knowing what she meant but not ready to admit it.
Rebecca had a way of drawing him out at the worst
possible times.
"Stop what?"
Rebecca stepped closer to him, staring up into his
face, hooding her flashlight with one small hand.
"You know what. You've got that look, I can see it;
you're telling yourself that this is your fault. That if
you'd done something differently, they'd still be
here."
He sighed. "I appreciate your concern, but this isn't the appropriate..."
"Yes it is," she interrupted. "If you're going to
blame yourself, you won't think as clearly. We're not
in the S.T.A.R.S. anymore, and you're not anyone's
captain. It's not your fault."
Claire had walked over to join them, her gray gaze
curious and searching in spite of the worry that still
pinched her delicate features. "You think this is your fault? It's not. I don't think that."
David threw up his hands. "My God, alright! It's not my fault, and we can all spend some time analyz-
ing what I'm accountable for if and when we get out of
this; for now, though, can we please concentrate on
what's in front of us?"
Both young women nodded, and while he was glad
to have stopped the therapy session before it got
started, he realized that he didn't know what the next
thing was - what tasks to give them beyond what they'd already done, how they were going to resolve
their crisis, what to say or how to say it. It was a
dreadful moment; he was used to having something to
fight against, something to react to or shoot at or plan
for, but their situation seemed to be static, unchang-
ing. There wasn't a clear path for them to follow, and
that was even worse than the guilt he felt about his
lack of foresight.
And just at that moment, he heard the distant buzz
of an approaching helicopter, the faraway thrum that
could be nothing else - and although it was a solution
of sorts, it was the worst one possible.
Nothing for cover except this compound, and we'll
never make it back to the van, we've got two, three
minutes...
"We have to get out of here," David said, already running through the things they would have to do if
they were to stand a chance, even as they were all
running for the door.
The workers were cake. There had been a few tense
moments rousing them from their dark cots in the
dark dorm rooms, but it had gone off without inci-
dent. John had still been somewhat wary of a few of
them when he'd first herded them into the cafeteria,
where Leon was watching the card-players - in partic-
ular, two fairly big men who looked like they might
have machismo disorders and a thin, twitchy guy with
deepset eyes who couldn't seem to stop licking his
lips. It was like a compulsive thing; every few seconds,
his tongue would dart out, flick between his lips and
then disappear for another few seconds. Creepy.
There'd been no trouble, though. Fourteen men and
no one willing to play hero after John had presented
them with a little logic. He'd kept it short and simple:
we're here to find something, we're not planning to
hurt anyone, we just want you to stay out of the way
while we get out of here. Don't be stupid and you
won't get shot. Either the logic or the M-16 had been enough to convince them that it would be best not to
argue.
John stood by the door back into the big hall,
watching the unhappy-looking group seated in the
middle of the large room around a long table. A few
looked pissed, a few looked scared, most just looked
tired. Nobody spoke, which was fine by John; he
didn't want to have to worry about anyone trying to
work up a rebellion.
In spite of his reasonable certainty that all was cool,
he was glad to hear the light tap on the door. Leon had
been gone maybe five minutes, but it seemed like a lot longer. He walked in holding a length of chain and a
couple of wire coathangers.
"Any trouble?" Leon asked quietly, and John shook his head, keeping his attention on the silent group.
"Been nice and quiet," he said. "Where'd you find the chain?"
"Toolbox, in one of the rooms."
John nodded, then raised his voice, keeping it calm.
"Alright, folks, we're about to take our leave. We
thank you for your patience..."
Leon nudged him. "Ask if Reston's here," he whis- pered.
John sighed. "You think if he is, he's gonna tell us?" The younger man shrugged. "Worth a shot, isn't it?" Stranger things have happened. . .
John cleared his throat and spoke again. "Is a man named Reston in here? We just have a question, we're
not going to hurt you."
The men stared at him, at both of them, and John
wondered, for just a second, if they knew what they
were doing there; if they knew what Umbrella was
doing. They didn't look like Nazis, they looked like a
bunch of working stiffs. Like guys who put in a hard
day and liked to throw back a few beers in the
evening. Like - like guys.
And what did Nazis look like? These people are a
part of the problem, they're working for the enemy.
They're not going to help us...
"Blue ain't here." A big bearded man in a T-shirt and boxers, one of the ones John had been keeping an
eye on. His voice was gruff and irritable, his face still
puffy from sleep.
John glanced at Leon, surprised, and saw that the
rookie looked the same. "Blue?" John asked. "Is that Reston?"
A man sitting at the end of the table with longish
hair and grease-stained hands nodded. "Yeah. And that's Mister Blue to you."
The sarcasm was pointed. There were a couple of
dark looks exchanged within the sitting group and a
couple of chuckles.
Reston's one of the key guys, Trent said. And just
about everybody hates their boss . . . but so much that
they'd talk shit about him to a couple of terrorists?
Reston must be real unpopular.
"Is there anyone else working here who isn't in this
room?" Leon asked. "We don't want to be sur- prised..."
The implications were obvious, but it was also
obvious that they weren't going to get anything else
from the assembled employees. They might hate Reston, but John could see from the crossed arms and
scowls that they wouldn't talk about one of their own.
If there was anyone else in the facility, which he doubted. Trent had said it was a small staff. . .
. . . which means it was probably Reston who brought us down, which means we could kill two birds
if we find him - get the book and get him to start up
the elevator again. We lock Reston in a closet, hook up
with David and the girls and get gone before anything
else unexpected comes up.
John nodded at Leon, and they backed up to the
door. John realized that he didn't want to just walk
out, that he felt a kind of sympathy for the men that
he'd dragged out of bed. Not a lot, but something.
"We're gonna lock the door here," John said, "but you'll be okay until the company sends someone, you
got food ... and if you don't mind a little advice,
listen up - Umbrella ain't the good guys. Whatever
they're paying you, it isn't enough. They're killers."
The blank stares followed them out of the room.
Leon closed the double doors and started to rig up the
makeshift lock, threading the chain through the han-
dles and bending the hangers. John walked the few
steps to the corner and looked down the long gray hall
that they'd stepped into from the elevator. They could
continue on the way they'd been going to look for
Reston, there was a bend in the corridor not far past
the staff housing area...
... but he's not that way, John thought, remember- ing the sound he'd heard when they'd first arrived.
He's back the way we came, somewhere.
Leon finished securing the doors and joined him,
looking a little pale but still game. "So ... now we look for Reston?"
"Yeah," John said, thinking that the kid was doing pretty well, considering. Not a lot of experience, but
he was smart, he had guts, and he didn't clutch under
the gun. "You holding up?"
Leon nodded. "Yeah. I'm just - do you think
they're okay up there?"
"No, I think they're freezing their asses off waiting
for us," John said, smiling, and hoped that was the case - that after locking down the elevator, Reston
hadn't released the hounds, or whatever equivalent
this place had.
Or called for help. . .
"Let's get this over with," John said, and Leon nodded, as they started back down the hall to see
what was what.
TEN
THEY HEADED OUT INTO THE BLACKNESS
of the compound, the beat of the helicopter's blades
getting closer. Rebecca saw its lights less than a half-
mile northwest, saw that it was hovering, shining a
spotlight down onto the desert-like plain.
The van, they've spotted the van.
Claire saw it too, but David was looking at the
warehouse-type buildings behind them as he unslung
his rifle, his intense gaze taking in the layout. Rebecca
could hardly see him in the pale moonlight.
"They'll have to set down outside the fence," he said. "Follow me, and stay close." He jogged off into the darkness, the burr of the helicopter growing
steadily behind them.
God, I hope he sees better than I can, Rebecca thought, clutching her nine-millimeter tightly, the
metal cold against her numb fingers. She and Claire
jogged after him as he headed for one of the dark
structures, the second from the left in the line of five.
Why he'd picked that one she didn't know, but David
would have a reason, he always did.
They ran into the corridor of black between the first
and second building, fifteen feet of hard-packed arid
sediment that stretched ahead of them some indeter-
minate distance. The freezing air burned into her
lungs, gusting out in clouds of steam she couldn't see.
The whackawhacka sound of the 'copter drowned out their footsteps, drowned out most of what David was
saying as he stopped, a door on either side of them.
"... to hide until we ... can't ... back ..."
Rebecca shook her head and David gave it up,
turning to the left, pointing his weapon at the door of
the first building. Rebecca and Claire moved behind
him, Rebecca wondering what he was up to; if the
people from the helicopter landed to search - which
they surely would - the bullet-riddled door would
give them away. It looked to be made from some high-
density plastic, but wasn't remarkable in any other
way - it had a handle and keyhole rather than a card
swipe. The building itself was some kind of stucco
material, dirty and dusty, and no particular color that
she could tell; the one behind them looked the same;
there were no windows on either.
The helicopter's searchlight was sweeping the fence
at the front of the compound, its brightness piercing
the cold dark like a brilliant flame. Flurries of dust
were swirling up into the light, staining it, and
Rebecca thought they had maybe a minute before it found them; the compound just wasn't that big.
Bambambambambam!
Most of the noise was swallowed up by the roar of
the helicopter. Even in the darkness, Rebecca could
see the line of holes, the concentration of them near
the handle. David stepped forward and gave the door
a hard kick, then a second - and it flew inward, a
gaping black hole in the wall.
The searchlight was moving back through the com-
pound, the helicopter's swollen belly passing almost
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