Yeah, well. Chris didn’t like to kiss ass, and Irons didn’t know how to have any other kind of relation-ship. At least Irons wasn’t a total incompetent, he’d had some military training. Chris pasted on a straight face and stepped into the small, cluttered office that served as the S.T.A.R.S. filing cabinet and base of operations.
Barry and Joseph were over by the rookie desk, going through a box of papers and talking quietly. Brad Vickers, the Alpha pilot, was drinking coffee and staring at the main computer screen a few feet away, a sour expression on his mild features. Across the room Captain Wesker was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, smiling blankly at something Chief Irons was telling him. Irons’s bulk was leaned against Wesker’s desk, one pudgy hand brushing at his care-fully groomed mustache as he spoke.
“So I said, ‘You’re gonna print what I tell you to print, Bertolucci, and you’re gonna like it, or you’ll never get another quote from this office!’ And he says—“ “Chris!” Wesker interrupted the chief, sitting for-ward. “Good, you’re here. Looks like we can stop wasting time.”
Irons scowled in his direction but Chris kept his poker face. Wesker didn’t care much for Irons, either, and didn’t bother trying to be any more than polite in his dealings with the man. From the glint in his eye, it was obvious that he didn’t care who knew it, either. Chris walked into the office and stood by the desk he shared with Ken Sullivan, one of the Bravo team. Since the teams usually worked different shifts, they didn’t need much room. He set the unopened can of soda on the battered desktop and looked at Wesker. “You’re sending Bravo in?”
The captain gazed back at him impassively, arms folded across his chest. “Standard procedure, Chris.” Chris sat down, frowning. “Yeah, but with what we talked about last week, I thought—“ Irons interrupted. “I gave the order, Redfield. I know you think that there’s some kind of cloak-and-dagger going on here, but 7 don’t see any reason to deviate from policy.”
Sanctimonious prick. . . .
Chris forced a smile, knowing it would irritate Irons. “Of course, sir. No need to explain yourself on my behalf.”
Irons glared at him for a moment, his piggy little eyes snapping, then apparently decided to let it drop.
He turned back to Wesker. “I’ll expect a report when Bravo returns. Now if you’ll excuse me, Captain. ...” Wesker nodded. “Chief.”
Irons stalked past Chris and out of the room. He’d been gone less than a minute before Barry started in. “Think the chief took a shit today? Maybe we all oughtta chip in for Christmas, get him some laxa-tives”
Joseph and Brad laughed, but Chris couldn’t bring himself to join in. Irons was a joke, but his mishan-dling of this investigation wasn’t all that funny. The S.T.A.R.S. should’ve been called in at the beginning instead of acting as RPD back up.
He looked back at Wesker, the man’s perpetually composed expression hard to read. Wesker had taken over the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. only a few months ago, transferred by the home office in New York, and Chris still didn’t have any real insight into his character. The new captain seemed to be everything he was reputed to be: smooth, professional, cool—but there was a kind of distance to him, a sense that he was often far removed from what was going on. . . . Wesker sighed and stood up. “Sorry, Chris. I know you wanted things to go different, but Irons didn’t put a whole lot of stock into your . . . misgivings.”
Chris nodded. Wesker could make recommenda-tions, but Irons was the only one who could upgrade a mission’s status. “Not your fault.”
Barry walked toward them, scruffing at his short, reddish beard with one giant fist. Barry Burton was only six feet tall but built like a truck. His only passion outside of his family and his weapons collec-tion was weight lifting, and it showed. “Don’t sweat it, Chris. Marini will call us in the second he smells trouble. Irons is just pullin’ your chain.”
Chris nodded again, but he didn’t like it. Hell, Enrico Marini and Forest Speyer were the only experi-enced soldiers in Bravo. Ken Sullivan was a good scout and a brilliant chemist, but in spite of his S.T.A.R.S. training, he couldn’t shoot the broad side of a barn. Richard Aiken was a top-rate communica-tions expert, but he also lacked field experience. Rounding out Bravo team was Rebecca
Chambers, who’d only been with the S.T.A.R.S. for three weeks, supposed to be some kind of medical genius. Chris had met her a couple of times and she seemed bright enough, but she was just a kid.
It’s not enough. Even with all of us, it may not be enough.
He cracked open his soda but didn’t drink any, wondering instead what the S.T.A.R.S. were going up against, Billy’s pleading, desperate words echoing through his mind yet again.
“They’re going to kill me, Chris! They’re going to kill everyone who knows! Meet me at Emmy’s, now, I’ll tell you everything. ...”
Exhausted, Chris stared off into space, alone in the knowledge that the savage murders were only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
Barry stood by Chris’s desk for a minute, trying to think of something else to say, but Chris didn’t look like he was in the mood for conversation. Barry shrugged inwardly and headed back to where Joseph was going through files. Chris was a good guy, but he took things too hard sometimes; he’d get over it as soon as it was their turn to step in.
Man, it was hot! Seemingly endless trickles of sweat rolled down his spine, gluing his T-shirt to his broad back. The air-conditioning was on the fritz as usual, and even with the door open, the tiny S.T.A.R.S. office was uncomfortably warm.
“Any luck?”
Joseph looked up at him from the pile of papers, a rueful smirk on his lean face. “You kidding? It’s like somebody hid the damn thing on purpose.” Barry sighed and scooped up a handful of files. “Maybe Jill found it. She was still here when I left last night, going through the witness reports for about the hundredth time. . . .”
“What are you two looking for, anyway?” Brad asked.
Barry and Joseph both looked over at Brad, still sitting at the computer console, headset on. He’d be monitoring Bravo’s progress throughout their fly-by of the forested district, but for now he looked bored as hell.
Joseph answered him. “Ah, Barry claims that there are floor plans in here somewhere on the old Spencer estate, some architectural digest that came out when the house was built—“ He paused, then grinned at Brad. “Except that I’m thinkin’ that ol’ Barry’s gone senile on us. They say memory is the first thing to go.” Barry scowled good-naturedly. “Ol’ Barry could easily kick your ass into next week, little man.” Joseph looked at him mock-seriously. “Yeah, but would you remember it afterwards?”
Barry chuckled, shaking his head. He was only thirty-eight, but had been with the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. for fifteen years, making him the senior member. He endured numerous old age jokes, mostly from Joseph.
Brad cocked an eyebrow. “The Spencer place? Why would it be in a magazine?”
“You kids, gotta learn your history,” Barry said. “It was designed by the one and only George Trevor, just before he disappeared. He was that hot-shit architect who did all those weird skyscrapers in D.C.—in fact, Trevor’s disappearance may have been the reason that Spencer shut the mansion down.
Rumor has it that Trevor went crazy during the construction and when it was finished, he got lost and wandered the halls until he starved to death.”
Brad scoffed, but suddenly looked uneasy. “That’s bullshit. I never heard anything like that.” Joseph winked at Barry. “No, it’s true. Now his tortured ghost roams the estate each night, pale and emaciated, and I’ve heard tell that sometimes you can hear him, calling out, ‘Brad Vickers . . . bring me Brad Vickers_’” Brad flushed slightly. “Yeah, ha ha. You’re a real comedian, Frost.”
Barry shook his head, smiling, but wondered again how Brad had ever made it to Alpha. He was un-doubtedly the best hacker working for S.T.A.R.S., and a decent enough pilot, but he wasn’t so hot under pressure. Joseph had taken to calling him “Chicken-heart Vickers” when he wasn’t around, and while the S.T.A.R.S. generally stuck up for one another, nobody disagreed with Joseph’s assessment.
“So is that why Spencer shut it down?” Brad addressed this to Barry, his cheeks still red. Barry shrugged. “I doubt it. It was supposed to be some kind of guest house for Umbrella’s top execs. Trevor did disappear right about the time of comple-tion—but Spencer was whacko, anyway. He decided to move Umbrella’s headquarters to Europe, I forget where exactly, and just boarded up the mansion. Probably a couple million bucks, straight into the crapper”
Joseph sneered. “Right. Like Umbrella would suffer.”
True enough. Spencer may have been crazy, but he’d had enough money and business savvy to hire the right people. Umbrella was one of the biggest medical research and pharmaceutical companies on the planet. Even thirty years ago, the loss of a few million dollars probably hadn’t hurt.
“Anyway,” Joseph went on, “the Umbrella people told Irons that they’d sent someone out to check the place over, and that it was secure, no break-ins.” “So why look for blueprints?” Brad asked. It was Chris who answered, startling Barry. He’d walked back to join them, his youthful face fixed with a sudden intensity that almost bordered on obsessive. “Because it’s the only place in the woods that hasn’t been checked over by the police, and it’s practically in the middle of the crime scenes. And because you can’t always trust what people say.”
Brad frowned. “But if Umbrella sent somebody out. . ”
Whatever Chris was going to say in response was cut short by Wesker’s smooth voice, rising from the front of the room.
“All right, people. Since it appears that Ms. Valen-tine isn’t planning on joining us, why don’t we get this started?”
Barry walked to his desk, worried about Chris for the first time since this whole thing had started. He’d recruited the younger man for the S.T.A.R.S. a few years back thanks to a chance encounter in a local gun shop. Chris had proved to be an asset to the team, bright and thoughtful as well as a top-notch marks-man and able pilot.
But now . . .
Barry gazed fondly at the picture of Kathy and the girls that sat on his desk. Chris’s obsession with the murders in Raccoon was understandable, particularly since his friend had disappeared. Nobody in town wanted to see another life lost. Barry had a family, and was as determined as anyone else on the team to stop the killers. But Chris’s relentless suspicion had gone a little overboard. What had he meant by that,
“you can’t always trust what people say”? Either that Umbrella was lying or Chief Irons was. . . . Ridiculous. Umbrella’s branch chemical plant and administrative buildings on the outskirts of town supplied three-quarters of the jobs in Raccoon City; it would be counter-productive for them to lie. Besides, Umbrella’s integrity was at least as solid as any other major corporation’s—maybe some industrial espio-nage, but medical secret-swapping was a far cry from murder. And Chief Irons, though a fat, weasely blow-hard, wasn’t the kind to get his hands any dirtier than they’d get accepting illegal campaign funds; the guy wanted to be mayor, for chrissake.
Barry’s gaze lingered on the picture of his family a moment longer before he turned his chair around to face Wesker’s desk, and he suddenly realized that he wanted Chris to be wrong. Whatever was going on in Raccoon City, that kind of vicious brutality couldn’t be planned. And that meant. . .
Barry didn’t know what that meant. He sighed, and waited for the meeting to begin.
Two
JILL WAS DEEPLY RELIEVED TO HEAR THE
sound of Wesker’s voice as she jogged toward the open door of the S.T.A.R.S. office. She’d seen one of their helicopters taking off as she’d arrived, and been positive that they’d left without her. The S.T.A.R.S. were a fairly casual outfit in some respects. But there also wasn’t any room for people who couldn’t keep up—and she wanted very much to be in on this case from the beginning.