oped a close relationship, and he thought he knew her
pretty well; she was smart and tough and resourceful, al-
ways had been ... but she was also a college student,
for Christ's sake. Unlike the rest of them, she didn't
have any formal combat training. He couldn't help
thinking that she'd been lucky so far, and when it came
to Umbrella, luck just wasn't enough.
"Chris, get in here!"
Leon, and it sounded urgent. Chris and Barry looked
at each other, Chris seeing his own worry mirrored in
Barry's face, and they both stood up. His heart in his
throat, Chris hurriedly led the way down the hall to
where Leon was working, feeling eager and afraid at
once.
The young cop was standing next to the computer, his
expression unreadable.
"She's alive," Leon said simply.
Chris hadn't even been aware of how bad things had
been for him until those two words. It was like his heart
had suddenly been released after being gripped hi a vise
for ten days, the sense of relief as physical as it was
emotional, his skin flushing with it.
Alive, she's alive...
Barry clapped him on the shoulder, laughing. "Of course she is, she's a Redfield."
Chris grinned, turned his attention back to Leon
and felt his smile slipping at the cop's carefully neutral
expression. There was something else.
Before he could ask, Leon motioned at the screen,
taking a deep breath. "They've got her on an island, Chris ... and there's been an accident."
Chris was leaning over the computer in a single
stride. He read the brief message twice, the reality of it
slow to sink in.
Infection trouble approximately 37S, 12W following
attack, perps unknown. No bad guys left, I think, but
stuck at the moment. Watch your back, bro, they know
the city if not the street. Will try to be home soon.
Chris stood up, silently locking gazes with Leon as
Barry read the message. Leon smiled, but it looked forced.
"You didn't see her in Raccoon," he said. "She knows how to handle herself, Chris. And she managed to get to
a computer, right?"
Barry straightened up, took his cue from Leon. "That means she's not locked down," he said seriously. "And if Umbrella's got its hands full with another viral spill,
they're not going to be paying attention to anything else.
The important thing is that she's alive."
Chris nodded absently, mind already working on
what he would need for the trip. The coordinates she'd
listed put her in an incredibly isolated spot, deep in the
South Atlantic, but he had an old Air Force buddy who
owed him, could jet him down to Buenos Aires, maybe
Capetown; he could rent a boat from there, survival gear, rope, medkit, an assload of firepower...
"I'm going with you," Barry said, accurately reading his expression. They'd been friends a long time.
"Me, too," Leon said.
Chris shook his head. "No, absolutely not."
Both men started to protest, and Chris raised his
voice, talking over them.
"You saw what she said, about Umbrella homing in on
me, on us," he said firmly. "That means we have to relo- cate, maybe one of the estates outside the city - some-
one has to stay here, wait for Rebecca's team to get back,
and someone else needs to scout out a new base of oper-
ations. And don't forget, Jill will be here any day now."
Barry frowned, scratched at his beard, his mouth set
in a thin, tight line. "I don't like it. Going in alone is a bad idea..."
"We're at a crucial phase right now, and you know it,"
Chris said. "Somebody's got to mind the shop, Barry, and you're the man. You've got the experience, you
know all the contacts."
"Fine, but at least take the kid," Barry said, gesturing toward Leon. For once, Leon didn't protest the label,
only nodded, drawing himself up, shoulders back and
head high.
"If you won't do it for yourself, think about Claire,"
Barry continued. "What happens to her if you get your- self killed? You need a backup, somebody to pick up the
ball if you fumble."
Chris shook his head, immovable. "You know better, Barry, this has to be as quiet as possible. Umbrella may
have already sent in a cleanup crew. One person, in and
out before anyone even realizes I'm there."
Barry was still frowning, but he didn't push it. Nei-
ther did Leon, although Chris could see that he was
working up to it; the cop and Claire had obviously got-
ten pretty close.
"I'll bring her back," Chris said, softening his tone, looking at Leon. Leon hesitated, then nodded, high
color burning in his cheeks, making Chris wonder ex-
actly how close Leon and his sister had become.
Later. I can worry about his intentions if we make it
back alive...
... when we make it back alive, he quickly amended. If was not an option.
"It's settled, then," Chris said. "Leon, find me a good map of the area, geographical, political, everything, you
never know what might help. Also post back to Claire,
just in case she gets another chance to check for mes-
sages - tell her I'm on my way. Barry, I want to be pack-
ing major influence, but lightweight, something I can
hike in without too much trouble, maybe a Glock...
you're the expert, you decide."
Both men nodded, turned away to get started, and
Chris closed his eyes for just a second, quickly offering
up a silent prayer.
Please, please stay safe until I get there, Claire.
It wasn't much - but then, Chris had the feeling he
would be praying a lot more in the long hours to come.
The hidden monitor room was behind a wall of books
in the Ashfords' private residence. Upon his return to
their home, secreted behind the "official" receiving man-
sion, Alfred slung his rifle and immediately walked to the
wall, touching the spines of three books in quick succes-
sion. He felt a hundred pairs of eyes observing him from
the front hall shadows, and though he had long since
grown used to Alexia's scattered collection of dolls, he
often wished that they wouldn't always watch him so in-
tently. There were times that he expected some privacy.
As the wall pivoted open, he heard the whistling chitter
of bats hiding in the eaves and frowned, pursing his lips. It
seemed that the attic had been breached during the attack.
No mind, no mind. Concerns for another day. He had more important business that demanded his attention.
Alexia had apparently retreated to her rooms once
more, which was just as well; Alfred didn't want her
upset any further, and news of a possible assassin at
Rockfort would certainly achieve that. He stepped in-
side the hidden room and pushed the carefully balanced
wall closed behind him.
There were usually seventy-five different camera
shots that he could choose from, to watch on any of the
ten small monitors in the small room, but much of the
equipment around the compound had been damaged or
destroyed, leaving him with only thirty-one usable im-
ages. Knowing Claire's foul objectives, to steal informa-
tion and search for Alexia, Alfred decided to focus on her approach from the prison compound. He had no
doubt that she would appear shortly; one such as her
would not have the good manners to die in the attack or
its aftermath ... though as his expectations built, his in-
terest in the game growing, he began to feel anxious that
she might, in fact, have expired.
Thankfully, his initial assumption had been correct.
Another of the prisoners came through the main gate
first, but he was followed shortly by the Redfield girl.
Amused at their halting progress, Alfred watched as
Claire tried to catch up to the young man, prisoner 267
according to the back of his uniform, who seemingly
had no idea that he was being pursued.
As the young man topped the stairs that led up from
the prison area, stood uncertainly looking between the
palace grounds and the training facility, Alfred entered
267 into the keypad beneath his left hand and found a
name, Steven Burnside. It meant nothing to him, and as
the boy hesitated indecisively, Alfred found his attention
moving back to his quarry, curious about the young
woman who was soon to be his short-term playmate.
Claire was walking across the damaged chasm bridge
only a moment or two behind Burnside, walking high on
the balls of her feet like an athlete. She seemed quite
self-possessed, cautious but unapologetic about her
right to cross the span ... but she was also careful not to
look down into the mist-filled darkness, the massive
crevice walls extending down hundreds of feet, nor did
she linger. In the warm security of his home, Alfred
smiled, imagining her delicious fear ... and found him-
self remembering the trick that he and Alexia had once
played on a guard.
They'd been six or seven years old, and Francois
Celaux had been a shift commander, one of their father's
favorites. He'd been a fawning sycophant, a bootlick, but
only to Alexander Ashford. Behind their father's back he
had dared to laugh cruelly at Alexia one afternoon when
she had tripped in a pouring rain, splashing her new blue
dress with mud. Such an offense was not to be withstood.
Oh, how we planned, talking late into the night about a
suitable punishment for his unforgivable behavior, our
child minds alive and whirling with all the possibilities...
The final plan had been simple, and they'd executed it
perfectly only two days later, when Francois had duty as
guard of the main gate. Alfred had sweetly begged the
cook to let him bring Francois his morning espresso,
a chore he'd often performed for favored employ-
ees ... and on the way to the chasm bridge, Alexia had
added a special twist to the strong, bitter brew, just a few
drops of a curare-like substance she'd synthesized her-
self. The drug paralyzed flesh but allowed the nervous system to continue working, so that the recipient
couldn't move or speak, but could feel and understand
what was happening to him.
Alfred had approached the prison gates slowly, so
slowly that the impatient Francois had stalked out to
meet him. Smiling, aware that Alexia had returned to the
residence, was watching and listening from the monitor
room - Alfred had been wearing a small microphone -
- he'd stepped close to the railing before apologetically
offering the demitasse cup to Francois. Both twins had
watched in secret delight as the guard swilled it down,
and in seconds, he was gasping for air, leaning heavily
against the bridge rail. To anyone watching, it appeared
only that the man and boy were looking out across the
chasm ... except for Alexia, of course, who later told
him that she'd applauded his performance of innocence.
I looked up at him, at the frozen expression of fear on
his unrefined features, and explained what we had done.
And what we were going to do.
Francois had actually managed a soft squealing noise
through his clenched jaw when he'd finally understood,
that he was helpless to defend himself against a child.
For almost five minutes, Alfred had cheerfully cursed
Francois as the spawn of pigs, as a mannerless peasant,
and had jabbed him in the meat of his thigh with a
sewing needle too many times to count.
Paralyzed, Francois Celaux could only endure the
pain and humiliation, surely regretting his beastly con-
duct toward Alexia as he suffered in silence. And when
Alfred had tired of their game, he'd kicked the guard's
dirty bootheels a few times, describing his every sensa-
tion to Alexia as Francois slid helplessly beneath the rail
and plummeted to his death.
And then I screamed, and pretended to cry as other
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