
first?"
John couldn't help himself. "My women always go first," he whispered. "Though I prefer it when we go together, if you know what I mean."
Karen sighed heavily, a sound of pure exasperation.
John grinned, thinking about how easy she was. He
knew he shouldn't devil her, but it was hard to resist.
Karen Driver kicked ass with a weapon and she was
sharp as a tack in the brains department, but she was
also one of the most humorless people he'd ever
known.
It's my duty to help her lighten up. If we're gonna
die, might as well be laughing as crying ... A simple philosophy, but one he held dear; it had gotten him
through many an unpleasant situation in the past.
"John, just answer the goddamn question ..."
"I'll go," he said mildly. "Wait till I get through, then follow."
She nodded briskly, stepping back to let him by. He
briefly considered telling her that he'd greet her at the
door wearing nothing but a smile, but decided against
it. They'd worked together for almost five years, and
he knew from experience that he could only go so far
before she got pissy. Besides, it was a good line, and
he didn't want to waste it.
As soon as his hand closed over the latch, he took a
deep breath, letting his sparkling wit take a back seat
to what he thought of as his "soldier mind." There
was humor, and then there was conquering the
enemy - and while he enjoyed both immensely, he'd
learned long ago to keep them separate.
Gonna be a ghost now, gonna slide through the dark
like a shadow ...
He gently pushed the door open. No sound, no
movement. Holding his Beretta loosely, he stepped
away from the building and moved quickly through
the silvery dark, fixing on the door that was scarcely
twenty steps away. His soldier mind fed him the facts,
the cool wind, the soft tread of boots against dirt, the
smell and taste of the ocean, but his heart told him
that he was a ghost, floating like an invisible shadow
through the night.
He reached the door, touching the clammy metal
bar with steady fingers and it wouldn't move. The
entrance was locked.
No panic, no worry, he was a shade that no one
could see; he'd find another way in. John held up a
hand, telling Karen to wait, and edged smoothly to his
right.
Silent and easy, shadow without form ...
He reached the corner and slid around, letting his
heightened senses continue to feed him information.
No movement in the whispering night, the rough feel of concrete against his left shoulder and hip, the steady
pump of exhilaration and fluidity in his muscles. There
was another door, facing the broad, glimmering open-
ness of the sea, cool light matte against metal.
Rat-atat-atat-atat!
Bullets hit the dirt at his feet. John spun and leaped
backward, flattening himself against the wall as he
grabbed for the latch. Walking from the direction of
the boathouse, a line of three . . .
. . . and John tore the door open and jumped behind
it, heard the clatter of .22 rounds smash into the
metal, stopped inches from his body by the explosive
ping-ping-ping that rattled the door.
He held the door open with his foot, took a split-
second look around the edge and targeted the flash of
light, squeezing the trigger as chips of concrete and
dust flew from the wall. The nine-millimeter jumped,
a part of his hand, and he was an animal now, at one
with the thundering rounds, the pull of his breath, the
awareness of himself both as a man and a bringer of
death.
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