blanks - she'd told him about her run-in with Chief
Irons and the creature she'd called Mr. X, and he'd
told her all about Ada and the terrible thing that had
once been William Birkin. Between them, they'd been able to come up with a continuous story, with infor-
mation that was important to the fugitive team.
In retrospect, though, he could see that those long,
rambling conversations had been essential for an-
other reason entirely - they'd been a way to leach out
the poison of what had happened to them, like talking
out a bad dream. If he'd had to keep it all inside, he
thought, he might have gone crazy.
In any case, the feelings he had for her now were
convoluted ones - warmth, connection, dependence,
respect, others that he had no name for. And that
scared him, because he'd never felt so strongly about
anyone before and because he wasn't sure how
much of it was real and how much was just some kind
of a post-traumatic stress thing.
Face it, stop bullshitting yourself. What you're really
afraid of is that you're only here because she is, and
you don't like what that says about you.
Leon nodded inwardly, realizing that it was the
truth, the real reason behind his uncertainty. He'd
always believed that want was okay, but need? He
didn't like the idea of being led around by some
neurotic compulsion to be close to Claire Redfield.
And what if it isn't need? Maybe it's want, and you
just don't know it yet...
He scowled at his own pathetic attempts at self-
analysis, deciding that maybe it would be best just to
stop worrying about it so much. Whatever the reason
for becoming involved, he was involved - he could
kick ass with the best of them and Umbrella deserved
to have their ass kicked, big time. For now, he had to
pee, and then he was going to eat something and do
his best to catch some sleep.
Leon gently moved out from beneath Claire's
warm, heavy head, doing his best not to wake her up.
He slid out into the aisle, glancing around at the
others. Rebecca was staring out her window, John was
flipping through a muscle mag, David was dozing.
They were all good people, and thinking that made
him feel a little easier about things.
They're the good guys. Hell, I'm a good guy, fighting
for truth, justice, and fewer viral zombies in the
world...
The bathroom was in the front. Leon started to-
ward it, steadying himself by touching each seat as he
passed, thinking that the steady drone of the plane's
engine was a soothing sound, like a waterfall -
- and then the curtain at the front of the cabin was
pushed open, and a man stepped out, a tall, smiling
man in an expensive-looking trench coat. He wasn't
the pilot, and there wasn't anyone else on the plane, and Leon felt his mouth go dry with an almost
superstitious dread even though the thin, smiling man
didn't seem to be armed.
"Hey!" Leon shouted, backing up a step. "Hey, we got company!"
The man grinned, his eyes twinkling. "Leon Ken- nedy, I presume," he said softly, and Leon was suddenly absolutely sure that whoever he was, this
man was trouble with a capital "T."
THREE
JOHN WAS ON HIS FEET BEFORE LEON HAD
finished his warning, hopping out into the aisle and
stepping in front of Leon in a single stride.
"Who the hell..." John snarled, his shoulders set, ready to break the thin mam in two if he so much as
blinked wrong.
The stranger held up pale, long-fingered hands,
looking as though he could barely contain his de-
light - which made John all the more wary. He could
easily pound the guy into hamburger, what the hell
was he so happy about?
"And you're John Andrews," the man said, his
voice low and calm and as pleased as his expression.
"Formerly a communications expert and field scout
for the Exeter S.T.A.R.S. It's so good to meet you -
- tell me, how are your ribs? Still tender?"
Shit. Who is this guy? John had broken two ribs and cracked a third on the cove mission, and didn't know
this man - how the hell did this man know him?
"My name is Trent," the stranger said easily, nod- ding at both Leon and John. "I believe your Mr. Trapp can vouch for my identity... ?"
John flicked a glance back, saw that David and the
girls were right behind them. David gave a quick nod,
his expression strained.
Trent. Goddamn. The mysterious Mr. Trent.
The same Mr. Trent who had given maps and
clues to Jill Valentine, just before the Raccoon
S.T.A.R.S. had discovered Umbrella's initial T-Virus
spill at the Spencer estate. The Trent who had given a
similar package to David one rainy August night,
information about Umbrella's Caliban Cove facility,
where Steve and Karen had been murdered.
The Trent who'd been playing games with the
S.T.A.R.S. - with people's lives - all along.
Trent was still smiling, still holding his hands up.
John noticed a black ring made out of stone on one
slender finger, the only affectation that Mr. Trent
seemed to have; it looked heavy and expensive.
"So what the hell do you want?" John growled. He didn't like secrets or surprises, and he didn't like the
fact that Trent seemed totally unimpressed by his
formidable size. Most people backed down when he
got in their face; Trent seemed amused.
"Mr. Andrews, if you please...?"
John didn't move, glaring into Trent's dark, intelli-
gent eyes. Trent gazed back impassively, and John
could see cool self-assurance in that bright gaze, a
look that was almost but not quite patronizing. As big
and buff as John was, he wasn't a violent man, but
that confident, mirthful look made John think that
Mr. Trent could use a good beating. Not by him,
necessarily, but by someone.
How many people have died, just because he decided
to stir things up a little?
"It's alright, John," David said quietly. "I'm sure that if Mr. Trent meant us harm, he wouldn't be
standing here introducing himself."
David was right, whether John liked it or not. He
sighed inwardly and stepped aside, but decided that
he definitely didn't like it; from what little he knew
about the man, he didn't like it at all.
Gonna be watching you, "friend"...
Trent nodded as though there had never been any
question and walked past John, smiling at all of them.
He motioned for them to sit in the seats on one side of
the cabin; he took off his trench coat and put it aside,
moving slowly and carefully, obviously aware that
any sudden moves could be detrimental to his health.
Beneath the coat he wore a black suit, black tie, and
shoes; John didn't know clothes but the shoes were
Asante. Trent had taste, anyway, and a shitload of
money if he could afford to blow a couple thou on
footwear.
"This may take a few moments," he said. "Please, get comfortable." He pushed himself up to sit atop one of the chairs opposite their group, moving with a
smooth grace that made John feel even less comfort-
able. He moved like someone with training, martial
arts maybe...
The others sat or leaned against the chairs, each of
them studying the uninvited guest, each looking as
unhappy about his appearance as John felt. Trent
studied them in turn.
"Mr. Andrews, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Trapp, and I
have already met..." Trent looked back and forth between Rebecca and Claire, his sparkling gaze finally
settling on Claire.
"Claire Redfield, yes?" He seemed a little more hesitant, which wasn't a surprise. Rebecca and Claire could have been sisters, both brunettes, same height,
only a few months difference in age.
"Yes," Claire said. "Does the pilot know you're on board?"
John frowned, irritated with himself for not having
asked first. It was a fairly important question, and it
hadn't occurred to him. If the pilot had let Mr. Trent
aboard. . .
Trent nodded, running one pale hand through his
tousled black hair. "Yes, he does. In fact, Captain Evans is an acquaintance of mine, so when I realized
that you were going . . . traveling, I arranged for him
to be in the right place at the right time. Much easier
than it sounds, really."
"Why?" David asked, an edge coming into his voice that John had only ever heard in combat
situations. The captain was right on the verge of being
seriously upset. "Why would you do that, Mr. Trent?" Trent seemed to ignore him. "I realize that you're concerned about your friends on the continent, but let
me assure you that they're in the best of health.
Really, there's no reason for you to worry your-
selves..."
"Why?" David's voice was steel.
Trent stared at him, then sighed. "Because I don't want you to go to Europe, and making it so that
Captain Evans is your pilot means that you won't.
You can't. In fact, we should be turning back any
moment now."
Claire stared at him, feeling her stomach knot,
feeling that knot transforming into a burning, leaden
anger.
Chris, I won't see Chris...
John pushed away from the seat he'd been leaning
on and grabbed Trent's arm before Claire could even
open her mouth, before anyone had time to respond
to his statement.
"Tell your 'acquaintance' to keep right on goin' the
way we're goin'," John spat, glowering at Trent. From the way John's hands were shaking, Claire thought
there was a good chance that he would break Trent's
arm - and found that she didn't think that was such a
bad idea.
Trent wore an expression of mild discomfort, noth-
ing more. "I'm sorry to interrupt your plans," he said, "but if you'll hear me out, I think you'll agree that it's
for the best - if you really want to stop Umbrella, that
is."
For the best? Chris, we have to help Chris and the
others, what is this shit?
She waited for the others to explode into action, to storm the cockpit, to tie Mr. Trent to a chair and force
him to explain himself - but they were all silent,
looking at one another and at Trent with shock,
anger - and interest, guarded but interest nonethe-
less. John loosened his grip, glancing at David for
direction.
"This had better be a good story, Mr. Trent," David said coolly. "I'm aware that you've - helped us in the past, but this kind of interference isn't the kind of
help we want or need."
He tipped his head at John, who reluctantly let go
of Trent and stepped back. Not very far back, Claire
noticed.
If Trent had been worried at all, there was no sign
of it. He nodded at David, and in his low, musical
voice, started to speak.
"As I'm sure you're all aware, Umbrella, Inc., has
facilities in locations all around the world, factories
and plants that employ thousands of people and
generate hundreds of millions of dollars each year.
Most of them are legitimate pharmaceutical or chemi-
cal companies, and have no relevance to this discus-
sion, except that they're quite profitable; the money
generated by Umbrella's legal enterprises allows them
to finance their lesser-known operations - operations
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