Code Veronica re-6

by Стефани Данелл Перри

  "You might want to tell him that Umbrella's got him under surveillance," he said, stepping back so she could read what was on the screen. Apparently Redfield was in Paris, though Umbrella hadn't managed to locate his exact whereabouts. Steve was glad that he'd run across a file that meant something to her; a little gratitude from a pretty girl was always a good thing. Claire scanned the info and then tapped a few keys, glancing back at him with a look of relief. "Thank God for private satellites. I can get through to Leon, he's a friend, he should have hooked up with Chris by now…"

  She'd already started typing, absently explaining herself as her fingers moved across the keys. "… there's a

  message board we both use … there, see? 'Contact ASAP, the gang's all here.' He posted the night I was caught."

  Steve shrugged, not really interested in the life and times of Claire's pals. "Go back a file, the longitude and latitude of this rock are written down," he said, smiling a little. "Why don't you send your brother directions, let him come save the day?"

  He expected another irritated look, but Claire only nodded, her expression dead serious. "Good idea. I'll say there's been a spill at these coordinates. They'll know what I mean." She was pretty, all right, but also pretty naive. "That was a. joke," he said, shaking his head. They were in the middle of nowhere. She was staring at him. "Hilarious. I'll tell it to Chris when he shows up."

  Entirely without warning, a fiery rage welled up inside of him, a tornado of anger and despair and a whole bunch of feelings he couldn't even begin to understand. What he did understand was that little Miss Claire was wrong, she was stupid and snotty and wrong.

  "Are you kidding? You actually expect him to show, with what's going on here? And look at the coordinates!" The words came out hot and fast and louder than he intended, but he didn't care. "Don't be such an idiot believe me, you can't depend on people like that, you'll only get hurt in the end, and then you'll have nobody to blame but yourself!"

  Now she was looking at him like he'd lost his mind, and on top of his fury came a crushing wave of shame, that he'd freak out for no good reason. He could feel tears threatening, only adding to his humiliation, and there was no way he was going to cry in front of her like some baby, no way. Before she could say anything, he turned and ran, blushing furiously.

  "Steve, wait!"

  He slammed the office door behind him and kept going, wanting only to get out, to get away, hell with the map, I've got the key, I'll figure something out and I'll kill anything that tries to stop me… Through the long hall, past the dead metal detector and out, his weapon ready, a part of him bitterly disappointed as he ran past the kennel, twice nearly tripping over wet and smoldering body parts there was nothing to shoot, no one to blast into oblivion, to make him stop feeling whatever it was he was feeling. He barreled through the door that came out behind the bunkhouse and started around the long building, sweating, his heart pounding, his thick hair sticking to his scalp in spite of the cold air and he was so focused on

  his own strange madness, his need to run, that he didn't see or hear anything coming until it was almost too late. Wham, something hit him from behind, knocking him sprawling. Steve immediately rolled onto his back, a sudden mortal terror blocking out everything else and there were two of them, two of the prison's guard dogs, one of them circling back from having jumped on him, the other growling deep in its throat, its legs stiff and head down as it slowly approached.

  Jesus, look at 'em…

  They had been rottweilers, but not anymore; they'd been infected, he could see it in their glazed red eyes and dripping muzzles, in the strange new ridges of muscle that flexed and bunched beneath their almost slimylooking coats. And for the first time since the attack, the immensity of Umbrella's craziness their secret experiments, their ridiculous cloak and dagger mentality really hit home. Steve liked dogs, a hell of a lot more than he liked most people, and what had happened to these two poor animals wasn't fair.

  Not fair, wrong place at the wrong time, I didn't deserve any of this, I didn 't do anything wrong…

  He wasn't even aware that the object of his pity had changed, that he was admitting to himself how shitty things really were, how badly he'd been screwed; he didn't have time to notice. It had been less than a second since he'd rolled onto his back, and the dogs were getting ready to attack. It was over in another second, the time it took to pull the trigger once, pivot, pull it again. Both animals went down instantly, the first taking it in the head, the second, in the chest. The second dog let out a single yip of pain or fear or surprise before it collapsed in the mud, and Steve's hatred for Umbrella multiplied exponentially with that strangled sound, his mind repeating again and again how unfair it all was as he crawled to his feet and broke into a stumbling run. He had the key to the prison gate; he wasn't going to be their captive anymore. Time for a little payback, he thought grimly, suddenly hoping, praying that he crossed paths with one of them, one of the sick, decision-making asshole bastards who worked for Umbrella. Maybe if he got to hear them beg for death, maybe then he'd feel a little better.

  FOUR

  Chris Redfield AND Barry Burton were reloading rounds in the back room of the Paris safe house, silent and tense, neither of them speaking. It had been a bad ten days, not knowing what had happened to Claire, not knowing if Umbrella still had her alive…

  … stop, his inner voice said firmly. She's alive, she has to be. To even entertain the alternative was unthinkable. He'd been telling himself that for ten days, and it was wearing thin. It had been bad enough hearing that she'd been in Raccoon City for the final meltdown, and that she'd gone there looking for him. Leon Kennedy, her young cop friend, had filled him in on the details at their first meeting. She'd survived Raccoon only to be hijacked by Trent on the way to Europe, she and Leon and the three renegade S.T.A.R.S.; they'd ended up facing off with yet another group of Umbrella monsters, at a facility in Utah. Chris hadn't known about any of it, had ignorantly assumed that she was still safely studying away at the University. Hearing that she'd gotten tangled up in the fight against Umbrella was bad, all right but knowing that Umbrella had captured her, that his little sister might already be dead … it was killing him, eating him up inside. It was all he could do not to barge into Umbrella's headquarters with a couple of machine guns and start demanding answers, even knowing that it would be suicide. Barry pumped the shell loader while Chris scooped up the fresh rounds and boxed them, the acrid, familiar scent of gunpowder suffusing the air. He was relieved that his old friend seemed to understand his need for silence, the steady click-click of the loader the only sound in the small room. It was also a relief to have something to do after a full week of sitting still and praying, hoping that Trent might contact them with news, or to offer help. Chris had never met Trent, but the mysterious stranger had aided the

  S.T.A.R.S. a few times in the past, passing along inside information about Umbrella. Although his exact motivations were unknown, his objective seemed clear enough to destroy the pharmaceutical company's secret bioweapons division. Unfortunately, waiting on Trent was a long shot; he'd only ever contacted them when it suited his needs, and since they had no way of reaching him, the prospect of his assistance was seeming less likely all the time. Click-click. Click-click. The repetitive sound was soothing somehow, a muted mechanical process in the quiet of the rented safe house. They all had specific jobs to do in their pledge to bring Umbrella down, tasks that changed from day to day as the need arose. Chris had been helping Barry out with the weapons for the past week and a half, but he usually ran HQ surveillance. They'd received a message from Jill a few weeks before, she was on her way to Paris, and Chris knew that her misspent youth would come in very handy for internal recon. Leon had turned out to be a half decent hacker, he was in the next room on the computer; he'd hardly slept since Claire's capture, most of his time spent trying to track Umbrella's recent movements. And the trio of

  S.T.A.R.S. who'd come with Claire and Leon to Europe Rebecca, fro
m the disbanded Raccoon squad, and the two S.T.A.R.S. from Maine, David and John, were currently off in London, meeting with an arms dealer. After all they'd been through together, the three of them worked well as a team. There aren't many of us, but we've got the skills and the determination. Claire, though…

  With both their parents dead, he and Claire had developed a close relationship, and he thought he knew her pretty well; she was smart and tough and resourceful, always 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 relocate, maybe one of the estates outside the city someone has to stay here, wait for Rebecca's team to get back, and someone else needs to scout out a new base of operations. 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 yourself 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. Neither did Leon, although Chris could see that he was working up to it; the cop and Claire had obviously gotten 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 exactly 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 messages tell her I'm on my way. Barry, I want to be packing 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 mansion, Alfred slung his rifle and immediately walked to the wall, touching the spines of three books in quick succession. 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 intently. 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 inside 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 images. Knowing Claire's foul objectives, to steal information 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 interest 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 wa
lls extending down hundreds of feet, nor did she linger. In the warm security of his home, Alfred smiled, imagining her delicious fear … and found himself 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 employees … 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 herself. The drug paralyzed flesh but allowed the nervous