want Leon to know more than he had to; she'd have to
choose her words carefully.
"Ben," she said, letting her voice carry a hint of desperation. "You told the city officials that you knew something about what's been going on, didn't you?
What did you tell them?"
Bertolucci stood up and glared at her, his lips
curling. "And who the hell are you?"
Pretending that she hadn't heard, Ada upped the
desperation, but just a hair; she didn't want to over-
play the helpless female bit, it kind of clashed with the
fact that she'd survived this long.
"I'm trying to find a friend of mine, John Howe.
He was working for a branch office of Umbrella based
in Chicago, but he disappeared several months ago
and I heard a rumor that he's here, in this city ..."
She trailed off, watching Bertolucci's expression.
He knew something, no question, but she didn't
think he was going to give it up.
"I don't know anything," he said gruffly. "And even if I did, why would I want to tell you?"
Original. If the cop wasn't here, I'd probably just
shoot him. Actually, she probably wouldn't; Ada
wasn't into killing for the fun of it, and thought that
she could probably get it out of him using one of her
more persuasive methods - if her feminine charms
didn't work, there was always a shot to the kneecap.
Unfortunately, she couldn't do anything with Officer
Leon hanging around. She hadn't planned on their
encounter, but for the moment, she was stuck with
him.
The cop obviously wasn't happy with the reporter's
responses. "Okay, I say we leave him in there," he growled, talking to Ada but staring at Bertolucci with
undisguised irritation.
Bertolucci half-smiled, reaching into one pocket
and pulling out a set of silver cell keys on a thick ring.
Ada wasn't surprised, but Leon looked even more
pissed off.
"Fine by me," Bertolucci said smugly. "I'm not about to leave this cell, anyway. It's the safest place in
the building. There are more than just zombies run-
ning around here, believe you me."
From the way he said it, Ada thought she'd proba-
bly have to kill him after all. Trent's instructions had
been clear - if Bertolucci knew anything about Bir-
kin's work on the G-Virus, he was to be disposed of;
why, exactly, she wasn't sure, but that was the job. If
she could just get a few moments alone with him,
she'd be able to ascertain how much he actually knew. The question was, how? She didn't want to shoot
Leon; as a rule, she didn't kill innocents - and be-
sides, she liked cops. Not necessarily the brightest lot,
but anyone who took a job that required putting his or
her life on the line had her respect. And he had great
taste in weaponry - the Desert Eagle was top of the
line . . .
. . . so why rationalize? I ditch him first and then
circle back, doesn't mean I'm going soft. . .
"Ggrraaaa!"
A violent, inhuman shriek pierced the tense silence.
Ada snapped her Beretta around, aiming at the open
gate that led back through the empty cell-block area.
Whatever it was, it was somewhere in the basement...
"What was that?" Leon breathed from behind her, and Ada wished she knew the answer. The still
resonating echo of that furious scream was like noth-
ing she'd heard before - and nothing she expected to
hear, even knowing about Umbrella's research.
"Like I said, I'm not leaving this cell," Bertolucci said, his voice breaking slightly. "Now get out of here before you lead it right to me!"
Sniveling coward...
"Look, I may be the only cop left alive in this
building," Leon said, and something about the com- bination of fear and strength in his tone made Ada
shoot a look back at him. The officer's gaze was fixed
on Bertolucci, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding.
". . . so if you want to live, you're gonna have to
come with us."
"Forget it," Bertolucci snapped. "I'm staying here 'til the cavalry shows up - and if you're smart, you'll
do the same thing."
Leon shook his head. "It could be days before
anyone comes, our best chance is to find a way out of
Raccoon - and you heard that scream. Do you really
want to get a visit from whatever made it?"
She was impressed; some Umbrella freak could be
lurching its way toward them even now, and Leon
was actually trying to save the reporter's worthless
hide.
"I'll take the risk," said Bertolucci. "And good luck getting out, you're gonna need it. . ."
The rumpled reporter stepped up to the bars,
looking back and forth between them, running a hand
over his greasy hair.
"Look," he said, his voice softening. "There's a kennel in the back of the building, with a manhole in
it. You can get to the sewers from there, it's probably
the fastest way out of the city."
Ada sighed inwardly. Terrific; so much for her hidden route to the lab. If she dumped Leon now, it
would take him about five minutes to find her.
You can always kill him, if it comes to that, or...
you can get him lost in the sewers and come back for
Bertolucci while he's clearing the path for you.
Unlike Bertolucci, she didn't want to run into
whatever had screamed and now that she knew he
was staying put, luring the cop away was the next
logical step.
The things I do to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. . .
"Alright, I'm going to check it out," she said, and without waiting for Leon's response, she turned and
sprinted for the gate.
"Ada! Ada, wait!"
She ignored him, hurrying past the empty cells and
back into the chilled hall, relieved that the passage
was still clear and feeling a little unnerved by her
sudden reluctance to simplify the situation. Things
would be a lot easier if she just got rid of them both, a
decision she wouldn't have hesitated to make under
different circumstances. But she was sick of death,
sick and tired and disgusted with Umbrella for what
they'd done; she wasn't going to take the cop out
unless she had to.
And if she did have to, if it came down to some
innocent's life or completing the job?
That she could ask herself that question at all told
her more about her state of mind than she wanted to
admit. She'd reached the door to the kennel; Ada took
a deep breath, forcing every twinge of nagging emo-
tion from her thoughts, and stepped inside to wait for
Leon Kennedy.
FOURTEEN
SO BEAUTIFUL . . . EVEN IN DEATH, BEVERLY
Harris was radiant, but Irons couldn't risk having her
wake up while he wasn't watching; he carefully folded
her into the stone cabinet beneath the sink and
latched it, promising himself that he would take her
out when he had more time. She would become the
most exquisite animal he'd ever transformed, posed
and forever perfect once he'd prepared her the proper
way ... a dream come true.
If I have time. If there's any time left.
He knew he was feeling sorry for himself again, but
there was no one else to commiserate with, no one to
marvel at the sheer magnitude of all that he'd suf-
fered. He felt terrible - sad and angry and alone,
but he also felt that things had finally become clear.
He knew now, knew why he was being persecuted, and that awareness had given him a focus - as de-
pressing as the truth was, at least he was no longer
lost.
Umbrella. An Umbrella conspiracy to destroy me, all
along. . .
Irons sat on the scarred, stained table in the Sanctu-
ary, his special, private place, and wondered how long
it would be before the young woman came for him.
The one with the athletic body, the one who'd refused
to tell him her name. In a way, she was responsible for
his newfound clarity, an irony that he couldn't help
but appreciate; it had been her sudden appearance
that had provided him with the truth.
She would find him, of course; she was an Umbrella
spy, and Umbrella had obviously been watching him
for quite some time. They probably had lists of
everything he owned, volumes of psychological profil-
ing reports, even copies of his financial records. It all
made sense, now that he'd had some time to think; he
was the most powerful man in Raccoon, and Umbrel-
la had designed his downfall, tailored each vicious
backstab to cause him the most acute agony possible.
Irons stared at his treasures, the tools and trophies
that sat on the shelves in front of him, but felt none of
the pride they usually inspired. The polished bones
were simply something to look at as his mind worked,
absorbed with Umbrella's treachery.
Years before, when he'd started taking money to
turn a blind eye to the company's doings, things had
been different; then it had been a matter of politics, of
finding himself a niche in the power structure that
really controlled Raccoon. And things had worked
smoothly for a long time - his career had progressed
on schedule, he'd earned the respect of officials and
citizens alike, and for the most part, his investments
had paid off. Life had been good.
And then there was Birkin. William Birkin and his
neurotic wife and their brat daughter.
After the Spencer estate spill, he'd almost con-
vinced himself that the S.T.A.R.S. and goddamn
Captain Wesker had been responsible for all the
trouble, but he could see now that it was the arrival of
Birkin and his family, nearly a year before, that had
started the ball rolling; the destruction of the Spencer
lab had only hurried things along. Umbrella had
probably started monitoring him the day he'd had the
misfortune to meet Birkin - at first, just watching,
planting bugs, and installing cameras. The spies
would have come later . . .
The Birkins had come to Raccoon so that William
could concentrate on developing a superior synthesis of the T-Virus, based on the research being done at
the Spencer lab. As quirky and unpleasant as William
could sometimes be, Irons had liked him, right from
the start. The male Birkin had been Umbrella's boy
genius, but like Irons, he wasn't the type to brag about
his position; William was a humble man, only inter-
ested in fulfilling his own potential. They'd both been
too busy to have much of a friendship, but there had
been a mutual respect between them; Irons had often
felt that William looked up to him . . .
. . . and my mistake was to allow it. To allow my
regard for him to cloud my instincts, to keep me from
noticing that I was being watched, all along.
The loss of the Spencer lab sent some big ripples
through Umbrella's hierarchy, and only days after the
explosion, Irons had been approached by Annette
Birkin with a message from her husband - a message
and a request for a favor. Birkin had been worried
that Umbrella was going to demand the new synthe-
sis, the G-Virus, before it was ready; apparently, he'd
been most dissatisfied with the application of his
previous work, something about how Umbrella
hadn't let him perfect the replication process, Irons
couldn't remember exactly - and with Umbrella
looking to recover from the financial blow of the
Spencer loss, Birkin had been concerned that they
might compromise the integrity of the untested virus.
Through Annette, Birkin had asked for assistance
and offered him a little extra incentive to keep things
fair. For a hundred grand, all Irons had to do was help
keep the G-Virus under wraps - in short, watch out
for Umbrella spies and keep an eye on the surviving
S.T.A.R.S., making sure they didn't do any more
"discovering" of Umbrella's research.
That was it. A hundred thousand dollars, and I was
already watching my city, and keeping tabs on that
rebellious little pack of troublemakers. Easy, easy
money, and more to be made if everything went as
planned. Except it was a trap, an Umbrella trap. . .
Irons had walked right into it, and that was when
Umbrella had started plotting against him, using the
information they'd gathered to seal his fate. How else
could things have gone wrong so quickly? The
S.T.A.R.S. had disappeared, then Birkin - and before
he'd even had a chance to assess the situation, the
attacks had started up again. He'd barely had time to
seal Raccoon off before everything had fallen to shit.
And all because I was helping a friend - for the
greater good of the company, no less. Tragic.
Irons stood up and walked slowly around the cut-
ting table, idly tracing the dents and scars in the wood with his fingertips. Behind every mark was a story, a
memory of accomplishment, but again, he could
take no comfort. The cool, quiet atmosphere of the
Sanctuary had always soothed him before, it was
where he practiced his hobbies, where he was truly
able to be himself, but it wasn't his anymore. Noth-
ing was. Umbrella had taken it from him, just as
they'd taken his city. Was it so far-fetched to deduce
that they'd unleashed their virus to get at him, to rob
him of his power and then sent that scantily clad
brown-haired girl to rub his nose in it? Why else was
she so attractive? They knew his weaknesses and were
exploiting them, trying to keep him from retaining
even a shred of dignity . . .
. . . and soon she'll come for me, maybe still playing
dumb, still trying to seduce me with her helplessness.
An Umbrella assassin, a spy and an exploiter, that's all
she is, probably laughing at me behind that pretty
face. . .
Maybe the spill had been an accident; the last time
they'd met, William Birkin had seemed unsteady,
paranoid, and exhausted, and accidents happened
even under the best of circumstances. But the rest was
fact, there was no other explanation for how com-
pletely Irons had been ruined. That girl was coming to
get him, she was from Umbrella and she'd been sent
to murder him. And she wouldn't stop there, oh, no;
she'd find Beverly and . . . and defile her somehow,
just to make certain that nothing he cared about was
left.
Irons looked around the small, softly lit room that
had once been his, gazing wistfully at the well-used
tools and furniture, the sweet, familiar smells of
disinfectant and formaldehyde emanating from the
rugged stone walls.
My Sanctuary. Mine.
He picked up the handgun that lay on his special
cutting table, the VP70 that was still his, and felt a
bitter smile curl his lips. His life was over, he knew
that now. This whole affair had started with Birkin,
and would end here, by his own hand. But not yet.
The girl would come for him, and he would kill her
before he said his final good-byes to Beverly, before he
admitted his defeat by taking a bullet. But he would
see to it that she understood his suffering first. For
every torture he'd endured, the girl would pay, the bill
settled through flesh and bone and as much pain as he
could inflict.
He was going to die, but not alone. And not without
hearing the girl scream in agony, creating a voice for
the death of his dreams - a voice so clear and true that the echoes would reach even the black hearts of
the company executives who had betrayed him.
The S.T.A.R.S. office was empty, cluttered and cold
and layered with dust, but Claire was reluctant to
leave. After her stumbling, frightened flight through
the body-strewn halls of the second floor, finding the
place where her brother had spent his working days
had left her feeling weak with relief. Mr. X hadn't
followed her, and although she was still anxious to
help Sherry and find Leon, she found herself linger-
ing, afraid to step back into the lifeless halls and
hesitant to leave the one place that felt like Chris.
Where are you, big brother? And what am I going to
do? Zombies, fire, death, your weird Chief Irons and
that lost little girl - and just when I thought things
couldn't get any more insane, I get to face off with The
Thing That Would Not Die, the freak to end all freaks.
How am I going to get through this?
She sat at Chris's desk, gazing at the small strip of
black-and-white pictures that she'd found tucked in
the bottom drawer; the four shots were of the two of
them, grinning and making faces, a photo-booth
memento of the week they'd spent in New York last
Christmas. Finding the strip had made her want to
cry at first, all of the fear and confusion she'd been
holding back finally surging to the front at the sight of
his well-loved smile - but the longer she'd looked at
