of suffering, they also had the wet, glassy, faraway look
of someone leaving it all behind, someone about to be
free of pain and fear.
"Right ... pocket..." Rodrigo whispered. "The an- gel ... gave ... for luck."
Rodrigo took a slow, deep breath, and let it out just as
slowly, an exhalation that seemed to go on forever, and
then he was gone.
Chris automatically closed his half-open eyes, simul-
taneously sad and relieved at Rodrigo's passing, the end
of a life but also an end to dying.
Rest, friend.
Sighing, Chris reached into Rodrigo's pocket, felt
skin-warmed metal - and pulled out the scuffed, heavy
old lighter that he'd given to Claire himself, a long time
ago. For luck.
Chris held it to his chest, suddenly overwhelmed by a
rush of love for his sister. She'd carried the lighter with
her everywhere for years, but had given it up to ease the
mind of a dying man, possibly one of the men responsi-
ble for her capture.
He slipped it into his pocket and stood, glad that he'd
be able to give it back to her - and to tell her that she'd
made a difference in Rodrigo's last hours, that he'd
smiled upon hearing her name. Even though Claire
didn't need to be rescued, Chris's trip to the island had
already turned out to be worthwhile.
The stink of the splattered cave was getting to him,
and now that he knew his sister was safe, all that was
left was to get himself home. His entrance had been
caved in, and he didn't have a decent weapon, but if
someone had triggered Umbrella's self-destruct sys-
tem - it seemed that all their illegal facilities were built
with such failsafes in place, a fine way to destroy evi-
dence if anything went wrong - then he shouldn't run
into too much trouble looking for the tank that Rodrigo
had mentioned, see if there was another jet to be had.
"No going back," he said softly, and with a final silent prayer for Rodrigo to find peace, he went to see what he
could find.
There was a fight about to happen on one of the mon-
itors in what was left of the control room, and Albert
Wesker, frustrated by a day of fruitless searching and
not looking forward to yet another long flight, pulled up
a crate and sat down to watch. He'd already sent the
boys back to the world, he was alone - except it ap-
peared that he'd missed somebody, and said somebody
was still wandering around the island...
... but not for much longer, he thought happily, wish- ing the reception was better; thanks to that lonesome
loser, Alfred Ashford, the self-destruct system had
screwed everything up ... and finally, something inter-
esting was actually going to happen.
Christ, he's unarmed!
Crazy or stupid or totally ignorant of what the island
was, no question. Wesker grinned. The unarmed man
was walking through the training facility just one floor
below, and he was about to meet up with one of Um-
brella's newer bio-organics, one that had been trapped
down in the sewers until Wesker had shown up and set it
free. They were one hallway apart; when the dumbass
turned the next corner, he was dead.
Wesker adjusted his sunglasses, pleasantly diverted
from his own troubles. Sweepers, Umbrella was calling
the new monsters, but they were basically Hunters with
poison claws - huge, primarily amphibious, violent as
hell. In Wesker's opinion, the Hunters, the 121 series,
were perfectly badass without the extra poison touch.
But isn't that just like Umbrella, always wasting re-
sources, playing games when they could be winning wars.
Yes, it was, but there was about to be bloodshed.
Wesker set aside his distaste for the company and leaned
in to watch.
The weaponless idiot - a tall guy with reddish-brown
hair, that was about all the static would allow - was two
steps from disaster, the Sweeper waiting just around the
corner ... when he stopped and backed up a step, press-
ing himself against the damaged wall.
Wesker frowned. The man started to back up, slowly
and carefully, still hugging the wall. Okay, maybe not a
complete idiot.
He'd made it halfway back down the corridor he'd
come through when the Sweeper finally got impatient,
deciding to take action. There was no sound system left,
but the creature had thrown back its head and was scream-
ing, that weird, trilling screech floating up to Wesker
through the ruined building just a split second later.
"Get him," Wesker breathed eagerly, looking back at the poor, doomed dumbass ... just in time to see him
throwing something, something small and dark, the
Sweeper leaping out from behind the corner, still
screaming, the object landing at its feet...
... and the building was shaking, the screens going
white and then black, the deep thunder of explosives
rumbling through the floor.
Wesker was astounded. And then furious. That crea-
ture had been a miracle of science, a warrior created for
battle - who was this dick who'd just rambled in and
blown it to shit?
A dead dick, Wesker thought darkly, pushing the crate away and heading for the stairs. He took them two at a
time, carefully bypassing a few still burning fires, aware
that he was channeling all his frustrations and upsets to-
ward the unknown soldier and not particularly caring.
Alexia wasn't at Rockfort, which meant he had to get
his ass to the Antarctic of all places, to the only other fa-
cility she might be at; why else would Alfred have gone
there? And if Wesker didn't get to her before she woke up, he might have to go home empty handed ... all of
which added up to failure, and if there was one thing
Wesker hated, it was losing.
He marched through the crumbling leftovers of the
training facility, reaching the hall he wanted, silencing
his steps as he edged farther along. There was still
smoke in the air when he reached the corner where the
conflict had taken place, but little left of the Sweeper.
Most of it was stuck to the walls and ceiling.
There, ahead and to the left; he could smell the in-
truder, could smell sweat and anxiety emanating from
the small working lab to which he'd retreated.
This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me, he thought, his mood lifting somewhat at the thought of a
little personal interaction.
Not wanting to get blown up, Wesker didn't hesitate,
didn't give the guy a chance to get paranoid. He strode
into the room, saw the soon-to-be corpse standing with
his back turned, and moved. Moved the way only he
could move - one second, he was walking through the
door, the next, he was spinning the intruder around, lift-
ing him by his throat...
... and then looking into the startled face of Chris
Redfield.
Oh, my.
Chris, who'd been on the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S., who'd
been led - under Wesker's command - to the Spencer es-
tate, where he'd proceeded to thoroughly screw up Wesk-
er's plans. Chris Redfield had cost him money, had almost
cost him his life - but worst of all, he had been primarily
responsible for the biggest failure in Wesker's career. Wesker recovered himself quickly, a dark, wonderful
joy spreading through his entire body. "Chris Redfield, as I live and breathe - what brings you to Rockfort, if
you don't mind me..."
Wesker trailed off, still gazing up into Redfield's in-
creasingly red face as he uselessly pried at Wesker's fin-
gers. The girl, of course! He hadn't even known that Chris
had a sister, but the deranged letter that Alfred Ashford
had so thoughtfully left behind explained everything...
including his plans for the young Claire Redfield.
"She's not here," Wesker said, grinning. With his free hand, he straightened his sunglasses.
"You ... you're dead," Chris gasped, and Wesker grinned wider, not bothering to respond to such a stupid
statement.
"Don't change the subject, Chris. Don't you want to
know where Claire is, hmmm? Did you know that her
plane took a little unplanned detour to the Antarctic?"
Chris was slowly choking to death, but Wesker could
see that the news of his sister was hitting him harder
than his own imminent demise. Wonderful!
"There are experiments being performed there,"
Wesker mock-whispered, as if telling him a secret.
"I plan on going myself, see if I can get an experiment or
two of my own going ... tell me, is your sister good-
looking? Do you think she might be interested in get-
ting some action, because I've got a hard-on like you
wouldn't believe..."
Chris flailed at Wesker, the helpless fury in his eyes
absolutely gorgeous. He hit Wesker in the face, knock-
ing his sunglasses to the ground ... and Wesker
laughed, blinking up at him slowly, letting him see. He
still wasn't used to it himself, the gold-red cat's eyes oc-
casionally surprising him when he looked in a mirror
and they had exactly the effect he'd hoped for.
"What ... are you?" Chris rasped out.
"I'm better, that's what," Wesker said. "New employ- ers, you know. After the Spencer estate, I needed a little
help getting back on my feet, which they were perfectly
willing to provide. You think Claire will like it?"
"Monster," Chris spat.
I'll show you monster, you shit.
Wesker started to close his hand, slowly, watching
Chris's eyes bulging, a vein on his forehead popping
out...
... and was stopped by the sound of laughter. Cool, fe-
male laughter, filling the room, surrounding them.
"Don't you want to play with me?" a voice said, the same woman, low and sexy and dangerous, and then she
began to laugh again, an unmerciful, beautiful sound
that finally trailed away to nothing.
Alexia!
God, she was awake ... and the kind of power it
would take for her to look in on him here, to project her-
self so far...
Wesker threw Chris to one side, barely hearing the
plaster wall crack beneath his useless skull, his thoughts
full of Alexia. He had to go to her immediately. He had
to have her, and not just for the sample ... though he'd
take what he could get.
"I'm coming," he said, scooping up his sunglasses and then moving, speeding through the broken facility to
where his private plane waited. Chris Redfield was his
past; Alexia Ashford meant his future.
Chris crawled to his feet soon after Wesker left,
aching in about a dozen places, his throat horribly sore.
He didn't know what had happened, exactly, didn't
know who the woman was or why Wesker had seemed
so eager to get to her - but he understood now who had
attacked Rockfort, and suspected the reason. Albert
Wesker should have died when the Spencer mansion
had burned, but it seemed he'd sold his soul to someone
new at the price of his life, someone obviously as nasty
and amoral as Umbrella - someone who was perfectly
willing to kill for whatever it was they wanted, for
something that Umbrella had.
Chris didn't care. At the moment, all he cared about
was Claire, and getting himself to this Antarctica facil-
ity. He knew that Umbrella had a legitimate base
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