Underworld

PROLOGUE

Associated Press,October 6, 1998 THOUSANDS KILLED

AS FIRE SWEEPS THROUGH MOUNTAIN COMMUNITY, MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS MAY BE INVOLVED

NEW YORK, NY—The secluded mountain community of Raccoon City, PA, has officially been declared a disaster area by state and federal officials, as dedicated firefighters continue to wage war against the dying blazes and the death toll continues to rise. It is now estimated that over seven thousand people were killed by the explosive fires that raged through Raccoon in the early hours of Sunday, October 4. It is being called the worst U.S. disaster in terms of lives lost since the industrial age, and as national aid organizations and international press flock to the blockades surrounding the still burning ruins of the city, shocked friends and family of Raccoon citizens have been gathering, waiting for word in nearby Latham.

National Disaster Control (NDC) Director Terrence Chavez, coordinator for the combined efforts of the multiple firefighting

and emergency teams, released a statement to the press last night stating that barring unforeseen complications, he expects the last of the flames to be extinguished before midweek—but that it may be months before the origin of the fire is determined, as well as whether or not arson was involved. Said Chavez, "The magnitude of the damage in terms of area alone is going to make finding the answers a great undertaking, but the answers are there. We will get to the bottom of this, whatever it takes."

As of 6a.m. today, seventy-eight survivors have been found, and their names and conditions withheld; they have been transported to an undisclosed federal facility for observation and/or treatment. Initial reports by HazMat teams suggest that an unknown illness may be responsible for the incredible number of victims, as infected citizens were unable to escape due to the possibly incapacitating sickness. There is the further suggestion that the disease may have induced violent psychosis in some of those infected. Members of private and federal disease-control centers have called for extending the quarantine boundaries, and although no official statement has been released, there have been several "leaked" descriptions of physical and biological abnormalities in many of the victims. Said one source, a worker for a federal assessment team, "Some of those people weren't just burned or dead from smoke inhalation. I saw people who'd been killed by gunshot wounds or stabbings, [and] other forms of violence. I saw people who'd obviously been sick, dead, or dying long before the

fire ever hit. The fire was bad—terrible—but it's not the only disaster that occurred there, I'd bet money on it."

Raccoon City was in the news earlier this year when a series of unusual murders rocked the community. These were apparently unmotivated slayings, of extreme violence, and several involved cannibalism; already, tentative connections are being made by local press near Raccoon between the eleven unsolved murders from last summer and the rumors of mass violence prior to the consuming flames.

Mr. Chavez refused to confirm or deny the rumors, saying only that investigations into the tragedy will be thorough. ...

Nationwide Today,a.m.. Edition,October 10,1998

RACCOON DEATH TOLL RISES

AS SEARCH AND RESCUE TEAMS COMBINE EFFORTS

NEW YORK, NY—The official body count now stands at just under 4500, with the blackened ruins of Raccoon City still being combed for additional victims of the apocalypse that took place early last Sunday morning. As a nation's mourning begins, over six hundred men and women are working to uncover the reasons behind the destruction of the once peaceful community. Local relief organizations, scientists, soldiers, federal agents, and corporate research teams have come together in a show of determination and purpose, pooling resources and accepting delegated responsibilities in order to get to the truth.

NDC Director Terrence Chavez, the official head of the effort, has been joined by top researchers from disease-control centers all around the world, national security agents from several federal branches, and a privately funded team of microbiologists from Umbrella, Inc., the pharmaceutical company, which is investigating the possibility that there may be a connection between their chemical lab on the outskirts of the city and the strange infection now being called "Raccoon syndrome."

Initial studies of this illness have been vague and inconclusive, says Umbrella team leader Dr. Ellis Benjamin, "but we're convinced that the citizens of Raccoon were infected with something,either accidentally or intentionally. All we know at this point is that it doesn't seem to have been airborne, and that the final result was rapid cellular disintegration and death; we still don't know if it was bacterial or viral, or what the symptoms were, but we won't rest until we've exhausted all of our resources.

Whatever the findings, and whether or not Umbrella materials were a part of it, we're committed to seeing this through to the

end. It's the least we can do, considering how much our company

owes the people of Raccoon." The Umbrella chemical plant and administration facilities in Raccoon City provided nearly a thousand local jobs.

The 142 survivors are still being held in quarantine for observation and questioning at an undisclosed location. While their identities are still being protected, the FBI has released a statement listing medical conditions. Seventeen survivors suffered minor injuries but are in stable condition, seventy-nine are still on a critical list following surgical procedures, and forty-six of the survivors, while not injured, have suffered some major mental or emotional breakdown. There is no confirmation as to whether or not any are infected with the syndrome, but the statement did include a reference to survivor's stories that verified the existence of the infection.

Gen. Martin Goldmann, overseer of military operations in the ravaged city, is hopeful that all of those still missing will be found within the next seven days. "We've already got four hundred people out there working twenty-four/seven, searching for survivors and running identification checks—and I just got word that another two hundred will be coming in on Monday. ..."

Fort Worth Bugler,October 18, 1998

POSSIBLE CONSPIRACY

BY CITY EMPLOYEES IN RACCOON TRAGEDY

FORT WORTH, TX—New evidence uncovered by cleanup crews in Raccoon City, PA, indicates that the "Raccoon syndrome," the disease responsible for the majority of the 7200 deaths that have occurred in Raccoon as of this writing, may have been unleashed upon the unsuspecting populace by Raccoon Police Chief Brian Irons and several members of the Special Tactics and Rescue Squad (S.T.A.R.S.).

At a press conference held early yesterday evening by FBI spokesman Patrick Weeks, NDC Director Terrence Chavez, and Dr.

Robert Heiner—called in by Umbrella team leader Dr. Ellis Benjamin—Weeks revealed that there is strong circumstantial evidence that the disaster in Raccoon was the result of a terrorist act that went horribly wrong. The subsequent fires that have nearly wiped out the small city may have been an attempt by Irons or one of his accomplices to cover up the disastrous effects of the spill.

According to Weeks, several documents were found in the wreckage of the RPD building that implicate Irons as the ringleader of a conspiracy to take hostage the Umbrella chemical plant on the outskirts of the city. Allegedly, Irons was furious with

city officials over the suspension of the S.T.A.R.S. in late July for their mishandling of a multiple murder investigation—the now well-documented cannibal slayings that took the lives of eleven people early last summer. The Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. were suspended after a helicopter crash in the last week of July that claimed the lives of six team members. The five surviving S.T.A.R.S. members were suspended without pay after evidence suggested drug or alcohol abuse in connection to the crash—and while Irons publicly advocated the suspension of his elite squad, the documents found indicate that Irons meant to threaten Mayor Devlin Harris and several City Council members with a spill of extremely volatile and dangerous chemicals unless certain financial demands were met. Weeks went on to say that Irons had a history of emotional instability, and that the documents—correspondence between Irons and an accomplice—revealed a plan by Irons to extort ransom from Raccoon and then flee the country. The accomplice is named only as "C.R.," but there are also references to "J.V.," "B.B.," and "R.C."—all initials for four of the five suspended S.T.A.R.S.

Said Terrence Chavez, "Assuming these documents are accurate, Irons and his crew had planned to storm the Umbrella plant at the end of September, which would correspond exactly to the timeline described by Dr. Heiner for the Raccoon syndrome to achieve full amplification. We're currently operating under the

assumption that the takeover did take place, and that an unexpected accident occurred with cataclysmic results. At this time, we don't know if Mr. Irons or any of the S.T.A.R.S. are still alive, but they are wanted for questioning. We've released a national APB and all of our international airports and border patrols have been alerted. We urge anyone with information relating to this case to come forward."

Dr. Helner, a renowned microbiologist as well as an associate member of Umbrella's Biohazardous Materials Division, stated that the exact mix of chemicals released in Raccoon may never be known. "It's obvious that Irons and his people didn't know what they were handling—and with Umbrella continuously developing new variations of enzyme syntheses, bacterial growth mediums, and viral repressers, the lethal compound was almost certainly an accidental aggregation. With the possible combinations of materials numbering in the millions, the odds of duplicating the Raccoon syndrome mix are astronomical."

The S.T.A.R.S. national director wasn't available for comment, but Lida Willis, regional spokesperson for the organization, has gone on record as saying that they "are shocked and saddened" by the disaster, and would devote every available agent to the search for the missing S.T.A.R8. team members, as well as for any contacts they might still have within the network.

Ironically, the documents were found by one of Umbrella's search teams....

ONE

"GO, GO,GO!" DAVID SHOUTED, AND JOHN Andrews hit the gas, whipping the minivan around a tight corner as gunfire thundered through the cold Maine night.

John had spotted the two unmarked black sedans only a moment before, which had barely given the team enough time to arm themselves. Whoever was on their ass—Umbrella or the S.T.A.R.S. or the local cops—it didn't matter, it was all Umbrella—

"Get us lost, John!" David called, somehow managing to sound cool and controlled even as bullets riddled the back of the van. It was the accent—he always sounds like that, and where the hell's Fal-worth?

John felt scattered, his thoughts racing and jumbled; he kicked ass on a mission, but sneak attacks bit the bone—

—right on Falworth and head for the strip—Christ, ten more minutes and we would've been gone—

It had been too long since John had been in combat, and never in the midst of a car chase. He was good, but it was aminivan—

Bam bam bam!

Someone in the back of the van was returning fire, shooting out of the open back window. The nine-millimeter explosions in the tight space were as loud as the voice of an irate God, pounding at John's ears and making it even harder to focus.

Ten more goddamn minutes.

Ten minutes from the airstrip, where the chartered flight would be waiting. It was like a bad joke—weeks of hiding, waiting, not taking any risks, and then getting tagged on the way out of the damncountry.

John hung on to the wheel as they shot down 6th Street, the van too heavy to outmaneuver the sedans.

Even without five people and a shitload of artillery, the bulky, boxy knockoff mini wasn't exactly a powerhouse. David had bought it because it was so nondescript, so unlikely to be noticed, and they were paying for it—if they managed to shake their pursuers, it'd be a small miracle. Their only chance was to try to find traffic, play some dodge. It was dangerous, but so was getting run off the road and shot to death.

"Clip!" Leon shouted, and John shot a look in the rearview, saw that the young cop was crouched at the back window next to David. They'd taken out the back seats for the trip to the airstrip, all the more room for weapons—but that also meant no seatbelts; take a corner too fast and bodies would be flying—

Bam! Bam!Two more blasts from the sedan assholes, maybe from a .38. John gave the shuddering van a little more pedal as Leon returned fire with a Browning nine-millimeter. Leon Kennedy was their best shot, David probably had him trying to draw bead on the tires—

—best shot next tome,anyway, and how the hell am I going to get us lost in Exeter, Maine, at eleven o'clock on a weeknight? Thereisno traffic—

One of the women tossed Leon a mag, John didn't have time to see which one as he jerked the wheel right, heading for downtown. With a smoking squeal of rubber on asphalt, the mini teetered around the corner of Falworth, heading east. The airstrip was west, but John didn't figure that anyone in the van was worrying much about getting to the plane on time.

First things first, gotta ditch Umbrella's hired goons. Doubt there's room on the charter for all of us—

John saw red and blue light in the mirror, saw that at least one of the sedans had put a flasher on the roof. Maybe theywerecops, which would really suck. Umbrella's job of spin control had been thorough— thanks to them, every cop in the country probably believed that their small team was at least partly responsible for what had happened to Raccoon. The S.T.A.R.S. were being played, too—some of the higher-ups had sold out, but the agents in the trenches probably had no idea that their organization had become a puppet of the pharmaceutical company—

—which makes it a hell of a lot harder to shoot back.

No one on their makeshift team wanted innocents to get hurt; being misled by Umbrella wasn't a crime, and if the sedan teams were cops—

"No antennae, no warning, not cops!" Leon called, and John had time to feel about a second's worth of relief before he saw the barricades looming in front of them, the roadwork sign propped next to the blocked street. He saw the white circle of a man's face above an orange vest, the man holding a sign that said "Slow," the man dropping the sign and diving for cover—

—and it would've been funny except they were doing eighty and had maybe three seconds before they hit.

"Hang on!"John screamed, and Claire pushed her legs against the van wall, saw David grab hold of Rebecca, Leon snatching at the handle—

—and the van was screeching, jerking, and bucking like a wild horse, spinning sideways—

—and Claire actuallyfeltopen space beneath the right side of the van as her body was compressed to the left, the back of her neck crunching painfully against the tire well.

—ohhell—

David shouted something but Claire didn't hear it over the squealing brakes, didn't understand until David dove to the right, Rebecca scrambling right next to him—

—andwham,the van dropped back to the ground with a terrific bounce and John seemed to have it under control again—but there was still the piercing screech of locked brakes coming from—

CRASH!

The explosion of metal and shattering glass behind them was so close that Claire's heart skipped a beat.

She turned, looked out the back with the others and saw that one of the cars had barreled into a roadwork

barricade—a barricade they'd probably come within a second or two of bashing into themselves. She caught just a glimpse of a crumpled hood, of broken windows and a stream of oily smoke, and then the second sedan was blocking her view, shrieking around the corner and continuing the chase.

"Sorry 'bout that," John called back to them, sounding anything but; he seemed wired with adrenaline-pumped glee.

In the few weeks since she and Leon had joined up with the fugitive ex-S.T.A.R.S., she'd discovered that John would make jokes about anything. It was simultaneously his most endearing and most annoying trait.

"Everyone alright?" David asked, and Claire nodded, saw Rebecca do the same.

"Took a whack but I'm okay," Leon said, rubbing his arm with a pained expression. "But I don't think—"

BAM!

Whatever Leon didn't think was cut off by the powerful blast that slammed into the back of the van. Still most of a block away, the sedan's passenger had fired a shotgun at them; a few inches higher and the pellets would have come in through the window.

"John, change of plans," David called as the van swerved, his cool, authoritative voice rising over the noise of the screaming engines. "We're in their sights—"

Before he could finish, John took a hard left.

Rebecca fell backwards, nearly crashing into Claire.

The van was now headed down a quiet suburban street.

"Hold on to your butts," John called over his shoulder.

Chill night air whipped through the van, dark houses flying by as John picked up speed. Leon and David were already reloading, crouched behind the metal half-door. Claire exchanged a look with Rebecca, who looked as unhappy about their situation as she felt. Rebecca Chambers was ex-S.T.A.R.S., she'd worked with Claire's brother, Chris, as well as undertaking a recent Umbrella operation with David and John, also ex-S.T.A.R.S.—but the young woman had been trained as a medic with a background in biochemistry. Marksmanship wasn't her forte—even Claire was a better shot—and she was the only person in the van who hadn't had any real training . . .

. . .unless you count surviving Raccoon.

Claire shuddered involuntarily as John took a hard right, veering wide around a parked truck, the sedan gaining ground. Raccoon City; the scratches and bruises on Claire's body hadn't even faded yet, and she knew that Leon's shoulder was still giving him pain—

BAM!

Another shotgun blast from behind, but it went wide and high.

This time. . . .

"Change of plans," David said, his crisp British accent calming, like the voice of reason and logic in the midst of chaos. It was no wonder he'd been a S.T.A.R.S. captain.

"Everyone brace for an impact. John, just past your next turn, bring us to a stop. Hit and run, alright?"

David brought his knees up, wedging his feet against the van's wall. "They want us so badly, let them have us."

Claire slid over and pushed her feet against the back of the passenger seat, knees bent and head down. Rebecca moved closer to David, and Leon sidled back so that his head was close to Claire's. They locked gazes and Leon smiled faintly.

"This isnothiri""he said, and in spite of her fear,

Claire found herself smiling back at him. After making it through the madness of Raccoon City, skirting the murderous Umbrella creatures and crazed hu-mans—not to mention their extremely narrow escape from explosive death when Umbrella's secret facilities blew up—compared to all that, a simple car wreck was like a Sunday picnic.

Yeah, just keep telling yourself that,her mind whispered, and then she didn't think anything at all, because the van was swerving around a corner and John was pumping the brakes and they were about to get hit by about a ton and a half of fast moving metal and glass.

David inhaled and exhaled deeply, relaxing his muscles as best he could, the squeal of brakes coming up fast from behind—

—andwham,violent motion, a sense of incredible vibration, a second that seemed to stretch for an endless and silent eternity—

—and the noise coming immediately after—breaking glass and the sound of a tin can being crushed amplified a million times. David was jerked forward and back, heard Rebecca emit a strangled gasp—

—and it was over, and John was already hitting the gas as David rolled to his knees, raising his Beretta. He shot a look out the back and saw that the sedan was motionless, skewed across the dark street, the front grill and headlamps smashed all to hell. The slumped, shadowy figures behind the spidered glass were as still as the ruined car.

Not that we fared much better. . . .

The inexpensive green minivan he'd bought specifically for their ride to the airfield no longer had a bumper, tail lights, a rear license plate—or, he imagined, any possible method for opening the back gate; the door was a warped and crunched-up mass of useless metal.

No great loss. David Trapp despised minivans, and it wasn't as though they'd planned on taking it to Europe. The important thing was that they were still alive—and that—for the moment at least—they'd managed to avoid the infinitely long arm of Umbrella's wrath.

As they sped away from the wrecked car, David turned and regarded the others, reflexively putting a hand out to help Rebecca up. Since the ill-fated mission to the Umbrella lab on the coast, he'd grown quite attached to the young woman, as had John. The

rest of his team hadn't survived—

He shook off the thought before it could take hold, and called up to John that they should circle back toward their original destination, staying away from major streets. A bad break that they'd been spotted

just as they were leaving—but not all that surprising, however. Umbrella had staked Exeter out two months earlier, right after they'd returned from Caliban Cove.

It had only been a matter of time.

"Nice trick, David," Leon said. "I'll have to remember that next time I get chased by Umbrella goons."

David nodded uncomfortably. He liked Leon and Claire, but wasn't so sure how he felt about two more people looking to him for leadership. He could understand it with John and Rebecca, they'd at least been part of the S.T.A.R.S. before—but Leon was a rookie cop from Raccoon and Claire was a college student who just happened to be Chris Redfield's little sister. When he'd made the decision to break from the S.T.A.R.S. after finding out about their connection to Umbrella, he hadn't expected to continue leading, hadn't wanted to—

—but it wasn't my decision to make, was it...he hadn't asked for their allegiance, or offered himself up as decision maker—and it didn't matter, that was just the way things had turned out. In war, one didn't always have the luxury of choice.

David glanced around at the others before staring out the back, watching the homes and buildings slip past in the cold dark. Everyone seemed a bit subdued, always the aftermath of an adrenaline rush. Rebecca was unloading clips and repacking the weapons, Leon and Claire sitting close together across from her, not talking. Those two were usually joined at the hip, and were still as tight as they'd been since David, John, and Rebecca had picked them up just outside of Raccoon less than a month earlier, dirty and damaged

and reeling from their run-in with Umbrella. David didn't think there was a romantic connection there, at least not yet; it was more likely their shared nightmare. Nearly dying together could be quite a bonding experience.

As far as David knew, Leon and Claire were the only survivors of the Raccoon disaster who knew about Umbrella's T-Virus spill. The child they'd had with them had only had the faintest idea, although Claire had been very careful to shield the little girl from the truth. Sherry Birkin didn't need to know that her parents had been responsible for the creation of Umbrella's most powerful bioweapons; better that she remember her mother and father as decent people. .. .

"David? Anything wrong?"

He shook himself out of his mental wanderings and nodded at Claire. "I'm sorry. Yes, I'm fine. Actually, I was thinking about Sherry; how is she?"

Claire smiled, and David was struck again by how she brightened when Sherry's name came up. "She's good, she's settling in. Kate is nothing like her sister, a definite plus. And Sherry likes her."

David nodded again. Sherry's aunt had seemed nice, but beyond that, she'd be able to protect Sherry if Umbrella decided to track the girl down; Kate Boyd was a fiercely competent criminal lawyer, one of the best in California. Umbrella would do well to stay away from the Birkins' only child.

Too bad the same doesn't apply to us; wouldn't that make things quite a lot easier. . . .

Rebecca had finished reorganizing their rather impressive cache of weapons. She scooted over to sit

next to him, brushing a loose strand of hair off her forehead. Her eyes much older than the rest of her face; barely nineteen, she'd already lived through two Umbrella incidents. Technically, she had more experience than any of them as far as the pharmaceutical company went.

Rebecca didn't speak for a moment, staring out at the passing streets. When she finally spoke, she kept her voice low, her sharp gaze studying him intently.

"Do you think they're still alive?"

He wouldn't bother feeding her a sunny picture; young as she was, the girl had a knack for seeing through people.

"I don't know," he said, careful not to let the others overhear. Claire wanted desperately to reunite with her brother. "I doubt it. We should have heard from them. Either they're afraid of being traced, or. . . ."

Rebecca sighed. Not surprised, but not happy.

"Yeah. Even if they couldn't get through to us—Texas still has the scrambler up, don't they?"

David nodded. Texas, Oregon, Montana—all open channels with S.T.A.R.S. members who could still be trusted, and they hadn't gotten a call in over a month.

The last message had been from Jill; David knew it by heart. In fact, it had been haunting him daily for weeks.

"Safe and sound in Austria. Barry and Chris tracking lead at UHQ, looks promising. Get ready."

Ready to join them, to call in the few waiting troops that he and John had managed to network. Ready to storm Umbrella'srealheadquarters, the power behind it all. Ready to strike against the evil at its source. Jill and Barry and Chris had gone to Europe

to find out where the true leaders of Umbrella's hidden purpose were secreted, starting at international HQ in Austria—and had promptly disappeared.

"Heads up, kids," John called from the front, and David looked away from Rebecca's unsmiling face, looked out to see they were already at the airfield.

Whatever had happened to their friends, they'd find out soon enough.

TWO

REBECCA STRAPPED HERSELF INTO THE TINY seat of the tiny plane and looked out the window, wishing that David had chartered a jet. A giant, solid, can't-possibly-be-unsafe-'cause-it's-so-damned-big j et. From where she sat, she could see the propellers on the wing of the aircraft—propellers,like on a kid's toy.

Bet this puppy will sink like a rock, though, once it falls out of the sky at a few hundred miles an hour and slams into the ocean. . . .

"Just so you know, this is the kind of plane that's

always killing rock stars and the like. Just as they make it off the ground, a big gust of wind knocks them right back down."

Rebecca looked up to see John's grinning face; he was hanging over the seats in front of her, his massive arms folded across the headrests. He probably needed two seats to himself; John wasn't just big, he was

body-builder huge, two hundred forty pounds of muscle packed into his six-foot-six frame.

"We'll be lucky to get off at all, dragging your fat ass up there," Rebecca shot back, and was rewarded with a flash of concern in John's dark eyes. He'd broken a couple of ribs and punctured a lung on his last mission, less than three months before, and still wasn't up to pumping iron. For as burly and macho as John was, she knew he was vain about his looks, and had absolutelyhatednot being able to work out.

John grinned wider, the deep brown of his skin crinkling. "Yeah, you're probably right; a few hundred feet off the ground andwham,that's all she wrote."

She never should have told him that this was only the second flight she'd ever been on (the first was when she accompanied David to Exeter for the mission to Caliban Cove). It was exactly the kind of thing on which John got off cracking jokes—

The plane started to rumble all around them, the engine whining up into a deep hum that made Rebecca grit her teeth. Damned if she was going to let John see how nervous she was; she looked back out the window and saw Leon and Claire walking toward the metal steps. Apparently, the weapons were all loaded up.

"Where's David?" Rebecca asked, and John shrugged.

"Talking to the pilot. We've only got the one, you know, some friend of a friend of some guy in Arkansas. Not many pilots willing to smuggle people into Europe, I guess. .. ."

John leaned closer, dropping his voice to a fake whisper, his grin fading. "I hear he drinks. We got him

cheap 'cause he crashed some soccer team into the side of a mountain."

Rebecca laughed, shaking her head. "You win. I'm terrified, okay?"

"Okay. That's all I wanted," John said mildly, and turned around as Leon and Claire walked into the small cabin. They moved back to the middle of the plane, taking the two seats across the aisle from where Rebecca was sitting. David had mentioned that the area over the wings was the most stable, although it wasn't like there was that much of a choice—there were only twenty seats.

"Ever flown before?" Claire asked, leaning out into the aisle, looking a little nervous herself.

Rebecca shrugged. "Once. You?"

"Couple of times, but always on big airliners, DC 747s or -27s, I forget. I don't even know what this thing is."

"It's a DHC 8 Turbo," Leon said. "I think. David mentioned it at some point. . .."

"It's a killer, is what it is." John's deep voice floated over the seats. "A rock with wings."

"John, sweetie .. . shut up," Claire said amiably.

John cackled, obviously pleased to have somebody new to play with.

David appeared at the front of the cabin, stepping through the curtained area that led to the cockpit, and John broke off, their collective attention turning toward him.

"It seems that we're ready to go," David said. "Our pilot, Captain Evans, has assured me that all systems are fully functional and we'll be takingoffin just a

moment. He's asked that we remain seated until he's given us leave to do otherwise. Um—the restroom is just back of the cockpit, and there's a small refrigerator at the rear of the plane with sandwiches and drinks "

His voice trailed off, and he looked as if there was

something else he wanted to say but wasn't sure what it was. It was a look that Rebecca had seen often enough in the past few weeks, a kind of uneasy uncertainty. Since the day that Raccoon had been blown to shit, she supposed they'd all had that look at one time or another...

...because they shouldn't have been able to do it.

That should have been the end, and it wasn 't, and now we're all more freaked out than any of us wants to admit.

When news of the disaster first hit the papers, they had all been so certain that this time Umbrella wouldn't be able to cover its tracks. The spill at the Spencer estate had been small, easy enough to write off after fire gutted the mansion and surrounding buildings; the facility at Caliban Cove had been on private land and was too isolated for anyone to know about—again, Umbrella had swept up the broken pieces and kept it quiet.

Raccoon City, though. Thousands of people dead—and Umbrella had walked away from it smelling like a rose, after planting false evidence and getting their scientists to lie for them. It should have been impossible; it had disheartened them all. What chance did a handful of fugitives have against a multi billion-dollar conglomerate that could kill an entire city and get away with it?

David had decided not to say anything at all. He nodded briskly and then walked back to join them, pausing next to Rebecca's seat.

"Do you need some company?"

She could see that he was trying to be supportive— and she could also see that he was tired. He'd been up late the night before, doublechecking every detail of their trip.

"Nah, I'm okay," she said, smiling up at him, "and I've always got John to talk me through it."

"You know it, baby," John called loudly, and David nodded, giving her shoulder a light squeeze before moving to the seats behind her.

He needs the rest. We all do, and it's a long flight— so why do I have the feeling that we're not going to get

any?

The engine sound got louder, higher, and with a stuttering jerk, the plane started to move forward. Rebecca clutched the arm rests on either side and closed her eyes, thinking that if she had the guts to go up against Umbrella, she could certainly survive a plane ride.

Even if she couldn't, it was too late to change her mind; they were on their way, no turning back.

They'd been in the air for only twenty minutes, and already Claire was nodding off, half-leaning against Leon's shoulder. Leon was tired, too, but knew he wasn't going to get to sleep so easily. He was hungry, for one thing—and then there was the fact that he still wasn't sure if he was doing the right thing.

Great time to think about it, now that you're pretty

much committed,his mind whispered sarcastically. Maybe you could just ask them to drop you off in London or something, you could hang out in a pub until they're all finished... ordead.

Leon told himself to shut up, sighing a little. He was committed; what Umbrella had been doing wasn't just criminal, it was evil—or at least as close to evil as some money-grubbing corporate dickheads could get. They'd murdered thousands, created bioweapons capable of murderingbillions,wiped out his carefully planned future and been responsible for the death of Ada Wong, a woman he'd respected and liked. They'd helped each other through some rough spots on that terrible night in Raccoon; without her, he never would have gotten out alive.

He believed in what David and his people were doing, and it wasn't that he was afraid, that wasn't it at all_

Leon sighed again. He'd given the matter a hell of a lot of thought since he and Claire and Sherry had stumbled away from the burning city, and the only real reason he could come up with was so stupid that he didn't want to credit it. Standing against Umbrella was the right thing to do—it was that he didn't feel qualifiedto be there.

Maybe it was—but it was holding him back, making him feel uncertain, and he needed to examine it.

David Trapp had made a career of the S.T.A.R.S., only to watch the organization fall under the control of Umbrella; he'd lost two close friends on a mission to infiltrate a bioweapons testing facility, as had John Andrews. Rebecca Chambers had just been starting

outinthe S.T.A.R.S., but she was some kind of scientific child prodigy with a deep interest in Umbrella's work; that and the fact that she'd been through more than anyone else made her continued dedication understandable. Claire wanted to find her brother, the only family she had; their parents were dead, and the two of them were close. Chris, Jill, and Barry he'd never met, but he was sure they had compelling reasons of their own; he knew Barry Burton's wife and children had been threatened, Rebecca had mentioned it. ...

And what about Leon Kennedy? He'd stumbled into the fight without a clue, a cop fresh out of the academy on his way to his first day at work—which just happened to be with the Raccoon PD. There was Ada, true—but he'd known her less than half a day, and she had been killed just after admitting to him that she was some kind of an agent, sent to steal a sample of an Umbrella virus.

So I lost a job, and a possible relationship with a woman I barely knew and couldn't trust. Of course Umbrella should be stopped. . . but do I belong here? He'd decided to become a cop because he wanted to help people, but he'd always figured that meant keeping the peace—busting drunk drivers, breaking up bar fights, catching crooks. Never in his wildest dreams would he have figured on being caught up in an international conspiracy, cloak-and-dagger infiltration-type stuff against a giant company that made war monsters. It was crime on a much bigger scale than he felt he was ready for ...

. . .and is that the real reason, Officer Kennedy?

At exactly that moment, Claire mumbled something from her light doze, nuzzling her head against

his arm before falling silent and still again—and making Leon uncomfortably aware of another facet to his involvement with the ex-S.T.A.R.S. Claire. Claire was . . . she was an incredible woman. In the days after their escape from Raccoon City, they'd talked a lot about what had happened, the experiences they'd had both separately and together. At the time, it had felt like an exchange of information, filling in 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 terriblethingthat had once been William Birkin. Between them, they'd been able to come up with a continuous story, with information that was important to the fugitive team.

In retrospect, though, he could see that those long, rambling conversations had been essential for another 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 thatwantwas okay, butneed?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 selfanalysis, deciding that maybe it would be best just to stop worrying about it so much. Whatever the reason for becoming involved, hewasinvolved—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'ma good guy, fighting for truth, justice, and fewer viral zombies in the world....

The bathroom was in the front. Leon started toward 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 Kennedy, 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 sohappyabout?

"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? Johnhad broken two ribs and

cracked a third on the cove mission, and didn't know this man—how the hell did this man knowhim?

"My name is Trent," the stranger said easily, nodding 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'slives—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, intelligent 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 bysomeone.

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 atall.

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 comfortable. 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 yourselves—"

"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, nothing 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, whatisthis 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 nonetheless. 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 chemical companies, and have no relevance to this discussion, except that they're quite profitable; the money generated by Umbrella's legal enterprises allows them to finance their lesser-known operations—operations that you and yours have recently had the misfortune to come across.

"These operations fall into a division known as White Umbrella, and most have to do with bioweapons research. There are very few who know all of the ins and outs of White Umbrella's business, but the ones who do are extremely powerful. Powerful, and committed to creating all sorts of unpleasantness. Chemical weapons, fatal diseases .. . the T and G series viruses that have been so troublesome as of late."

That's anunderstatement,Claire thought nastily, but was intrigued in spite of herself. To finallyknow something about what they were up against. ...

"Why?" Leon asked. "Chemical warfare isn't all that profitable, anyone with a centrifuge and some gardening supplies can come up with a bioweapon."

Rebecca was nodding. "And the kind of work they're doing, applying rapid fuse virions to genetic redistribution—it's incredibly expensive, and as hazardous to work with as nuclear waste. Worse."

Trent shook his head. "They're doing it because they can. Because they want to." He smiled faintly. "Because when you're richer and more powerful than anyone else on the planet, you get bored."

"Who gets bored?" David asked.

Trent gazed at him for a moment, then started talking again, blatantly ignoring David's question.

"White Umbrella's current focus is on bio-organic soldiers, if you will—individual specimens, most genetically altered, all injected with some variation of virus intended to make them violent and strong and oblivious to pain. The manner in which these viruses amplify in humans, the 'zombie' reaction, is nothing more than an unexpected side effect; the viruses Umbrella creates are designed for nonhuman use, at least at this point."

Claire was interested, but she was also getting impatient. "So when do we get to the part about why you're here, why you don't want us going to Europe?" she asked, not bothering to keep the anger out of her voice.

Trent looked at her, his dark eyes suddenly sympathetic, and she realized that he knew why she was

angry, that he knew all about her reasons for wanting to go to Europe. She could see it in the way he gazed at her, his eyes telling her that he understood—and she suddenly felt deeply uneasy.

He knows everything, doesn't he? All about us. . . .

"Not all of the White Umbrella facilities are the same," he continued. "There are some that deal strictly with data, some only with the chemistry, some where specimens are grown or surgically pieced to-gether—and a very few where these specimens are tested. And that brings us to why I'm here, and why I'd rather you postponed your plans.

"There's an Umbrella testing facility about to go on line in Utah, just north of the salt flats. Right now, it's staffed by a very small crew of technicians and . . . specimen handlers, and is scheduled to become fully operational in about three weeks. The man overseeing the final preparations is one of White Umbrella's key players, a man named Reston. The job was supposed to have been handled by another fellow, a despicable little man by the name of Lewis, but Mr. Lewis had an unfortunate and not entirely unplanned accident. . . and now Reston is in charge. And because he is one of the very important men behind White Umbrella, he has, in his possession, a little black book. There are only three of these books, and the other two would be nearly impossible to get hold of. . . ."

"So what's in it?" John snapped. "Get to the point."

Trent smiled at John as if he had asked politely.

"Each book is a kind of master key; each has a complete directory of codes used to program every mainframe in every White Umbrella facility. With

that book, one could conceivably break into any lab or test site and access everything from personnel files to financial statements. They'll change the codes once the book is stolen, of course—but unless they want to lose everything they've stored, it will take them months."

No one spoke for a moment, the only sound that of the plane's insistent hum. Claire looked at each of them, saw the thoughtful expressions, saw that they were seriously considering Trent's implied propos-al—and realized that it had just become highly unlikely that they would be going to Europe after all.

"But what about Chris, and Jill and Barry? You said they were okay—how do you know that?" Claire asked, and David could just hear the barely hidden desperation.

"It would take a very long time to explain how I come by my information," Trent said smoothly. "And while I'm certain you don't want to hear this, I'm afraid you'll just have to trust me. Your brother and his companions are in no immediate danger, they don't need you at the moment—but the opportunity to get Reston's book, to get into that lab, will be gone in less than a week. There's no security detail right now, half the systems aren't even running—and as long as you stay away from the test program, there are no creatures to contend with."

David wasn't sure what to think. It sounded good, it sounded like exactly the opportunity they'd been hoping for ... but then, so had Caliban Cove. So had a lot of things.

And as for trusting Mr. Trent. . .

"What's your stake in this?" David asked. "Why do you want to hurt Umbrella?"

Trent shrugged. "Call it a hobby."

"I'm serious," David said.

"So am I." Trent smiled, his eyes still dancing with that twinkling humor. David had only seen him once before, hadn't exchanged more than a dozen words, but Trent seemed just as strangely happy now as he had then; whatever it was that made him tick, it was certainly bringing him a lot of pleasure.

"Why have you been so cryptic?" Rebecca asked, and David nodded, saw that the others were doing the same. "The stuff you gave to Jill, and to David, before—all riddles and clues. Why not just tell us what we need to know?"

"Because you needed to figure it out," Trent said.

"Or, rather, it was necessary that youappearedto figure it out, all by yourselves. As I said before, there are very few people who know what White Umbrella is doing; if you seemed to know too much, it might come back to me."

"Then why take the risk now?" David asked. "For that matter, why do you need us at all? You obviously

have some connection to White Umbrella; why not go public, or sabotage them from the inside?"

Trent smiled again. "I'm taking the risk because it's time to take a risk. And as to the rest... all I can say is that I have my reasons."

He talks and talks, and yet we still don't know what the hell he's doing, or why. . . how exactly does he manage that?

"Why don't you tell us a few of those reasons,

Trent?" None of it was sitting well with John, David

saw; he was scowling at their stowaway, looking as though he might have to be talked out of punching the man.

Trent didn't answer. Instead, he pushed himself off of the seat and picked up his coat, turning to look at David.

"I realize you'll want to discuss this before you make your decision," he said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll take this opportunity to visit our captain. If you decide against collecting Reston's book, I'll step aside.

I said before that you had no choice, but that was my dramatic side showing, I suppose; there's always a choice."

On that, Trent turned and walked to the front of the cabin and slipped behind the curtain without a backward glance.

FOUR

JOHN BROKE THE SILENCE ABOUT TWO SEConds after Trent left the cabin.

"To hell with this," he said, looking as pissed off as Rebecca had ever seen him. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm not all that happy about being played like this—I'm not here to be Mr. Trent's boy, and I don't trust him. I say we get him to talk about Umbrella, tell us what he knows about our team in Europe—and if he gives us one more say-nothing answer, we should drop-kick his evasive ass out the damned door."

Rebecca knew he was royally ticked, but she couldn't help herself. "Yeah, John, but how do you

reallyfeel?"

He glared in her direction—and then grinned, and somehow, that broke the tension for all of them. It was as though they all remembered how to breathe again at the same time; the unexpected visit from

their mysterious benefactor had made it hard for a few moments to remember much of anything.

"We've got John's vote," David said. "Claire? I know you were worried about Chris. . . ."

Claire nodded slowly. "Yeah. And I want to see him again, as soon as possible. ..."

"But," David said, coaxing the rest of it out.

"But—I think he's telling the truth. About them being okay, I mean."

Leon was nodding. "I do, too. John's right about him being slick—but I don't think he was lying, about anything. He didn't tell us a lot, but I didn't get the impression that he was bullshitting us with what he wouldsay."

David turned toward her. "Rebecca?"

She sighed, shaking her head. "Sorry, John, but I agree. I think he's got some credibility; he's helped us before, in his own weird way, and the fact that he's here, unarmed, says something—"

"—it says he's a dumbass," John muttered darkly, and Rebecca punched him lightly on the arm, realizing suddenly, intuitively, why John was so reluctant to accept Trent's word.

Trent wasn't intimidated by him.

She was sure of it; she knew John well enough to know that Trent's indifference would absolutely push his buttons.

Choosing her words carefully, keeping her tone light, Rebecca grinned at him. "I think you just hate the fact that he's not scared of your big scary self, John. Most people would've wet their pants with you towering over them."

It was the right thing to say. John frowned thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Yeah, well, maybe. I still don't trust him, though."

"I don't think any of us should," David said. "He's keeping an awful lot to himself for someone who wants our help. The question is, do we seek out this Reston, or do we continue with our original plans?"

No one spoke for a moment, and Rebecca could see that no one wanted to say it—to acknowledge that if Trent was telling the truth, there was no reason to go to Europe. She didn't want to say it, either; somehow, it felt like a betrayal of Jill and Chris and Barry, like, "we've found something better to do than come to your aid."

But if they don't need us...

Rebecca decided that she may as well go first. "If this place is as easy as he says ... when would we ever have another chance like this?"

Claire was biting at her lip, looking unhappy. Lookingtorn."If we found that book of codes, we'd have something to take with us to Europe. Something that could really make a difference."

"//we find the book," John said, but Rebecca could see that the idea was growing on him.

"It could be a turning point," David said softly. "It would knock the odds against us down from a million to one to perhaps only a few thousand."

"I have to admit, it would be fine to turn over Umbrella's private files to the press," John said. "Download all of their shitty little secrets and pass them out to every paper in the country."

They were all nodding, and although she thought it

might take a little more time to get used to the idea, Rebecca knew that the decision had been made.

It seemed that they were going to Utah.

If anyone had expected Trent to be overjoyed at the news, they would have been deeply disappointed. When David called him back to the cabin and told him that they would go to the new testing facility,

Trent only nodded, that same enigmatic smile on his lined and weathered face.

"Here are the coordinates for the site," Trent said, pulling a slip of paper from his front pocket. "There are also several numerical codes listed, one of which will provide entry—although the keypad may be hard to find. I'm sorry I wasn't able to narrow it down any further."

Leon watched as David took the paper from Trent, as Trent walked back out to tell the pilot, wondering why it was that he couldn't stop thinking about Ada. Since Trent's little speech about White Umbrella, memories of Ada Wong's skill and beauty, echoes of her deep, sultry voice had been haunting Leon. It wasn't a conscious thing, or at least not at first. It was that something about the man reminded him of her; maybe that supreme self-confidence, or that hint of sly smile—

—and at the end, before that crazy woman shot her,

I accused her of being an Umbrella spy—and she'd said that she wasn't, that who she worked for wasn't my concern. . . .

Although he and Claire had come into the fight pretty late in the game, they'd been thoroughly

briefed on what the others knew about Umbrella, and what part Trent had played in the past. The one constant—besides being incredibly elusive with in-formation—was that he seemed to know all sorts of things that no one else knew.

It can't hurt to ask.

When Trent walked back into the cabin, Leon approached him.

"Mr. Trent," he said carefully, watching him closely, "in Raccoon City, I met a woman named Ada Wong_"

Trent gazed at him, his face giving nothing away. "Yes?"

"I was wondering if you knew anything about her, about who she was working for. She was looking for a sample of the G-Virus—"

Trent arched his eyebrows. "Was she? And did she

Leon studied his dark, quick eyes, wondering why he felt like Trent already knew the answer. He couldn't, of course, Ada had been murdered just before the laboratory had exploded.

"Yes, she did," Leon said. "In the end, though, she—she sacrificed herself in a way, rather than make a choice. Between killing someone and losing the sample."

"And was that someone you?" Trent asked softly.

Leon was aware that the others were watching, and was a little surprised that he wasn't at all uncomfortable. Even a month ago, such a personal conversation would have been embarrassing for him.

"Yeah," he said, almost defiantly. "It was me."

Trent nodded slowly, smiling a little. "Then it

seems to me that you wouldn't need to know anything else about her. About her character or motivations."

Leon wasn't sure if he was evading the question or honestly telling him what he thought—but either way, the simple logic of his answer made Leon feel better. As though he'd known the answer himself all along. Whatever psychology he was working, Trent was quite a piece of work.

He's smooth, cultured, and scary as hell in his own quiet way. . . . Ada would have liked him.

". . . much as I'd enjoy talking with you, I have some business with our captain that needs to be attended to," Trent was saying. "We'll be at Salt Lake in five or six hours."

With that, he nodded toward them and disappeared through the curtain again.

"Too good to sit with the grunts?" John asked, obviously not over his initial dislike. Leon looked around at the others, saw thoughtful and uneasy expressions, saw Claire looking as though she half wanted to change her mind.

Leon walked to where she was leaning against a seat, her arms folded tightly, and touched her shoulder.

"Thinking about Chris?" He asked gently.

To his surprise, she shook her head, smiling at him nervously. "No. Actually, I was thinking about the Spencer estate, and the raid on Caliban Cove, and what happened in Raccoon. I was thinking that no matter what Trent says about how simple this will be, nothing is ever simple with Umbrella. Things have a way of getting complicated when they're involved. You'd think we would know that by now. . . ."

She trailed off, then shook her head as if trying to clear it, giving him another, brighter smile. "Listen to me talk. I'm going to get a sandwich, you want anything?"

"No, thanks," he said absently, still thinking about what she'd said as she walked away—and wondering suddenly if their little trek to Utah was going to be the last mistake that any of them ever made.

Steve Lopez, good ol' Steve, his face as blank and white as a sheet of paper, standing in the middle of the strange, vast laboratory, standing and aiming his semi at them and telling them to drop their weapons—

—and the rage, the pain and red fury that hit John like a hurricane as he realized what had happened, that Karen was dead, that Steve had been turned into one of those crazy asshole's zombie soldiers—

—and John screamed, what did you do to him, not thinking, spinning instead, firing at the blank-faced drone behind them, the round punching neatly through its left temple and the cold air stinking like death as the creature fell—

—and pain! Pain, tearing through him as Steve,

Stevie, his friend and comrade, shot him in the back. John felt blood dribble from his lips, felt himself turning, felt more pain than he thought he could feel. Steve had shot him, the mad doctor had used the virus on him and Steve wasn't Steve anymore and the world was spinning, screaming—

John, John wake up you're having

"—a bad dream. Hey, big guy—"

John sat up, his eyes wide and his heart thumping, feeling disoriented and afraid. The cool hand on his

arm was Rebecca's, the touch gentle and soothing, and he realized that he was awake, that he'd been dreaming and was now awake.

"Shit," he mumbled, and sagged back against his seat, closing his eyes. They were still on the plane, the soft drone of the engine and the hiss of canned air putting to rest the last of his confusion.

"You okay?" Rebecca asked, and John nodded, taking a few deep breaths before he opened his eyes again.

"Did I—did I yell or anything?"

Rebecca smiled at him, watching him closely.

"Nope. Just so happens I was on my way back from the bathroom and saw you twitching like a rabbit. It didn't look like you were having much fun ... hope I didn't interrupt anything good."

The last was almost a question. John forced a grin and avoided the subject entirely, glancing out at the passing darkness instead. "Three tuna sandwiches before bed was a bad idea, I guess. We almost there?"

Rebecca nodded. "We're just starting the descent. Fifteen, twenty minutes, David says."

She was still scrutinizing him, still wearing an expression of warmth and concern, and John realized he was being an idiot. Keeping that shit to oneself was a sure ticket to losing one's mind.

"I was in the lab," he said, and Rebecca nodded, it was all he needed to say. She'd been there.

"I had one just a couple of days ago, right after we decided to leave Exeter," she said softly. "A real nasty one. It was kind of a combination, stuff from the Spencer lab and from the cove."

John nodded, thinking about what a remarkable

young woman she was. She'd faced down a houseful of Umbrella monsters on her first S.T.A.R.S. mission, and had still decided to come with them to check out

the cove when David had asked.

"You kick ass, 'becca. If I were a few years younger, I think it might be love," he said, and was pleased at her blushing, grinning reaction. She was probably smarter than him by half, but she was also a teenage girl—and if he remembered correctly from back in his day, teenage girls weren't adverse to hearing about how cool they were.

"Shut up," she said, her tone of voice telling him that he had, in fact, thoroughly embarrassed her— and that she didn't mind.

A moment of comfortable silence rested between them, the last dregs of the nightmare fading as the cabin pressure fluctuated, the plane on its way down. In a few minutes, they'd be in Utah, of all places. David had already suggested that they get to a hotel and start making plans, that they would go in tomorrow night.

Go in, get the book, and then get the hell out.

Easy . . . except hadn't that pretty much been the plan for the cove?

John decided that once they landed, he wanted to do a little more talking with Trent. He was up for the mission, for getting the book and throwing a few wrenches into Umbrella's works in the process—but he still wasn't happy with Trent's rather selective information. Yeah, the man was helping them—but why so weird about it? And why hadn't he told them what their Europe team was doing, or who was

running White Umbrella, or how he'd known to put his own pilot on their charter?

Because he's on some power trip, that's why. Control freak.

That didn't seem quite right, but John couldn't think of any other reason that their Mr. Trent was being such a secret agent wannabe spy. Maybe if he got his arm twisted a little, he'd be more forthcoming. . . .

"John—I know you don't like him, but do you think he's right about this being a snap job? I mean, what if this Reston won't give it up? Or what if—what if something else happens?"

She was trying to sound professional, her tone light and easy, but the troubled look deep in her mild brown eyes gave her away.

Something else. Something like a viral spill, something like a crazy scientist, something like biomonsters getting loose. Like the something that always happens around Umbrella. . . .

"If I have anything to say about it, the only thing that will go wrong is that Reston will shit himself and the smell will be terrible," he said, and was again rewarded with a grin from the young woman.

"You're a dork," she said, and John shrugged, thinking how easy it was to make the girl smile— and wondering if it was such a good idea to get her hopes up.

A few moments later the small plane touched down easily and for the first time, the pilot used the intercom system. He told them to remain seated until the plane had stopped and then clicked off, not bothering

with the usual crap about how he hoped they'd enjoyed their flight or what the current temperature was; for that, at least, John was grateful. The small craft rolled across the tarmac, finally coming to a gentle stop, the team standing and stretching and putting on their coats.

As soon as he heard the outer door pop, John stepped past Rebecca and walked to the front of the cabin, determined not to let Trent get off before they'd had a chance to chat. He pushed through the curtain, a cold wind blowing into the small passage behind the cockpit, and saw that he was too late. The pilot, Evans, was standing in the doorway to the cockpit by himself.

Somehow, Trent had managed to slip away in the few seconds it took John to walk through the tiny plane. The metal stairs that had been pushed to the outside of the craft were empty—and even though John took the steps two at a time, hitting the ground in less than a heartbeat, there was still nothing to see in the endless stretch of tarmac, and no one at all except for the man who'd brought the stairs out. When asked about Trent, the airport worker insisted that the first person off the plane had been John himself.

"Son of a bitch," John spat, and it didn't matter, because they were in Utah. Trent or no Trent, they had arrived—and because it was after midnight, they had less than a day to get ready.

FIVE

JAY RESTON WAS PLEASED. IN FACT, HE WAS as happy as he'd been in a long time, and if he'd known it would feel so good to be back in the field, he would have done it years ago.

Managing employees, the kind who actually get their hands dirty. Making things happen and seeing the results unfold, being a part of the process. Being more than just a shadow, more than some nameless darkness to be feared....

Thinking these things made him feel strong and vital again; he was barely fifty, he hadn't yet come to see himself as even middle-aged, but working in the trenches again made him realize how much he'd lost over the years.

Reston sat in the control room, the pulse of the Planet, his hands behind his head and his attention fixed on the wall of screens in front of him. On one screen, a man in coveralls was working on a series of

trees in Phase One, adding another coat of green to a row of faux evergreens. The man was Tom Something-or-other, from construction, but the name wasn't important. Whatwasimportant was that Tom was painting the trees because Reston had told him to, face-to-face at the morning briefing.

On another screen, Kelly McMalus was recalibrating the desert temp control, also at Reston's request. McMalus was the Scorps lead handler, at least until the permanent staff came in; everyone in the Planet was temporary, one of White's newer policies to avoid sabotage. Once everything was up and running, the nine technical people and half-dozen "preliminary" researchers—actually glorified specimen handlers, although he'd never call them that directly—would be relocated.

The Planet. The facility was actually "B.O.W. Envi-rotest A," but Reston thought that Planet was a much better name. He wasn't sure who had come up with it, just that it had cropped up at one of the morning briefings and stuck. Referring to the test site as the Planet in his updates to the home team made him feel even more a part of the process.

"The video feeds were connected today, although there's some problem with the mikes, so the audio hasn't been hooked up yet; I'll have that taken care of ASAP. The last of the Ma3Ks came in, no damage to any of the specimens. In all, things are going very well, we expect to have the Planet ready days ahead of schedule.... "

Reston smiled, thinking of his last conversation with Sidney; had he heard just a touch of jealousy in Sidney's voice, a thread of wistfulness? He was part of

a "we" now, a we that called Envirotest A by a nickname. After thirty years of delegation, having to oversee the finishing touches on their most innovative and expensive facility to date had been a blessing in disguise. And to think that he'd been irritated when he'd first heard about Lewis's car going off a cliff; the man's accident was probably the best work he'd ever done for Umbrella, because it meant thathewould be overseeing the Planet's birth.

Another tech was walking across one of the screens, carrying a tool box and a coil of rope. Cole, Henry Cole, the electrician who'd been working on the intercom and video systems; he was in the main corridor that ran between the faculty quarters and the testing area, leading toward the elevator. Reston had noticed the day before that several of the surface cameras were malfunctioning; none of the cameras in the Planet had been wired for sound as of yet, but the screens for the upper compound would intermittently spew static for minutes at a time, and he had asked Cole to see to it—

—but after he'd finished with the 'com system, not before. How am I supposed to stay in contact with these people if I don't have a working intercom system?

Even the flush of irritation he felt for the tech was exhilarating; instead of pushing a button, telling some yes-man to fix it, he would have to attend to it himself.

Reston pushed away from the console, stretching as

he stood up, taking a last look at the row of monitors to remind him of anything else he needed to see to as long as he was out.

Intercom, video feeds. . . the bridge in Three will

need reinforcement, that's not a priority, but we really should do something about the city colors, they're still much too flat....

He walked through the sleekly designed control room, past the line of plush leather chairs so new that their rich scent still lingered in the cool filtered air.

The chairs faced a wall of high-resolution screens; in less than a month they would be seating the top researchers, scientists, and administrators that were the heart of White Umbrella, as well as the two biggest financiers of the program. Even Sidney and Jackson would be there, to see the initial run of the test program.

And Trent,Reston thought hopefully.Surely he wouldn't turn down an invitation to the first test run....

Reston stepped on the pressure plate in front of the door, the thick metal hatch sliding up with only a whisper of sound, and walked out into the wide corridor that ran the length of the Planet. Control wasn't far from the industrial elevator, almost straight across in fact, but the electrician had already started for the surface. There would be four lifts operating within the week out of one of the other surface buildings, but for now, there was only the one industrial elevator. He'd have to wait until Cole had exited.

He pushed the recall and straightened the cuffs of his suit jacket, thinking about how he would lead the tour. It had been quite a while since Jay Reston had indulged in daydreaming, but in his short time at the Planet, imagining the day when he would welcome the others and guide them through the facility he had managed and transformed into a smoothly running

machine had become a favored pastime. Of the handful of people who ran White Umbrella, who made the big decisions, he was the youngest to be accepted into the inner circle—and while Jackson had often assured him that he was as valued as anyone else, he'd noted on more than one occasion that he was the last to be consulted. To beconsidered.

Not after this. Not after they see that even without a dozen assistants waiting on my every word, I've managed to get the Planet up and running without a hitch, and before schedule. Id like to see Sidney do half as well.. . .

They'd come in at night, of course, and probably in several groups. He'd have the specimen caretakers at the entrance to greet them and lead them to the elevators (the new ones, not the dirty monstrosity he was about to ride); on the way down, the visitors would hear all about the efficient, elegant living quarters, the self-contained air-filtering system, the surgical theater—everything that made the Planet their most brilliant innovation yet. From the elevators, he'd take them around to the control room and explain the environments and the current series of specimens, eight of each. Then, back out and north, toward the beginning of the testing site.

We walk straight through, all four phases, then view autopsy and the chemical lab. We'll have to stop in for a look at Fossil, of course, and then through the living area—where there will be coffee and rolls, sandwiches maybe—and then circle back to control to observe the first tests. Specimen against specimen only, of course—human experimentation would put such a damper on things. . . .

A soft tone brought his attention back to the errand, alerting him to the elevator's return. The door opened, the gate slid aside, and Reston stepped into the large car, the reinforced steel platform clanking beneath his feet. Dust puffed up from the metal, settling over the polished sheen of his shoes.

Reston sighed, tapping the controls that would take him to the surface, thinking of all he'd had to put up with since arriving at the Planet only ten days before. Thingswerecoming along, but he'd never realized just how many inconveniences one had to suffer to get one of these places operational—the lukewarm meals, the constant need to pay attention to every niggling detail, and thedirt:everywhere, thin layers of workman's dust clung to hair and clothes, clogging the niters . . . even in the control room, he'd had to take all kinds of extra precautions to keep it from getting into the central terminal. He'd had to work with three different programmers to get the mainframe running, yet another of Umbrella's precautions to keep any one

of them from knowing too much; but if the system were to go down. ...

Reston sighed again, patting the small, flat square in his inner pocket as the lift hummed smoothly upwards. He had the codes; if the system went down, he'd just have to call in new programmers. A setback, but hardly a disaster. Raccoon City, nowthatwas a disaster—and all the more reason that he wanted things to go well with the Planet.

We need this. After the summer we've had, the spill and those meddlingS.T.A.R.S. and losing Birkin... I need this.

Although it had been a unanimous decision, it had

been Reston's people who'd gone into Raccoon to take Birkin's G-Virus—an action that had resulted in the loss of their lead scientist and just over a billion dollars' worth of equipment, space, and manpower. It wasn't his fault, of course, no one blamed him—but it had been a bad summer for all of them, and having Envirotest A up and running would ease things considerably.

He thought about what Trent had said, just before Reston had left for the Planet—that as long as they didn't lose their heads, there was no need for concern. Generic placating advice, but hearing it from Trent made it sound like the truth. It was funny; they'd brought Trent in to act as trouble shooter, and in less than six months he'd become one of the most respected members of their circle. Nothing rattled Trent, the man was ice; they were lucky to have him, particularly considering their recent run of misfortune.

The elevator came to a stop and Reston squared his shoulders, preparing himself to redirect Mr. Cole's efforts—and just the thought of making the man jump made him smile again, all other worries put aside for the moment.

Just a working-class Joe,he thought happily, and stepped out to take care of business.

SIX

THERE WAS A HALF-MOON IN THE CLEAR night sky, casting a pallid blue light across the vast,

open stretch of plain and making it seem even colder than it was.

Andthat's pretty goddamn cold,Claire thought, shivering in spite of the rental's blasting heater. It was another minivan, and even with the three of them moving around in the back, checking weapons and loading clips, they didn't seem to be generating nearly enough heat to ward off the icy air that seeped in through the thin metal shell.

"Do you have the 380s?" John asked Leon, who handed over the box of rounds before going back to loading up their hip packs. David was driving,

Rebecca checking their position on a GPS. If Trent's coordinates were correct, they'd be getting close.

Claire looked out at the pale landscape passing by the dirt track, the seemingly endless miles of nothing

beneath the wide open sky, and shivered again. It was a barren, forsaken place, the road they were on scarcely more that a dirt track leading in from nowhere; a perfect setting for Umbrella.

The plan was simple. Park the van a half mile or so from Trent's coordinates, load up with every weapon they had, and slip into the compound as quietly as they could manage . ..

".. . we'll find this entry keypad of Trent's, run the codes through, and go in strong," David had said,

"well after dark. With any luck, the majority of the workers will be asleep; just a matter of finding the staff quarters and rounding them up. We'll confine them and have a check around for this book of Mr. Reston's; John, you and Claire will keep watch over our captives, while the rest of us search. It would probably be in their operations room, or in Reston's private quarters. If we haven't found it within, say, twenty minutes, we'll have to ask Mr. Reston directly—a last resort, to avoid implicating Trent. Book in hand, we go back out the way we came in. Questions?"

Their planning session at the hotel had made it sound easy enough—and with as little information as they had, the questions had been few. Now, though, driving through an endless, freezing waste and trying to get psyched up for a confrontation—now it didn't seem so simple. It was a scary prospect, going into a

place none of them had ever been before and try to find an item no bigger than a paperback novel.

Plus it's Umbrella, plus we'll have to intimidate the crap out of a bunch of technicians and possibly end up having to strong-arm one of the big boys.

At least they were going in well armed; it seemed that they had learned something about dealing with Umbrella, after all—that taking in a shitload of firepower was a very good idea. In addition to the nine-millimeter handguns and multiple clips that each of them would carry, they had two M-16 A Is, automatic rifles—one for John, one for David—and a half-dozen fragmentation hand grenades. Just in case, David said.

In case everything falls apart. In case we have to blow up some bizarre, murderous creature—or a hundred of them. . . .

"Cold?" Leon asked.

Claire turned away from the window, looking at him. He'd finished with the packs, and was holding one out to her. She took it, nodding in response to his question. "Aren't you?"

He shook his head, grinning. "Thermal underwear. Could have used these in Raccoon. . . ."

Claire smiled. "K?w could have used them? I was running around in a pair of shorts, you at least had your uniform."

"Which was covered with lizard guts before I was halfway through the sewers," he said, and she was glad to hear him at least try to joke about it.

He's getting better; -we both are.

"Now, children," John said sternly. "If you don't stop, we're turning this car around—"

"Slow down," Rebecca said from the front, her quiet voice stilling them. David let up on the gas, the van slowing to a crawl.

"It looks like—it's about a half-mile southeast from our current position," Rebecca said.

Claire took a deep breath, saw John pick up one of the rifles, and saw Leon's mouth press into a thin line as David brought the van to a stop. It was time. John opened the side door and the air was ice, dry and bitterly cold.

"Hope they got the coffee on," John breathed, and hopped out into the darkness, reaching back in to grab his pack. Rebecca loaded up a few medical supplies, and as she and David climbed out, Leon put his hand on Claire's shoulder.

"You up for this?" he asked softly, and Claire smiled inwardly, thinking of how sweet he was; she'd been thinking of asking him the same thing. In the days since Raccoon, they'd gotten pretty close—and although she wasn't positive, she'd picked up on a few signals that suggested he wouldn't mind getting closer. She still wasn't sure if that was a good idea—

—and now's not the time to be deciding. The sooner we get this code book, the sooner we get to Europe. To Chris.

"As up as I'm gonna be," she said, and Leon nodded, and they climbed out into the freezing night to join the others.

David put John at the rear and took the lead himself, forcing all negative thoughts out of his mind as they struck out for where Trent said the test site would be. It wasn't easy; they were going in cold with less than a day's planning, no layout, no idea what Reston looked like or what kind of security they'd be facing—

—the list is endless, isn't it, and I'm still taking them in. Because if we're successful, I can step down.

Umbrella will be as good as dead and no one will have to look to me for anything, ever again.

That was a thought he could hold on to; a peaceful retirement. Once the monsters behind White Umbrella had been brought to justice, vigilante or otherwise, he'd have no greater responsibility than keeping himself fed and bathed. Perhaps he'd work up to a house-plant. . . .

"I think—veer left a few degrees," Rebecca said from behind him, startling him, bringing his focus

back around. She'd barely spoken above a whisper, but the night was so cold and crisp, the air so perfectly still that every step taken, every breath exhaled seemed to fill the world.

David led them through the darkness, wishing they could use their lights; they should be getting quite close. But even dressed all in black, he was worried they'd be spotted before they could get inside—what-ever that meant exactly; Trent had given them no idea of what the facility would look like. In any case, with barely a half moon they wouldn't see it until they were right on top—

There.

A thickening of shadow, straight ahead. David held up his hand, slowing the others as they moved closer, as he saw a dented metal roof reflecting moonlight. And then a fence, and then a handful of buildings, all of them dark and silent.

David dropped into a walking crouch, motioning for the rest to follow suit, holding the automatic rifle tight against his chest. They crept closer, close enough to see the lonely group of tall one-story structures behind a low fence.

Five, six buildings, no lights, no movement—a front, surely....

"Underground," Rebecca whispered, and David nodded. Probably; they'd discussed several possibilities, and it seemed the most likely. Even in the wan light he could see that the buildings were old, dusty and worn. There was a smallish structure in the front, five long, low buildings in a row behind it, all with sloping metal roofs. It was certainly big enough to be some kind of a testing ground, the larger buildings as big as aircraft hangars, but between the site's placement—alone, out in the open in the middle of a desert—and the wear and tear, he'd guess underground.

Good and bad. Good, because they should be able to get into the compound without much trouble; bad because God only knew what kind of surveillance system had been set up. They would have to go in fast.

David turned, still in a crouch, and faced the team. "We'll need to double-time," he said softly, "and stay

low. We scale the fence, head for the structure closest to the front gate, same order—I'm on point, John's in back. We have to find the entry ASAP. Watch for cameras, and everyone's armed as soon as we're in the compound."

Nods all around, faces grim and set. David turned and started for the fence, head down, his muscles tight and jumping. Twenty meters, the air biting into his lungs, freezing the light sweat on his skin. Ten meters. Five, and he could see the "No Trespassing" signs posted on the fence, and as they reached the gate, David saw the sign telling them that they were at the privately owned "Weather Monitoring and Survey

#7." He looked up and saw the rounded silhouettes of what had to be satellite dishes on two of the buildings, plus the multiple thin lines of antennae stretching up from one of them.

David touched the fence with the barrel of the M-16, then with his hand. Nothing, and there was no barbed wire either, no sensor lines that he could see, no alarm trips.

Obviously, no weather station would have those; trust Umbrella to be as concise in their fronts as with anything else.

He slung the rifle over his shoulder, grabbed the thick wire and pulled himself up. It was only seven feet; he was at the top in five seconds, flipping himself over and jumping to the dusty ground inside the compound.

Rebecca was next, climbing quickly and easily, a lithe shadow in the dark. David reached up to help her, but she leapt nimbly to the ground next to him with hardly a stumble. She drew her weapon, an H&K VP70, and turned to cover the darkness as David looked back to the fence.

Leon almost tripped off the top, but David managed to steady him, grabbing the younger man's hand; once he was down, he nodded his thanks at David and turned to help Claire over.

So far, so good. . . .

David scanned the shadows around them as John scaled the outside, his heart pounding, all of his

senses on high alert. There was no sound but the gentleclankof the fence, no movement in the blackness.

He glanced back as John thumped to the cold and dusty ground, then nodded toward the front structure, the smaller one. If he were to design a false cover, he'd hide the real entrance somewhere no one would look—in a broom closet at the back of the last building, through a trap door in the dirt—but Umbrella was cocky, too smug to worry about such simple precautions.

It will be in the first building, because they'll believe they've hidden it so cleverly that no one will find it. Because if there's one thing we can count on, it's that Umbrella thinks they're too smart to be caught out. .. .

He hoped. Staying down, David started for the building, praying that if there were cameras watching them, there was no one watching the cameras.

It was late, but Reston wasn't tired. He sat in the control room, sipping brandy from a ceramic mug and idly thinking about the next day's agenda.

He'd make his report, of course; Cole still hadn't managed to fix the intercom system, although the video cameras all seemed to be in working order; the Ca6 handler, Les Duvall, wanted one of the mechanics to see about a sticking lock on the release cage— and there was still the city. The MaSKs couldn't exactly shine if the only colors were tan and brick . . .

. . .have to get the construction people into Four tomorrow. And see how the Avis do with the perches—

A red light flashed on the panel in front of him, accompanied by a soft mechanical bleat. It was the sixth or seventh time in the last week; he'd have to get Cole to fix that, too. The winds sweeping off the plain

could be vicious; on a bad day, they rattled the doors to the surface structures hard enough to set off all of the sensors.

Still, good thing I was here...once the Planet was fully staffed, there'd always be someone in control to reset the sensors, but for the time being, he was the only one with access to the control room. If he'd been in bed, the soft but insistent alarm currently going off

in his private room would have forced him to get up.

Reston reached for the switch, glancing at the row of monitors to his left more for form's sake than because he expected to see anything—

—and froze, staring at a screen that showed him the entry room nearly a quarter mile above where he sat, in a view from the ceiling cam in the southeast corner. Four, five people, turning on flashlights, all of them dressed in black. The thin beams of light roamed over the dusty consoles, the walls of meteorological equipment—and illuminated the weapons they were holding in flashes of metal. Guns and rifles.

Oh, no.

Reston felt almost a full second of fear and despair before he remembered who he was. Jay Reston had not become one of the most powerful men in the country, perhaps in the world, by panicking.

He reached beneath the console, reached for the slender handset tucked into the slot next to the chair that would connect him directly to White Umbrella's private offices. As soon as he picked it up, the line went through.

"This is Reston," he said, and could hear the steel in his voice, hear it and feel it. "We have a problem. I want a call put in to Trent, I want Jackson to call me

immediately—and send out a team, now, I want them here twenty minutes ago."

He stared at the screen as he spoke, at theintruders, and clenched his jaw, his initial fear turning to anger. The fugitive S.T.A.R.S., surely_

It didn't matter. Even if they found the entrance, they didn't have the codes—and whoever they were, they would pay for causing him even a second of distress.

Reston slid the phone back into its slot, folded his arms, and watched the strangers move silently across the screen, wondering if they had any idea that they'd be dead within half an hour.

SEVEN

THE BUILDING WAS COLD AND DARK, BUT

there was the soft hum of working machinery to break the silence, to listen to over the pounding of her heart. It wasn't too big, maybe thirty feet by twenty, but it was a single room, big enough to feel unsafe, vulnerable. Small lights blinked randomly all around it, like dozens of eyes watching them from the shadows.

Man, I hate this.

Rebecca trailed the tight beam from her flashlight over the west wall of the building, looking for anything out of the ordinary and trying not to feel sick at the same time. In movies, private detectives and cops who had just crashed someone's house were always strolling calmly around, looking for evidence, as if they owned the place; in real life, breaking in somewhere you were absolutelynotsupposed to be was terrifying. She knew they were in the right, that they were the good guys, but still her palms were damp, her

heart hammering, and she wished desperately there were a bathroom she could get to. Her bladder had apparently shrunk to the size of a walnut.

And it'll have to wait, unless I want to go wet the dirt in enemy territory. . . .Rebecca didn't.

She leaned in to take a closer look at the machine in front of her, a stand-up device the size of a refrigerator and covered with buttons; the label on the front read, "OGO Relay," whatever that was. As far as she could tell, the room was full of big, clunky machines awash in switches; if all of the other buildings were similarly equipped, finding Trent's hidden code panel was going to be an all-night operation.

Each of them had taken a wall, and John was going over the tables in the middle of the room. There was probably a surveillance camera set up somewhere in the building, which made the need to hurry even greater—although they were all hoping that the minimal staff meant no one would be watching. If they wereverylucky, the security system wouldn't even be hooked up yet.

No, that would be a miracle. Lucky will be if we get in and out of this alive and unhurt, with or without that book. .. .

Since they'd walked away from the van, Rebecca's internal alarms had been ticking down to a full-blown case of the nerves. From her short time with the S.T.A.R.S. she'd learned that trusting her gut feelings was important, maybe even more important than having a weapon; instinct told people to duck bullets, to hide when the enemy was near, to know when to wait and when to act.

The problem is, how do you know if it's instinct or if

you're just scared shitless?She didn't know. What she knew was that she wasn't feeling good about their late-night raid; she was cold and jumpy, her stomach , hurt, and she couldn't shake the belief that something j bad was going to happen.

On the other hand, sheshouldbe scared—they all should be; what they were doing was dangerous. Something bad might actually happen, acknowledging it wasn't paranoid, it was realistic—

—hello. What's that?

Just to the right of the OGO machine was some-\ thing that looked like a water heater, a tall, rounded device with a window in the front. Behind the small square of glass was a spool of graph paper, covered with thready black lines, nothing she recognized— what had caught her eye was the dust on the glass. It was the same finely powdered dirt that seemed to be on everything in the room . . . except it wasn't. There was a smudge across the dirt, a damp streak that may have been caused by someone's finger.

A smudge on dirt?

If someone had run their hand over the dusty glass, they would have cleared a path. Rebecca touched it, frowning—and felt the pebbled surface of the dust, , the tiny ridges and whorls like sandpaper beneath her fingers. It was painted or sprayed on—that is, fake.

"Might have something," she whispered, and touched the window where the smudge was. The window popped open, swinging out—

—and there was a sparkling metal square behind it, a ten-key set into an extremely undusty-looking panel; the graph paper was also fake, just a part of the glass.

"Bingo," John whispered from behind her, and

Rebecca stepped back, feeling a flush of excitement as the others gathered around, feeling the tension coming from all of them. The mist of their combined breath made a small cloud in the freezing room, reminding her of how cold she was.

Too cold... we should go back to the van, back to the hotel for a hot bath. .. .She could hear the desperation in her inner voice. It wasn't the cold, it was this place.

"Brilliant," David said softly, and stepped forward, holding his flashlight up. He'd memorized Trent's codes, eleven in all, each eight digits long.

"It'll be the last one, watch," John whispered.

Rebecca might have laughed if she wasn't so scared.

John fell silent as they watched him plug in the first numbers, Rebecca thinking that if they didn't work she wouldn't be all that disappointed.

Jackson had called, informing Reston in his cool, cultured tones that two four-man teams were on their way by helicopter from Salt Lake City. "It so happens that our branch office was entertaining a few of the troops," he'd said. "We have Trent to thank for that; he suggested that we start relocating some of our security in advance of the grand opening, so to speak."

Reston had been glad to hear it, but wasn't so happy about the fact that they werethere,three armed men and two women poking around the Planet's entrance in the middle of the night—

"They can't get in, Jay," he'd interrupted, gently, soothingly. "They don't have access."

Reston had swallowed his knee-jerk response to

that, thanking him instead. Jackson Cortlandt was probably the most patronizing and arrogant son of a bitch Reston had ever known, but he was also extremely competent—and extremely savage if need be; the last man who'd crossed Jackson had been mailed to his family in pieces. Saying "No shit" to the senior member was akin to walking off" a tall building.

Jackson had then made it quite clear that while he appreciated the call, it would be best for Jay to handle such matters himself in the future—that if he'd bothered to keep himself apprised of internal shift-ings, he would have known about the teams in SLC. There was no explicit wrist-slapping, but Reston got the message all the same; he hung up feeling as though he'd been severely chastised; watching the five interlopers search the entry building only added to his mounting tension.

No codes, no access, even if they find the controls.

Twenty minutes. All he had to do was wait for twenty minutes, half an hour at the outside. Reston took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly—

—and forgot to inhale again as he saw one of them, a girl, push on the window to the keypad. They'd found it, and he still didn't know who they were or how they knew about the Planet—but the way one of the men stepped forward and started punching keys suggested that twenty minutes could be too long to wait for help.

He's guessing, random numbers, it's not possible—

Reston watched the tall, dark-haired man continue to tap in numbers and thought about what Trent had said at their last gathering. That White Umbrella might have a leak.

An information leak, from someone high up. Someone who might know the entry codes.

He reached for the phone again and then stopped, Jackson's subtle warning making him break out in a light sweat. He had to handle it, he had to keep them from getting in, but everyone was asleep and there wasn't an intercom, there was a gun in his room but if theyhadthe code, he didn't have time to—

—override.

Reston turned away from the screen and started for the door, kicking himself as he hurried out of control. There was a manual override switch in a hidden panel next to the elevator, he could keep the lift down even if they had the entrance numbers—

—and the teams will come and collect our little pack

He smiled, a smile entirely without humor, and broke into a run.

Leon watched anxiously as David typed in another string of numbers, hoping their presence hadn't been detected yet. He hadn't seen a camera, but that didn't mean there wasn't one; if Umbrella could build massive underground laboratories and create monsters, they could hide a video camera.

David hit a final key—and there was sound and movement at once, the low hiss of hidden hydraulics, the distant hum of an engine. A giant piece of the wall to the right of the keypad slid upward. As one, all five of them raised weapons—and lowered them again when they saw the thick mesh gate and the black and empty elevator shaft behind it.

"Damn," John said, a tone of awe in his voice, and

Leon had to agree. The panel was ten feet across, thick and heavy with machinery, and had completely disappeared into the ceiling in two seconds. Whatever mechanism was operating it was exceptionally powerful.

"What's that?" Rebecca whispered, and Leon heard it a second later, a distant hum. Apparently the entry code had also recalled the elevator; they could hear it rising, hear the growing echo of well-oiled sound in the freezing darkness of the shaft. It was rising fast, but was still a long way down. Leon wondered, not for the first time, how the hell Umbrella had managed to build such a thing; the Raccoon lab had also been massive, with God-knew-how-many floors of laboratory, all of it deep beneath the surface of the city.

They must have more money than God. And one hell of an architect.

"We may have triggered a warning device or alarm," David said quietly. "It might not be empty."

Leon nodded along with everyone else; they were all silent and tense as they waited, John pointing his rifle at the mesh gate.

Reston found the flat, seamless panel, and pried it

—but there was a lock on the switch, a thin metal rod hooked through the top, keeping it from being pushed down. It wasn't until he saw the lock that he recalled it; yet another of Umbrella's precautions, one that suddenly seemed monumentally stupid.

The keys, the workers all have them, I got a set before I came—

Reston ran his hands through his hair, wracking his brain, feeling desperate and harried.Where'dlput the goddamn security keys?

When he heard the lift being recalled to the surface only seconds later, it was all he could do to keep from screaming. They had the code. They had guns and there were five of them and they had the code.

Takes two minutes to get to the top, I've still got time and the keys are—

Blank. His mind was blank, and the seconds were ticking past. He'd already hit the recall button, but it wouldn't bring the elevator back down if someone opened the gate on the surface. For all he knew, the assassins or saboteurs or whatever the hell they were had already pried opened the gate, were now watching the lift on its way up, waiting—

—or maybe throwing a few pounds ofplastique into the shaft—or—

—control, they're in control!

Reston turned and ran, across the wide corridor and ten feet to the right, down the small offshoot outside of control. His first day at the Planet, one of the construction people had shown him all of the internal locks—backup generator, drug cabinet in surgical... manual override for the lift. He'd yawned his way through that particular tour, then tossed the keys into a drawer in the control room, knowing that he wouldn't be needing them.

He hurried through the door, deciding that he could berate himself for forgetting the keys later, wondering how things had gone so out of control in such a short period of time. Only ten minutes ago he'd been sipping brandy, relaxing—

—and ten minutes from now, you could be dead. Reston hurried.

The elevator was big, at least ten feet across and twelve deep. John squinted as it rose into view, the harsh light from a naked bulb in the ceiling nearly blinding after their long stint in darkness.

At least it's empty. Now all we gotta do is avoid getting ambushed and murdered when we hit the bottom.

The elevator came to a smooth stop. The latch on the mesh gate unlocked and the gate slid into the wall. John was closest. He glanced at David, who nodded a go-ahead.

"First floor, shoes, menswear, Umbrella assholes," John said, not particularly bothered that he didn't get a laugh. Everyone had their own preferred method for dealing with tension. Besides, his sense of humor was more fully developed.

Right over their heads,he thought, scanning the walls of the elevator car for anything unusual. Well, maybe not over their heads; it was more that they just didn't appreciate his fine wit. He kept himself amused, that was the important thing, it kept him from freezing up or turning into a basket case.

The elevator looked okay, dusty but solid. John stepped carefully inside, Leon right behind—

—then John heard a noise, just as a red light started to blink on the lift's control panel.

"Be still," John hissed, holding his hand up, not wanting anyone else to get on until he saw what the light was for—

—and the mesh gate closed behind him, the latch

snapping shut. He spun, saw that Leon was on board, saw Claire and Rebecca lunging for the gate from the other side and David running for the keypad.

There was a raspingclickfrom overhead and Leon, closer to the front, shouted at Claire and Rebecca—

"Get back!"

—because the wall panel was coming down,slam-mingdown, and the girls were stumbling back. John caught a final glimpse of their shocked and pale faces in the gloom—

—and the door had closed, and although he hadn't touched a thing, the elevator was going down. John crouched by the controls, punching at the buttons, and saw what the flashing red light was for.

"Manual override," he said, and stood up, looking at the young cop, not sure what to say. Their simple plan had just been totally screwed.

"Shit," Leon said, and John nodded, thinking he'd summed it up perfectly.

EIGHT

"SHIT."CLAIRE HISSED, FEELING HELPLESS and afraid, wanting to beat against the wall panel until it released the two men.

Trap, it was a trap, a setup—

"Listen ... it's going down," Rebecca said, and Claire heard it, too. She turned, saw David tapping the keypad with one hand, flashlight in the other, his face grim.

"David," Claire started, and stopped as David spared her a pointed glance, a look that told her to wait. He barely paused in his number punching, returning his entire attention back to the controls.

She turned to Rebecca, saw that Rebecca was chewing at her lip nervously, watching David.

"He must be trying all the codes," she whispered to Claire, and Claire nodded, feeling sick with worry, wanting to talk action but realizing that David needed to concentrate. She compromised, leaning in to whisper back to Rebecca; if she just stood there quietly in the freezing dark, she'd lose her mind.

"Think it was Trent?"

Rebecca frowned, then shook her head. "No. I think we hit a silent alarm or something. I saw a light

Rebecca sounded just as scared as she was, just as terrified,and Claire thought about how close she and John must have gotten. As close as Leon and herself, maybe. Claire instinctively reached for her hand and Rebecca took it, squeezing it tightly, both of them watching David.

Come on, one of them has to open it, to bring it back. . . .

A few tense seconds passed, and David stopped hitting keys. He pointed the flashlight up, the reflection just enough light to see each other by.

"Seems that the numbers don't work if the lift is in use," he said. His voice was calm and easy, but Claire could see that his jaw was clenched, the muscles in his cheeks twitching.

"I'll try them all again in a moment, and then again—but since someone else seems to have access to the lift's master control, we should start considering other options. Rebecca—start looking for a camera, check the corners and ceiling; if we're going to be here awhile, we'll need privacy. Claire, see if you can find any tools we might use to get through the wall— tire iron, screwdriver, anything. If the codes won't work, we'll see if we can't force our way in. Questions?"

"No," Rebecca said, and Claire shook her head.

"Good. Take a deep breath and get to it."

David went back to the keypad and Rebecca walked to the corner, turning her flashlight to the ceiling.

Claire took a deep breath and turned, looking at the dusty table in the middle of the room. It had stacked drawers on either side; she opened the first, pushing aside papers and clutter, thinking that David really kicked ass under pressure.

Tire iron, screwdriver, anything. . . be careful, please be careful and don't get killed. . .

Claire forced herself to take another deep breath; then she opened the next drawer, continuing her search.

John took the lead, which Leon was only too happy to follow. He may have survived Raccoon, but the ex-S.T.A.R.S. soldier had been in and out of combat situations for something like nine years; he won.

"Get down," John said, crouching himself, then lying down on his stomach and wrapping the M-16 strap tightly around his muscular arm. "If it's an ambush, they'll be aiming high when the door opens; we take out their knees. Works like a charm."

Leon lay down next to him, propping his right arm up with his left hand, his nine-millimeter pointed loosely at the gate. Outside, the darkness slid past, nothing to see but metal-lined shaft. "And if it's not?"

"Stand up, you take the right, I'll take left, stay in the car if you can. If you find yourself aiming at a wall, turn around and shoot low."

John glanced over at him—incredibly, a wide grin was spreading across his face. "Think of all the fun they're going to miss. We get to blow some Umbrella

guys all to shit, and they're stuck in the cold dark with nothing to do."

Leon was a little too tense to smile back, although he made an effort. "Yeah, some guys get all the luck," he said.

John shook his head, his grin fading. "Nothing we can do but go for the ride," he said, and Leon nodded, swallowing. John might be crazy, but he was right about that much. They were where they were, wishing otherwise wouldn't make it so.

Doesn't hurt to try, though. Christ, I wish we hadn't stepped on this thing. . . .

The elevator kept going down, and they both fell silent, waiting. Leon was glad that John wasn't the chatty type; he liked to crack jokes, but it was obvious that he didn't take a dangerous situation lightly. Leon saw that he was breathing deeply, sighting the M-16, preparing for whatever was going to happen.

Leon took a few deep breaths himself, trying to relax into the prone position—

—and the elevator stopped. There was a softping

sound, a chime, and the mesh gate was moving, disappearing into its designated hole in the wall. A windowless outer door rose at the same time, mellow light spilled across them—

—and there was nobody. A polished concrete wall twenty feet away, a polished concrete floor. Gray emptiness.

Get up, go!

Leon scrambled to his feet, heart beating too fast, John silent and even faster to his left. An exchanged glance and they both took one step out of the elevator, Leon whipping his VP70 around right, ready to fire—

—and there was nothing. Again. A wide corridor that seemed a mile long, the faint, mingled scents of dust and some industrial disinfectant in the cool air. Cool, but not at all cold; compared to the surface, it was summer. The hall was a hundred and fifty yards easy, maybe more; there were a few offshoots, rounded lights spaced at regular intervals along the ceiling, no signs posted—and no sign of life either.

So who brought us down? And why, if they weren't planning on meeting us with a few bullets?

"Maybe they're all playing bingo," John said softly, and Leon looked back, saw that except for the placement of a few side halls, John's side was identical to his. And just as empty.

They both stepped back into the elevator. John reached for the controls, tapped the "Up" button, and nothing happened.

"What now?" Leon asked.

"Don't ask me, David's the brains behind our outfit," John said. "Though I got the looks."

"Jesus, John," Leon said, frustrated. "You've got seniority here; give me a break, will ya?"

John shrugged. "Okay. Here's what I'm thinking. Maybe it wasn't a trap. Maybe ... if itwasa trap, they would've tried to get all of us. And we'd be in the middle of a firefight right now."

And the timing. The elevator was only therefor a few seconds—as if someone realized we'd called it up. . . .

"Someone was trying to keep us from getting on, weren't they?" Leon said, not really asking. "To keep us from coming down."

John nodded. "Give that man a cigar. And if that's right, it means they're scared of us. I mean, there's no

security, right? Whoever brought us down probably hightailed it to a room with a lock.

"As to what we do now," he continued, "I'm open to suggestions. It'd be nice to rejoin our group, but if we can't figure out how to get the elevator going...."

Leon frowned, thinking, remembering that before Raccoon had pretty much blown his career choice, he hadbeen trained as a cop.

Use the tools you've got....

"Secure the area," he said slowly. "Same plan as before, at least the first part. Get the employees secured, then worry about the elevator. Dealing with Reston will just have to wait—"

John held up his hand suddenly, cutting him off, his head cocked to one side. Leon listened, but didn't hear anything. A few seconds passed and then John lowered his hand. He shrugged dismissively, but his dark eyes were wary and he held the automatic rifle close.

"Good call," he said finally. "If we canfindthe damn employees. You wanna go left or right?"

Leon smiled faintly, suddenly remembering the last time he'd had to pick a direction. He'd taken a left in the subbasement of Umbrella's Raccoon lab and run into a dead end; having to backtrack had almost cost him his life.

"Right," he said. "Left has some bad associations for me."

John cocked an eyebrow, but didn't say anything; oddly enough, he seemed satisfied with Leon's reasoning.

Maybe because he's crazy. Crazy enough to make bad jokes in the midst of situations like this, anyway.

Together, they stepped out into the long, empty corridor and turned right, moving slowly, John watching their back and Leon scanning every offshoot's opening for a sign of movement. The first side hall was to their left, not fifteen feet from the elevator.

"Hang on," John said, and ducked into the short hall, walking quickly to a single door at the back. He rattled the handle, then hurried back out, shaking his head.

"Thought I heard something before," he said, and Leon nodded, thinking about how easy it would be for someone to kill them.

Hide in a locked room, wait 'til we're past, step out andpovf... .

Bad thinking. Leon let it go and they continued their slow trek down the passage, sweeping every inch with their weapons, Leon realizing that the thermal under-wear'd been a bad idea, as sweat started to trickle down his body—and wondering, quite abruptly, how things had gone so wrong so fast.

Reston had an idea.

He'd almost panicked after he'd heard them saying things that they shouldn't have known, hiding in control with the door cracked open. When he'd heard one of them say his name, he'd felt the panic rise into his throat like bile, coloring his mind with visions of his own horrible death. He'd closed the door then, locking it, sagging against it as he tried to think, to sort through his options.

When one of them had rattled the door, he'd very nearly screamed—but had managed to hold still, to make no sound at all until the interloper had moved

on. It took him a few moments to collect himself after that, to remember that this was something he could handle; strangely enough, it was the thought of Trent that did it for him. Trent wouldn't panic. Trent would know exactly what to do—and he most certainly wouldn't run crying to Jackson for help.

In spite of that, he'd almost picked up the phone several times as he watched the monitors, watched the

two men terrorizing his employees. They were efficient, unlike their rumbling counterparts still working to figure out the elevator on the surface. It had taken the two men all of five minutes once they'd reached the living area to get the workers together; it helped that five of them were still awake and playing cards in the cafeteria, three of the construction crew and both mechanics. The young white man watched them as the other one went to the dorm and roused the rest, marching them back to the cafeteria, crowding them with his automatic weapon.

Reston was disappointed with the lackluster performance of his people, not one fighter among them, and was still very afraid. Once the teams from the city came in he'd have something to work with, but until then, all sorts of bad things might happen.

"Dealing with Reston will just have to wait...."

What happens when they realize I'm not in their hostage group? What do theywant?What could they want, except to hold me for ransom or kill me?

He'd been on the verge of calling Sidney, in spite of the fact that Jackson would certainly find out about it—but he'd risk his colleague's disapproval, he'd risk losing his place in the inner circle if it meant he could survive this invasion.

He was actually reaching for the phone when he realized that someone was missing. Reston leaned closer to the cafeteria monitor, frowning, forgetting the phone. There were fourteen people grouped together in the middle of the room, the two gunmen standing some distance away.

Where's the other one?Who'sthe other one?

Reston reached out and touched the screen, marking off the faces of the bleary-eyed hostages. The five construction workers. Two mechanics. The cook, the specimen handlers, all six of them. . . .

"Cole," he muttered, pursing his lips. The electrician, Henry Cole. He wasn't there.

An idea began to form, but it depended on where Cole actually was. Reston tapped at the buttons that worked the screens, beginning to hope, to see a way not only to survive, but to, to—win.To come out on top.

There were twenty-two screens in the control room, but almost fifty cameras set up throughout the Planet and in the surface "weather" station. The Planet had been built with video in mind, the layout fairly simple; from control, one could see almost every part of every hall, room, and environment, the cameras placed at key points. Finding someone was just a matter of pushing the right button to switch between views.

Reston checked the test rooms first, each set of cameras in phases One through Four. No luck. He tried the science area next, the surgical rooms, the chem lab, even the stasis room; again, he didn't see anyone.

He wouldn't be in quarters, they've certainly cleared

everyone else out... and there's no reason for him to be on the surface....

Reston grinned suddenly, punching up the cameras in and around the holding cells. Cole and both of the mechanics had been using the cells to lay out equipment, wires and tools and various bits of machinery.

There!

Cole was sitting on the floor in between cells one and nine, sorting through a box of little metal pieces, his skinny legs splayed out in front of him.

Reston looked back at the cafeteria, saw that the two armed men seemed to be conferring, watching the useless, huddled group of workers. On the surface, the other three were still hammering at the keypad and searching for something or other....

The idea took shape, the possibilities coming to him one at a time, each more interesting and exciting than the last. The data he could collect, the respect that he would earn, getting rid of his problem and promoting himself at the same time.

I could edit the tapes together, have something to show my visitors after the tour—and won't Sidney be undone when Jackson sees what I've accomplished, how I've handled things. I'll be the golden child for a change....

Reston stood up from the console, still grinning, nervous but hopeful. He'd have to hurry, and he'd have to use all his acting skills with Cole; not a problem, considering that he'd spent thirty years of his life developing them, honing them.... Before joining Umbrella, he'd been a diplomat.

It would work. They wanted Reston; he'd give him to them.

NINE

COLE WAS POKING IDLY THROUGH A BOX OF bipolar transistors, thinking that he was an idiot; he should be sleeping. It had to be close to midnight, he'd been breaking his ass all day for Mr. Blue, and he'd have to drag said ass out of bed in another six hours to do the same. He was tired and sick to death of being picked on just because the last happy asshole to go through the Planet with a toolbox had done everything wrong.

It's notmyfault,he thought sullenly,that the dumbass didn't connect the leads on the MOSFETs before he installed 'em.Andhis outdoor conduits are crappy, he didn't figure on the Planet's inductive load. .. incompetent jerkoff. . ..

Maybe he was being harsh, but he wasn't feeling particularly forgiving after the day he'd had. Mr. Blue had distinctly told him to get to the surface cams first—and then chased him down andinsistedhe'd

told him to take care of the intercom system first.

Cole knew he was full of shit—along with everyone else working at the Planet—but Reston was one of the top guys, a real heavy-hitter, when he said jump, you jumped, and there was never a question of who was right. Cole had only worked for Umbrella for a year, but he'd made more money in that year than he had in the five before combined; he wasnotgonna be the one to piss off Mr. Blue (so-called because of his perpetual blue suit) and get himself canned.

You sure about that? After all you've seen in the last few weeks?

Cole put the box of transistors down and rubbed at his eyes; they felt hot and itchy. He hadn't been sleeping all that well since coming to work at the Planet. It wasn't that he was some bleeding-heart type, he didn't give much of a shit what Umbrella wanted to do with their money. But—

—but it's hard to feel good about this place. It's bad news. It's a freak show.

In his year with Umbrella, he'd wired a chem lab on the west coast for power, installed a bunch of new circuit breakers for a think tank on the other coast, and generally done a lot of maintenance work wherever they shipped him. Incredible pay, not too hard, and the people he usually worked with were decent enough—mostly blue-collar types doing the same kind of stuff he was doing. And all he had to do—out-side of the work—was promise not to talk about whatever he saw; he'd signed a contract to that effect when he'd first hired on, and had never had a problem with it. But then, he'd never seen the Planet.

When Umbrella called you out on a job, they didn't

explain anything. It was just, "fix that," and you fixed it and got paid. Even within the working crews, discussions about the job site's purpose were heavily discouraged. Word got around, though, and Cole knew enough about the Planet to think that he maybe didn't want to work for Umbrella anymore.

There were the creatures, for one thing, the test animals. He hadn't actually seen them, or the thing they were calling Fossil, the frozen freak—but he'd heard them, a couple of times. Once, in the middle of the night, a screeching, howling sound that had chilled him to the bone, a sound like a bird, screaming. And then there was the day in Phase Two, realigning one of the video cameras, when he'd heard a strange chattering sound, like nails being tapped on hollow wood—but the sound was animal, too. Alive. He'd heard that they were specially created for Umbrella, some kind of genetic hybrids that would be better for studying, but hybrids of what? All of the creatures had bizarre and unpleasant nicknames, too. He'd heard the "research" guys talking about them on more than one occasion.

Does. Scorps. Spitters. Hunters. Sound like a fun bunch—for a honor movie.

Cole crawled to his feet, stretching his tired muscles, still thinking unhappy thoughts. There was Reston, of course; the guy was a grade-A tyrant, and of the worst kind—the kind with a lot of power and not a lot of patience. Cole was used to working with managerial types, but Mr. Blue was way too high on the food chain for his comfort zone. The man was intimidating as all hell.

But that's not the worst, is it?

He sighed, looking around at the dozen cells that lined the room, six on either side. No, the worst was right in front of him. Each cell had a cot, a toilet, a sink—and restraining straps on the walls and attached to the beds. And the cell block was less than twenty feet from the "foyer" of the first environment, where the doors had locks on the outside.

After this one, I do some serious thinking about my priorities; I've got enough saved to take a break, get some perspective. . . .

Cole sighed again. That was fine, for later. For now, though, he had to try and catch some sleep. He turned and walked to the door, slapping the lights off as he opened it—

—and there was Reston. Hurrying around the corner where the main corridor turned toward the elevators, looking extremely upset.

Oh, hell, what now?

Reston saw him and practicallyranto him, his blue suit uncharacteristically rumpled, his pale gaze darting left and right.

"Henry," he gasped, and stopped in front of him, breathing hard. "Thank God. You have to help me. There are two men, assassins, they broke in and they're here to kill me, and I need your help."

Cole was as much taken aback by his demeanor as by what he said; he'd never seen Blue with a hair out of place, or without that small, smug smile that was the sole property of the incredibly wealthy.

"I—what?"

Reston took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly.

"I'm sorry. I just—the Planet has been invaded; there are two men here, looking forme.They mean to kill me, Henry. I recognize them from a thwarted attempt on my life not six months ago; they've posted a man on the surface by the door, and I'm trapped, they'll find me and—"

He broke off, gasping, and was he trying not tocry? Cole stared at him, thinkinghe called me Henry.

"Why are they trying to kill you?" He asked.

"I was the chair for a hostile takeover last year, a packaging company—the man we bought out was unstable, he swore he'd get me. And now they're here, right now they're locking up everyone in the cafe-teria—but they're only after me—I've called for help but they won't get here in time. Please, Henry—will you help me? I—I'll make it worth your while, I promise you. You'll never have to work again, your childrenwill never have to work. . . ."

The open plea in Reston's eyes was disconcerting; it stopped Cole from mentioning that he didn't have any children. The man was terrified, his lined face quivering, his silver-shot hair sticking up in tufts.

Even without the monetary offer, Cole would have offered to help.

Maybe.

"What do you want me to do?"

Reston half-smiled in relief, actually reaching out to grasp Cole's arm. "Thank you, Henry. Thank you,

I—I'm not sure. If you could—they only want me, so if you could distract them somehow. ..."

He frowned, his lips trembling, then looked past Cole to the small room that marked the entrance to the environments. "That room! It has a lock on the outside, and opens into One—if you could lure them

to you, slip into One ... I could lock them inside, lock down the entire room as soon as you were out. You could go straight through to Four and out to the medical area, I'd unlock it for you as soon as they're trapped."

Cole nodded uncertainly. It should work, except—

"Won't they know I'm not you? I mean, they'll have a picture of you or something, won't they?" "They won't be able to tell. They'll only see you for a second, when they come around the corner, and then you'll be gone. As soon as they get inside, I'll hit the controls—I can hide in the cell block."

Reston's pale eyes were swimming, overbright with unshed tears. The guy was desperate—and as plans went, it wasn't a bad one.

"Yeah, okay," he said, and the look of gratitude on the older man's face was almost heartwarming.

Almost. If he were a decent human being it would be.

"You won't regret this, Henry," Reston said, and Cole nodded, not sure what else to say.

"You'll be fine, Mr. Reston," he said finally, uncomfortably. "Don't worry."

"I'm sure you're right, Henry," Reston said, and turned, and walked into the dark cell block without another word.

Cole stood there for a second, then shrugged inwardly and started for the little room, nervous but also a little peeved. Mr. Blue was scared, but he was still pretty much an asshole.

No "Don't you worry either, Henry," or, "Be careful- " Not even a "Good luck, hope they don't shoot you by mistake."...

He shook his head, stepping into the small room. At least if he helped out the big Blue he'd probably be able to sleep in, maybe even quit the Planet and Umbrella for good. God knew he needed the rest; he'd been having a hell of a time sleeping... .

Rebecca found the camera, at least. A lens no bigger than a quarter was hidden in the southwest corner, just an inch from the ceiling. She'd called David over and he'd covered it with his hand, wishing that he'd done a more thorough check before leading his team inside. He'd been stupid, and John and Leon were almost certainly gone because of it.

Claire had found a roll of tape in her diggings, though little else. David taped the hole over, wondering what they were going to do. It was cold, so cold that he didn't know how much longer their reflexes would still be good. The codes weren't working, the sealed entrance would take more than they had to open it up, and two of his team were somewhere in the facility below, perhaps wounded, perhaps dying.. .

... orinfected. Infected like Steve and Karen were infected, suffering, losing their humanity—

"Stop it," Rebecca said to him, and he stepped down from the table they'd pushed to the corner, half knowing what she meant but not ready to admit it. Rebecca had a way of drawing him out at the worst possible times.

"Stop what?"

Rebecca stepped closer to him, staring up into his face, hooding her flashlight with one small hand.

"You know what. You've got that look, I can see it; you're telling yourself that this is your fault. That if you'd done something differently, they'd still be here."

He sighed. "I appreciate your concern, but this isn't the appropriate—"

"Yes it is," she interrupted. "If you're going to blame yourself, you won't think as clearly. We're not in the S.T.A.R.S. anymore, and you're not anyone's captain. It's not your fault."

Claire had walked over to join them, her gray gaze curious and searching in spite of the worry that still pinched her delicate features. "You think this is your fault? It's not. I don't think that."

David threw up his hands. "My God, alright! It's not my fault, and we can all spend some time analyzing what I'm accountable for if and when we get out of this; for now, though, can we please concentrate on what's in front of us?"

Both young women nodded, and while he was glad to have stopped the therapy session before it got started, he realized that he didn't know what the next thing was—what tasks to give them beyond what they'd already done, how they were going to resolve their crisis, what to say or how to say it. It was a dreadful moment; he was used to having something to fight against, something to react to or shoot at or plan for, but their situation seemed to be static, unchanging. There wasn't a clear path for them to follow, and that was even worse than the guilt he felt about his lack of foresight.

And just at that moment, he heard the distant buzz

of an approaching helicopter, the farawaythrumthat could be nothing else—and although it was a solution of sorts, it was the worst one possible.

Nothing for cover except this compound, and we'll never make it back to the van, we've got two, three minutes—

"We have to get out of here," David said, already running through the things they would have to do if they were to stand a chance, even as they were all running for the door.

The workers were cake. There had been a few tense moments rousing them from their dark cots in the dark dorm rooms, but it had gone off without incident. John had still been somewhat wary of a few of them when he'd first herded them into the cafeteria, where Leon was watching the card-players—in particular, two fairly big men who looked like they might have machismo disorders and a thin, twitchy guy with deepset eyes who couldn't seem to stop licking his lips. It was like a compulsive thing; every few seconds, his tongue would dart out, flick between his lips and then disappear for another few seconds. Creepy.

There'd been no trouble, though. Fourteen men and no one willing to play hero after John had presented them with a little logic. He'd kept it short and simple: we're here to find something, we're not planning to hurt anyone, we just want you to stay out of the way while we get out of here. Don't be stupid and you won't get shot. Either the logic or the M-16 had been enough to convince them that it would be best not to argue.

John stood by the door back into the big hall,

watching the unhappy-looking group seated in the middle of the large room around a long table. A few looked pissed, a few looked scared, most just looked tired. Nobody spoke, which was fine by John; he didn't want to have to worry about anyone trying to

In spite of his reasonable certainty that all was cool, he was glad to hear the light tap on the door. Leon had been gone maybe five minutes, but it seemed like a lot longer. He walked in holding a length of chain and a couple of wire coathangers.

"Any trouble?" Leon asked quietly, and John shook his head, keeping his attention on the silent group.

"Been nice and quiet," he said. "Where'd you find the chain?"

"Toolbox, in one of the rooms."

John nodded, then raised his voice, keeping it calm. "Alright, folks, we're about to take our leave. We thank you for your patience. ..."

Leon nudged him. "Ask if Reston's here," he whispered.

John sighed."Youthink if he is, he's gonna tellus?"

The younger man shrugged. "Worth a shot, isn't it?"

Stranger things have happened. . . .

John cleared his throat and spoke again. "Is a man named Reston in here? We just have a question, we're not going to hurt you."

The men stared at him, at both of them, and John wondered, for just a second, if they knew what they were doing there; if they knew what Umbrella was doing. They didn'tlooklike Nazis, they looked like a bunch of working stiffs. Like guys who put in a hard

day and liked to throw back a few beers in the evening. Like—likeguys.

And what did Nazis look like? These people are a part of the problem, they're working for the enemy. They're not going to help us—

"Blue ain't here." A big bearded man in a T-shirt and boxers, one of the ones John had been keeping an eye on. His voice was gruff and irritable, his face still puffy from sleep.

John glanced at Leon, surprised, and saw that the rookie looked the same. "Blue?" John asked. "Is that Reston?"

A man sitting at the end of the table with longish hair and grease-stained hands nodded. "Yeah. And that'sMisterBlue to you."

The sarcasm was pointed. There were a couple of dark looks exchanged within the sitting group—and a couple of chuckles.

Reston's one of the key guys, Trent said. And just about everybody hates their boss . . . but so much that they'd talk shit about him to a couple of terrorists?

Reston must berealunpopular.

"Is there anyone else working here who isn't in this room?" Leon asked. "We don't want to be surprised. ... "

The implications were obvious, but it was also obvious that they weren't going to get anything else from the assembled employees. They might hate Reston, but John could see from the crossed arms and scowls that they wouldn't talk about one of their own. Ifthere was anyone else in the facility, which he doubted. Trent had said it was a small staff. . .

.. .which means it was probably Reston who

brought us down, which means we could kill two birds if we find him—get the book and get him to start up the elevator again. We lockReston in a closet, hook up with David and the girls and get gone before anything else unexpected comes up.

John nodded at Leon, and they backed up to the door. John realized that he didn't want to just walk out, that he felt a kind of sympathy for the men that he'd dragged out of bed. Not a lot, but something.

"We're gonna lock the door here," John said, "but you'll be okay until the company sends someone, you got food .. . and if you don't mind a little advice, listen up—Umbrella ain't the good guys. Whatever they're paying you, it isn't enough. They're killers."

The blank stares followed them out of the room.

Leon closed the double doors and started to rig up the makeshift lock, threading the chain through the handles and bending the hangers. John walked the few steps to the corner and looked down the long gray hall that they'd stepped into from the elevator. They could continue on the way they'd been going to look for Reston, there was a bend in the corridor not far past the staff housing area—

—but he's not that way,John thought, remembering the sound he'd heard when they'd first arrived.

He's back the way we came, somewhere.

Leon finished securing the doors and joined him, looking a little pale but still game. "So .. . now we look for Reston?"

"Yeah," John said, thinking that the kid was doing pretty well, considering. Not a lot of experience, but he was smart, he had guts, and he didn't clutch under the gun. "You holding up?"

Leon nodded. "Yeah. I'm just—do you think they're okay up there?"

"No, I think they're freezing their asses off waiting for us," John said, smiling, and hoped that was the case—that after locking down the elevator, Reston hadn't released the hounds, or whatever equivalent this place had.

Or called for help. . . .

"Let's get this over with," John said, and Leon nodded, as they started back down the hall to see what was what.

TEN

THEY HEADED OUT INTO THE BLACKNESS of the compound, the beat of the helicopter's blades getting closer. Rebecca saw its lights less than a halfmile northwest, saw that it was hovering, shining a spotlight down onto the desert-like plain.

The van, they've spotted the van.

Claire saw it too, but David was looking at the warehouse-type buildings behind them as he unslung his rifle, his intense gaze taking in the layout. Rebecca could hardly see him in the pale moonlight.

"They'll have to set down outside the fence," he said. "Follow me, and stay close." He jogged off into the darkness, the burr of the helicopter growing steadily behind them.

God, I hope he sees better than I can,Rebecca thought, clutching her nine-millimeter tightly, the metal cold against her numb fingers. She and Claire jogged after him as he headed for one of the dark

structures, the second from the left in the line of five. Why he'd picked that one she didn't know, but David would have a reason, he always did.

They ran into the corridor of black between the first and second building, fifteen feet of hard-packed arid sediment that stretched ahead of them some indeterminate distance. The freezing air burned into her lungs, gusting out in clouds of steam she couldn't see. Thewhackawhackasound of the 'copter drowned out their footsteps, drowned out most of what David was saying as he stopped, a door on either side of them.

". . . to hide until we ... can't. . . back. . .."

Rebecca shook her head and David gave it up, turning to the left, pointing his weapon at the door of the first building. Rebecca and Claire moved behind him, Rebecca wondering what he was up to; if the people from the helicopter landed to search—which they surely would—the bullet-riddled door would give them away. It looked to be made from some high-density plastic, but wasn't remarkable in any other way—it had a handle and keyhole rather than a card swipe. The building itself was some kind of stucco material, dirty and dusty, and no particular color that she could tell; the one behind them looked the same; there were no windows on either.

The helicopter's searchlight was sweeping the fence at the front of the compound, its brightness piercing the cold dark like a brilliant flame. Flurries of dust were swirling up into the light, staining it, and Rebecca thought they had maybe a minute before it found them; the compound just wasn't that big.

Bambambambambam!

Most of the noise was swallowed up by the roar of the helicopter. Even in the darkness, Rebecca could

see the line of holes, the concentration of them near the handle. David stepped forward and gave the door a hard kick, then a second—and it flew inward, a gaping black hole in the wall.

The searchlight was moving back through the compound, the helicopter's swollen belly passing almost directly overhead as it shone its beam down on the other side of the first building, the thunder of its engine and billowing clouds of dust and making Rebecca feel as though Death were approaching; not death but Death, some fabled beast of merciless power and relentless intention... .

David turned and grabbed her and Claire both, pushing them firmly toward the open door. As soon as they were through, he motioned for them to stop and to wait. David pulled his handgun and jogged across the open space, standing close to the second building's door, angling his body and—

—BAM,the nine-millimeter round, louder than the rifle's .223s but still almost lost, as the helicopter started its sweep uptheirrow and the door blasted inward and David leapt through the opening, just as the blinding light illuminated the ground between them. A half-second later and he would have been caught in the light. The spent casings from David's weapons were thankfully lost in the furor, spinning clouds of dust whipping up and over them and making it hard to breathe. She turned, saw that Claire had tucked her face down into her black sweatshirt, and followed suit. The cold, thick air was filtered

through the fleece,andin spite of the deafening noise, Rebecca could hear her heartbeat in her ears, rapid and afraid.

A second later, the light was past; a second after that the dust seemed to be settling, it was hard to tell in the black; the sudden absence of light meant their eyes would have to readjust—

"Are you alright?"

Rebecca jumped as David practically screamed in her face, just a shadow in front of her. Claire let out a little shriek.

"Sorry!" David called. "Come on! Other building!"

Barely able to see, Rebecca stumbled outside,

Claire right next to her. David came up behind them, touching their backs, guiding them toward the second building. The 'copter was still moving away from them,north to south, but it would run out of things to look at very soon—and then they'd land and come looking. That the helicopter was from Umbrella was a given; the only question was how many had come, and whether or not they were to be captured first or just killed outright.

As they fell through the door to the second building, it dawned on Rebecca what David had done. The Umbrella thugs would see the first bullet-blasted door and assume that their quarry was hiding there.

And he only shot through the keyhole of this one. They'll see it eventually, but it buys us a little more time. . . .

She hoped. The darkness was almost as cold as outside and smelled like dust. A low light flickered on, David hooding his flashlight with one hand, just

enough for them to see that they were surrounded by boxes. Big ones, small ones, cardboard and wood, stacked on shelves and on the floor all the way up to the slanted ceiling. In the brief second that David shone the light across the mammoth room, they saw that there had to be thousands of them.

"I'm going to see what I can do about the door and cut the lights," David said. "Find us a place to hide.

It's our best option until we know how many there are, what scenario they're employing. They might have spook eyes, the floor's no good—somewhere high up and in a corner. Shelves would be best. Got it?"

They both nodded and the light went out, leaving them in a complete darkness; before, she could at least make out shapes and shadows. Now, Rebecca couldn't see her hand in front of her face.

"Which corner?" Claire whispered, as if the chill black nothing they stood in demanded silence.

Rebecca reached out and found Claire's hand, placing it against her back. "Left. We go left until we run into something."

She heard a whisper of movement behind them, as David went about his preparations. Taking a deep breath, Rebecca put her hands out in front of her and started to edge forward.

Every door off of the lengthy corridor was locked, with the exception of a utility closet past the elevator; there, they found absolutely nothing of interest, unless shelves of paper towels and styrene coffee cups were interesting. They'd tried the elevator again, with

no luck, and there didn't seem to be a fuse box or override switch anywhere near it. Not surprising, but Leon still felt a pang of distress. The other three were probably really worried . . .

. .. and you're not? What if something went wrong up there? Maybe the "test" part of this place is aboveground. And maybe Reston unleashed some of Umbrella's warrior specimens up there, and right now Claire is—

"What say if we run across one more locked door, we use up our grenades? I've got two of 'em," John said, looking irritated. They'd just tried the ninth door in the silent hall, and were almost to the northernmost curve. For all they knew, they'd already passed Reston, or the passage that would lead them to him.

"Let's at least see what's around the corner before we start blowing things up," Leon said, though he was also losing patience. It wasn't that he'd mind damaging some Umbrella property, but that just wasn't the priority—reuniting the team was. They'd already decided that if they didn't find him soon, they'd go back to the cafeteria and try to get one of the workers to fix the elevator, and to hell with Reston; the mission would be a bust, but at least they'd all be alive to fight another day.

Assuming we're all still alive now...

They reached the corner and paused, John raising the M-16 and lowering his voice. "I'll cover?"

Leon nodded, moving closer to the inner wall. "On three. One ... two ...three—"

He took a running step away from the wall, dropping into a crouch and pointing his semi down the west leg of the corridor as John whipped the rifle around the corner. The hall was a lot shorter, no more than sixty feet, dead-ending in an open, doorless room. There was a door on the left—

—and somebody moved across the opening at the end of the hall, the darting shape of a man.

Reston.

Leon saw him, a thin guy, not too tall, wearing jeans and a blue work shirt. Mr. Blue, just like they said. .. .

"Hold it!" John shouted, and Reston turned, startled—and weaponless. He saw the M-16 and jumped away from the double-wide opening, maybe heading for an exit—

—and Leon ran, pumping his arms for speed, John quickly passing him in a full-on sprint. They were inside the room in a flash and there was Reston, pushing desperately at a door on the right. He threw a terrified glance over his shoulder as they barreled into the room, his eyes wide with panic.

"It won't open!" He screamed, his voice on the edge of hysteria."Open the door!"

Who's he talking to?

"Give it up, Reston," John growled—

—and behind them, a metal sheet crashed down over the opening, shutting them into the room with a brutal, heavydang.Leon looked down, saw that the floor was plate steel—and felt the first stab of unease.

Reston spun around, his hands in the air, his narrow features contorted with fear. "I'm not him, not Reston," he babbled, his pale face slick with sweat—

—and behind them, a face appeared at the window

in the metal door, distorted by the thick plexiglass but obviously grinning. An older man, dressed in a dark blue suit.

Oh, no—

The man looked away for a moment, one hand reaching up to touch something Leon couldn't see— and a smooth, cultured voice floated into the room from a speaker in the ceiling.

"Sorry, Henry," the man said, his moving face warped by the glass. "And allow me to introduce myself. I'm Jay Reston. And whoever you are, Fm veryglad to meet you. Welcome to the Planet's test program."

Leon looked at John, who was still pointing his rifle at the near hysterical Henry. John looked back at him, and Leon could see the awareness dawning in his dark eyes, even as it dawned on him.

They were in extremely deep shit.

Yes!

Reston laughed giddily. The gunmen were trapped, and the three on the surface were probably already being picked up by the teams—he'd handled his situation, and handled it brilliantly.

Of course it's no fun if there's no one around to appreciate it. . . but then, I have a captive audience, don't I?

"We're not scheduled to go on line for another twenty-three days," Reston said, smiling widely, already imagining the look on Sidney's bloated face.

"At which time, I was going to host the initial run of our carefully designed program for a group of extremely important people. It was going to be specimen only, we hadn't planned on putting humans through the phases for a while yet, let alonesoldiers. But now, thanks to you, I'll be able to show my little party actual footage of what our specimens were created for. By now, your friends on the surface will have been taken, sad to say—but the three of you will suffice, I think. Yes, you'll do quite nicely."

Reston laughed again, unable to contain it. "You may want to kill Henry before you start, though, he'll only drag you down—and hedidlure you in, didn't he?"

"You bastard!"

Henry Cole pushed away from the wall and flew at the door, pounding on it with his fists. The two-inch metal didn't even rattle in the frame.

Reston shook his head, still grinning. "Iamsorry, Henry; we'll miss you terribly. You never did finish with the intercom system, did you? Or the audio . . . at least you hooked upthisone, for which I can't thank you enough. Is it clear enough in there? Getting any static?"

Whatever demon had possessed the electrician fled, the man collapsing against the door, breathing raggedly. The bigger of the two armed men, the burly dark-skinned one with the rifle, stepped toward the window with a menacing expression.

"You're not gonna get us to go through any tests for you," he said, his deep voice quivering with rage. "Go ahead and kill us, 'cause we're not alone—and Umbrella's going down, whether or not we're around to see it happen."

Reston sighed. "Well, you're right about not being around. But as to the rest... you're some of those

S.T.A.R.S. people, aren't you? You and your grassroots campaign are nothing to us; you're mosquitoes, an annoyance. And youwillparticipate—"

"Participatethis,"he spat, grabbing his crotch.

Even through the thick plexi, the gesture was unmistakable.

Vulgar. Young people today, no respect for their betters...

"John, why don't you break out one of those frag grenades?" The other one said coolly, at which point Reston sighed again.

"The walls are plaster-coatedsteel,and the door will withstand a lot more than you could possibly have. You'd only succeed in blowing yourselves up. It would be a pity—but if you must, you must."

They didn't seem to have a smart reply to that. No one spoke, although Reston could still hear the troubled gasps coming from Cole through the intercom. He'd grown tired of goading them anyway; the surface

teams would be putting a call in to control soon, and he really should be there.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me," he said. "I have other business to attend to—like releasing our pets into their new homes. Rest assured, though, I'll be watching your debut; try to make it through at least two of the phases, if you can."

Reston stepped away from the window to the control panel on the left, and punched in the activation code. One of the men started shouting that they wouldn't go through with it, that he couldn't make them—

—and then Reston hit the large green button, the one that simultaneously opened the hatch into One—

and released a spray of tear gas into the small anteroom from vents in the high ceiling. He stepped back to the window, interested to see how effective the process was.

Within seconds, a white haze came pouring down from above, obscuring the three men. Reston heard shouts and coughing, and a second later he heard the hatch lock down, which meant they were through.

The pressure plates in the floor thus unencumbered, there was a low hiss as the ventilation system kicked on, clearing the room of mist in under a minute.

Nice. He'd have to remember to commend whichever designer had recommended it.

"I'll make a note," Reston said to no one in particular. He smoothed his lapels and turned to walk back to control, excited to see how well the men would fare against the newest additions to the Umbrella family.

ELEVEN

COLE HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO STUMBLE after the killers, choking and nauseous, his heart sick with dread and hate. He'd been abandoned to death by Reston, the man had even encouraged the assassins to kill him—he no longer knew if they evenwere assassins, he didn't know who the "stars" were supposed to be—he didn't know anything except that his eyes were burning and he couldn't breathe.

At least make it fast, let it be fast and painless. . . .

Through the hatch into One, the door snapping closed behind him. Cole fell back against the cool metal, struggling to catch his breath, gummy tears leaking from beneath his closed lids. He didn't want to see them pull the trigger, he'd rather not have to suffer suspense before he died; dying was plenty enough.

Maybe they'll just leave me here.

The small hope that the thought brought him was

stamped out immediately as a big, rough hand latched on to his arm and shook him.

"Hey, wake up!"

Cole reluctantly opened his watering eyes, blinking rapidly. The big black guy was staring down at him, looking mad enough to start hitting. His rifle was pointed at Cole's chest.

"Want to explain what the hell this place is?"

Cole shrank against the door. His voice came out in a stammer. "Phase One. F-forest."

The man rolled his eyes. "Yeah, forest, I gotthat.

Why, though?"

Jesus, he'shuge! The guy had muscles on his muscles. Cole shook his head, sure that he was about to be severely beaten but not sure what the man was asking.

The other one took a step toward the two of them, looking more upset than angry. "John, Reston screwed him over, too. What's your name again? Henry?"

Cole nodded, desperate not to piss anyone off.

"Yeah, Henry Cole, Reston told me you were here to kill him and he told me to stand in there, he was just going to lock you guys up, swear to God I didn't know he was gonna do this—"

"Slow down," the smaller man said. "I'm Leon Kennedy, this is John Andrews. We didn't come here to kill Reston—"

"Shoulda, though," John rumbled, looking around them.

Leon went on as if he hadn't spoken. "—or anyone else. We just wanted something Reston is supposed to have, that's all. Now—what can you tell us about this test program?"

Cole swallowed, wiping at the water on his face.

Leon seemed sincere—

—and what are your options here? You can get shot, get left behind, or work with these guys. They've got guns, and Reston said the test specimens were designed to fight people and ohshithow'dlwind up in this mess?

Cole looked around at One, amazed at how different it seemed now that he was locked in, how—menacing. The towering artificial trees, the plastic underbrush and fallen synthetic logs—with the subdued lighting and humidified air, the dark walls and painted ceiling, it almost felt like a real forest at twilight.

"I don't know a whole lot," Cole said, looking at Leon. "There are four phases—woods, desert, mountains, city. They're all big, each one's like two football fields, side by side, I forget the exact measurements. Word is that they're supposed to be suitable habitats for these hybrid test animals; they're even gonna stock them with live food, mice and rabbits and such. Umbrella's testing out some kind of disease-control thing, and the test animals are supposed to have similar circulatory systems to humans, something like that, it'll make good study material. . .."

He trailed off, noticing the look that the two men exchanged when he'd started talking about the test creatures.

"You really believe that, Henry?" John asked, not looking pissed anymore, his expression neutral.

"I—" Cole said, then closed his mouth, thinking.

About the incredible pay and the don't-ask policy. About the questions from whoever was supervising on any given job—

"Are you happy working here? Do you feel that you're getting paid enough?"

—and about the prison cells—and the restraints.

"No," he said, and felt a rush of shame at his

deliberate ignorance. He should have known,would have known if he'd had the guts to take a closer look. "No, I don't. Not anymore."

Both men nodded, and Cole was relieved to see John alter the position of the gun slightly, pointing it away.

"So do you know how to get out of here?" John asked.

Cole nodded. "Yeah, sure. All of the phases have connecting doors, in alternating corners. They're latched shut is all, no keys or anything—except for the last one, Four, it's bolted on the outside."

"So the door we'll want is that way?" Leon asked, pointing southwest. They were in the northeast corner. From where they stood, the far wall wasn't even visible, the fake woods were so dense. Cole knew there was at least one decent-sized clearing, but it would still be a hike to get through.

Cole nodded.

"Can you tell us about these test animals? What do they look like?" John asked.

"I never saw 'em, I was just here to do the wiring— cams and conduits, like that." He looked between the two men hopefully. "But how bad could they be, right?"

The expressions on their faces weren't encouraging. Cole started to ask whattheycould tellhimwhen a loud, metallic clattering filled the moist air, like a giant gate being raised. It came from the back, the west wall, where Cole knew the animal pens were kept—

—and a second later, a shrill, piercing shriek cut through the air, a long and warbling note that was quickly joined by another, and another, and then too many to tell apart.

There was a beating sound, too, so huge that for a moment, Cole couldn't place it—and when he did, he felt a little like screaming.

Wings. The sound of gigantic wings beating the air.

They were fifteen feet off the ground, atop a double row of wooden crates in one corner of the warehouse.

Even the slightest movement made them sway a little, which made Claire deeply uneasy.

Not enough that John and Leon are gone, or that we're hiding from a bunch of Umbrella goons. No, we have to be stuck on Mount Precarious in a pitch-black icebox. One of us sneezes too hard and we all go down.

"This sucks," she whispered, as much to break the tense silence as to vent. The helicopter noise had stopped, but they hadn't heard anyone outside yet either.

She was surprised to feel Rebecca's body quaking next to hers, and to hear a muffled giggle; the young biochemist was trying to suppress it, and wasn't having an easy time. Claire grinned, absurdly pleased.

A few seconds passed, and Rebecca managed to say, "Yes. You're so right," and then they were both choking back laughter. The boxes teetered gently.

"Please,"David said, sounding edgy. He was on top of the second stack of crates, on Rebecca's other side.

Claire and Rebecca quieted down, and again a waiting silence fell over them. They were in the northeast corner, both on their stomachs, handguns

pointed toward the wall across from them in the general direction of the other door. David said there were two; he was facing south, covering the one they'd entered by.

The tension-breaking giggle fit had relaxed Claire a little. She was still cold, still afraid for Leon and John, but their situation didn't seem so terrible. Bad, definitely, but she'd been in much worse circumstances.

In Raccoon, I was on my own. There was Sherry to watch out for, we had Mr. X on our trail, we had a shitload of zombies to wade through and were totally lost. At least now I have some idea of what we're up against; even an army of gun-toting creeps isn 't as bad as not knowing what's what—

Outside of the warehouse, a noise. Someone was pulling at the door that she and Rebecca were covering; a quick, rattling shake and then silence again— except Claire thought she heard footsteps now, padding against the ground outside.

Checking doors. And if David's lock-rigging isn't convincing, or they happen to look closely. . ..

At least it was David covering them; he was amazing, cool and efficient, and with as quick a mind as she'd ever encountered. It was like he knew just what to do—instantly, no matter what happened. Even now—David had said that they'd probably be doing a straight-across sweep, starting at one end or the other and checking each building in teams.

Military strategist, no kidding.Claire ran over what he'd told them again, not so much a plan as a what-if list. But still, just havingsomethingto concentrate on was a relief.

If only one team comes in, three or less, we stay

quiet, don't move until they leave, head to the door across from where they entered and wait. When we hear them on the other side, we head out and run for the fence. If they come in and spot us, we shoot; we pick off the others one at a time as they come through the door, then climb down, then run.

If there are two or more teams, wait 'til David throws the grenade and then shoot; same if they've got night-vision, the grenade'll blind 'em. If they manage to return fire, we climb down the back, use the crates as cover—

The other variables disappeared as she heard the other door being shaken. Shaken—and then kicked.

Thunk!

The door blew open, a square of pale light appearing in the blackness. The bright beam of a flashlight pierced the dark, flitting across a wall of boxes, then turning back toward the door.

A softclick—and then a whispered curse.

"What?" A different voice, also whispering.

"Lights are out." A pause, and then, "Well, come on. They're probably in the other one anyway, they didn't get all the way through the lock on this one."

Thank God. Way to go, David.The two were going to search, but they didn't suspect their presence.

A second beam appeared, and Claire could see the vaguest human shapes silhouetted behind the two powerful lights, both of them men by the voices. They started to move forward, the beams dancing over the stacks of boxes and crates.

Stay quiet, don't move, wait.Claire closed her eyes, not wanting for either of the men to feel watched; she'd heard once that that was the trick to hiding. Not to look.

"I'll take south," one of the voices whispered, and Claire wondered if they had any idea how well sound carried in the open space.

We can hear you, numbnuts.A funny thought, but she was scared. At least the zombies hadn't had guns-----

The lights split, one heading away from them, the other turning in their direction. It stayed low, at least; whoever was holding the flashlight apparently didn't realize that people could climb boxes.

Fine by me, just hurry up and get out of here, let us sneak out of this without having to fight!David said that they'd come back for John and Leon when Umbrella had cleared out; he said they'd probably post a guard, maybe two, but that taking out a guard would be a lot easier than taking out an entire squad—

—and a light was shining in Claire's face, the blinding beam hitting her eyes.

"Hey!" A surprised shout from below, and then—

—bam,a shot fired, and she felt as much as heard something beneath her give, as Rebecca gasped, as the tower of boxes tipped backwards.

Claire's back hit the wall and she grabbed at the shifting crate they'd been lying on, a chorus of shouts coming from outside, the orange burst of thundering muzzle fire coming from David's weapon—

—and with a shuddering crash, all the crates went tumbling down, and Claire plummeted into the dark.

When he heard the mighty flap of wings and the shrieking cries, John felt his skin go cold. He didn't like birds, never had, and to run into a flock of Umbrellabirds, in a sterile, surreal forest—

"Balls," he said, and raised the M-16, pressing the plastic stock tight against his shoulder. Leon's was also pointed up, the ceiling at least fifteen feet above where the tallest trees stopped and painted a deep twilight blue. The trees ranged in height from ten to maybe twenty-five, thirty feet—and at the very top, John saw that there were perching "branches" grafted on, each as big around as a basketball.

Bird's gotta have some pretty big goddamn feet to need that to land on. . . .

The piping screams had stopped, and John didn't hear the beat of wings anymore—but he wondered how long it would be before the birds decided to look for prey.

"Pterodactyls, gotta be," Cole whispered, his voice cracking. "Dacs."

"You're kidding," John breathed, and could see the skinny Umbrella worker shake his head in his peripheral vision.

"Maybe not real ones, it's just a nickname I heard." Cole sounded distinctly terrified.

"Let's head for that door," Leon said, already edging into the false, shadowy woods.

Amen to that.

John started after him, ten, fifteen feet, trying to look up and watch his step at the same time. He tripped almost immediately, one boot kicking against a molded plastic rock, and barely caught himself from going into a full sprawl.

"This ain't gonna work," he said. "Cole—Henry?"

He glanced back and saw that Cole was still huddled against the hatch, his pale, weasely face turned up to the sky.

—ceiling, dammit—

Leon had stopped and was waiting, peering up into the spaced branches. "Gotcha covered," he said.

John walked back, angry and frustrated and seriously uncomfortable; they were in a tight spot, David and the girls could very well be fighting for their lives on the surface, and he wasn't going to waste time coddling some freaked-out Umbrella hump. Still, they couldn't just leave him behind, at least not without making an effort.

"Henry. Hey, Cole." John reached out and tapped his arm, and Cole finally looked at him. His mild brown eyes were positively glassy with fear.

John sighed, feeling a little pity for the guy. He was anelectrician,for hell's sake, and it seemed that ignorance had been his only real crime.

"Look. I understand you're scared, but if you stay here, you're going to get killed. Leon and I have both had run-ins with Umbrella pets; your best chance is to come with us—and besides, we could use your help, you know more about this place than we do. Okay?"

Cole nodded shakily. "Yeah, okay. Sorry. I just— I'm scared."

"Join the club. Birds give me the creeps. The flying part's cool, but they're soweird,got those beady eyes and scaly feet—and have you ever seen a buzzard? They got scrotum heads." John mock-shivered, and saw Cole relax a little bit, even trying on a quivery smile.

"Okay," Cole said again, more firmly. They walked back to where Leon was standing, still watching the air above.

"Henry, since we got the guns, how 'bout you

lead?" John asked. "Leon and I will keep watch, and we'll need a clear route so we won't have to worry about tripping over stuff. Think you can handle it?"

Cole nodded, and though he still looked too pale, John could see that he would hold together. For a while, anyway.

Their guide stepped in front of Leon and headed roughly southwest, weaving a crooked path through the strange forest. Leon and John followed, John realizing pretty quick that having Cole lead didn't

If you don't look where you're going, you're going to trip,John thought wearily, after the sixth time he ran into a fallen "log."No way around it.

The Dacs, as Cole called them, hadn't put in an appearance or made any other sound. Just as well; John thought walking through a plastic forest was enough for them to handle. It was a bizarre sensation, seeing the realistic-looking trees and undergrowth, feeling the moisture in the air—but also being aware that there were no smells of earth or growing things, no wind or tiny sounds of movement, no bugs. It was a dream-like experience, and an unnerving one.

John was still edging forward, his gaze fixed on the crisscross of branches overhead, when Cole stopped.

"We're—there's kind of a clearing here," he said.

Leon turned, frowning at John. "Should we skirt it?"

John stepped forward, peering through the seemingly random scatter of trees to the opening ahead. It was at least fifty feet across, but John would rather they go out of their way; being dive-bombed by a pterodactyl didn't sound like fun atall.

"Yeah. Henry, veer right. We're going to—"

The rest of his words were lost as that high, warbling screech blasted through the unnatural forest, and a brown-gray shape dove into the clearing and flew at them, extending talons a foot across.

John saw a wingspan of eight or ten feet, the leathery wings tipped with curved hooks. He saw a screaming, toothed beak and a slender elongated skull, flat black eyes the size of saucers, glittering—

—and he and Leon both opened fire as the creature hit the line of artificial trees in front of them, its huge claws gouging into the solid plastic. It held on, spreading its vast membranous wings in a struggle to balance—

—andbambambam,holes punched through the thin flesh, streamers of watery blood trickling down from the openings. The animalscreamed,so close that John couldn't hear the bullets, couldn't hear anything

but that quavering, high-pitched shriek—and then it dropped, landing on the dark floor, pulling its wings in—

—and walking toward them on its elbows, like a bat, moving jerkily through the shredded trees, shrieking in short, sharp barks of sound. Behind it, another dropped into the clearing, gusting odorless wind across them as its wide wings folded closed, its long, pointed beak opening and revealing nubs of grinding teeth.

This is bad, bad, bad—

The lurching animal was less than five feet away when John drew a bead on the bobbing head, on the shiny round eye, and pulled the trigger.

twelve

THE TALLER ONE, JOHN, POINTED HIS AUTOmatic rifle at the Avi and let loose a hail of bullets.

Like a stream of destruction, they hit the Dac's aquiline skull and blew out the other side, dark fluids spattering across the freshly painted trees. Both eyes popped like water balloons.

Damn. Low threshold; it's those hollow bones....

Reston watched as the other gunman pointed his weapon at a second Dae that had landed in the clearing. Even without sound, Reston could see the handgun kick three, four times, hitting the specimen in its narrow chest. The Dac's slender neck curved wildly back and forth, a squiggling dance of death before it sprawled, bleeding, against the ground.

He didn't see any more of the animals touch down, but the three men were retreating, stumbling back into the woods. Poor Cole seemed quite undone, his mouth open in a silent howl, his lank brown hair

practically plastered to his head with sweat, his limbs quaking.

Serves him right for not getting to the audio.The lack of sound was annoying, although he supposed the footage wouldn't suffer for it. People knew what bullets and screams sounded like already.

The three were moving out of range, heading west now. Reston switched cameras from the one in the

tree to a long shot from the north wall. It was clear that Cole was trying to lead them to the connecting door—although he obviously didn't remember that a second, larger clearing was now in their path. For the moment, though, the Dacs had also pulled back; they generally gravitated toward open spaces. The gunmen had only killed two, which meant that there would be six healthy specimens to greet them in the "meadow."

Reston had released all of the creatures into their habitats just after the call had come on the cell line from a Sergeant Steve Hawkinson, the man who was leading the surface effort. He had informed Reston only that two Umbrella teams—nine men, including himself—were starting a sweep of the compound, and that the fugitives' transport had been spotted; the three were still in the area unless they had a second vehicle, a highly unlikely possibility. Reston told him that the entry's camera had been covered by one of them and asked for an update as soon as anything turned up, then settled in to watch the show.

He poured himself another brandy as he watched the three weave slowly through the trees, John with his weapon pointed above, the other scanning the shadows around them. ...

He needs a name, too. We have Henry, John, and— Red? His hairisson of reddish.

Not really, but it would do, just as "Dae" worked for the Avis. There was no relation to pterodactyls, of course, and the "Av" was for "Aves," birds—and in fact, the Dacs were closer to bats than anything. There were just too many in the mammal series already. At the request of Jackson himself, the specimen growers had added some new classifications for clarity's sake, using some of the secondary contributors to that series's gene pool. Like the Spitters, who were closer to snakes than to goats, but'd been labeled Ca6s, for Capra, because of the cloven hooves ...

...and the Dacsdolook like pterodactyls, or at least our modern concept of them,Reston thought, looking at the screen that showed the cage entrance. Two of the animals were still inside. The streamlined, muscular body and the narrow beak, the bone "comb" on the top of the head, the fibrous wings ... they were really quite elegant in a brutal sort of way. The two in the massive behind-the-scenes "cave" were clearly agitated by all of the excitement, crawling

back and forth on their folded wings and swinging their heads from side to side. Reston didn't know much from the biological end, but he knew that they hunted by motion and scent, and that just two of them could take down a horse in under five minutes.

Not so efficient being shot at, however.

It didn't make a difference, really. The Avis had been created for third-world situations, where machetes still outnumbered rifles. Itwastoo bad that they died so quickly, the handlers would be disappointed by the loss—but they would have been tested against firepower eventually anyway.

And speaking of...

The three men were getting close to the clearing, moving out of the north camera's view. That would be where the Dacs would make their play. Reston leaned in to watch, realizing that the scenes he was recording would make his career—and that regardless of that fact, he was thoroughly enjoying himself.

David opened fire as soon as the thug's light found them, hearing the single shot of a weapon down below—

—and felt the splintering of wood to his left, a flurry of splinters spraying his arm. He was too intent on taking out the shooter to stop firing, but he knew with a burst of dread that they were about to fall, that both young women would smash into the concrete if he didn'tdosomething—

—and then he was falling, too, the wooden slats beneath him disappearing suddenly, plunging him through the icy dark. David held on to his weapon, pushing his arms out and bending his knees in the half second of blind free fall—

—and then his knees connected with cardboard, with an unseen box that collapsed beneath his weight, sparing him the worst of it. Instantly he was on his feet, turning toward the other flashlight, which was still shining out from halfway across the warehouse, the first man already down. No time to check on Rebecca, on Claire—the raised shouts from outside were almost upon them.

The torch-bearer went down in the short line of bullets David sent from the M-16, a guided four-foot arc across the darkness behind the light. The flat echoes of the rounds blasted through the alleys between boxes, and as the flashlight dropped, a single grunt of pain and surprise going down with it, David turned the gun toward the open door.

Come on, then—

Rattatattatt—

Submachine gun fire from outside, a sweep across the door ... but no one stepped inside. David moved left and sent a burst from his weapon in response, not expecting to hit anyone, the bullets crashing uselessly into the door's frame. He needed to buy them time, even if only a few seconds.

"Uunh,"a soft, feminine groan from behind him.

"Rebecca! Claire! Sound off'!" He whispered harshly, still watching the pale, empty square of open door.

"Here. Claire, I mean, I'm okay but I think she's hurt—"

Dammit!

David felt his heart skip a beat and he backed up a step, his thoughts racing, a knot of dread in his belly. It had been less than a half-minute since the first shot, but the Umbrella team would have already surrounded the building, if they were any good at all. They needed to get out before the attackers were firmly organized.

"Claire, come to me, follow my voice—I need you covering the door. You see anyone, even a shadow, shoot to kill. Understood?"

He heard her shuffling movements as he spoke and

reached out for her as she came close, grabbing hold of her arm.

"Wait," he said, and let another burst from the gun fly, hammering into the wall near the door. He immediately unslung the M-16 and handed it to Claire as the submachine gun returned fire, a rattle of

"You can use this?"

"Yeah—" She sounded anxious but steady enough.

"Good. As soon as I say, we're going to start moving for the west door; you'll be covering us."

He was already turning toward the corner, where Rebecca would be. He heard another muffled murmur of pain and fixed on it, moving quickly, dropping to his knees and feeling for the injured girl. He felt silkiness beneath one hand, Rebecca's hair, and ran both hands over her head, feeling for the sticky warmth of blood.

"Rebecca, can you speak? Do you know where you're hurt?"

A cough—and then he felt her fingers touch his arm, and knew she was all right even before she spoke.

"Back of my head," she said, softly but clearly. "Possible concussion, cracked hell on my tailbone, limbs seem okay . . ."

"I'm going to help you up. If you can't walk, I'll carry you, but we have to go now—"

As if to prove his words, there was another rattle from the gunman outside—

—and a shout that had him moving even before it was finished.

"Fire in the hole!"

David spun, leapt up from his crouch and tackled

Claire from behind, calling out, "Close your eyes—" as he closed his own in case of incendiary, praying it wasn't a shrapnel—

—and the\vhumpof a grenade launcher, followed by a loudpopand hiss told him it was gas. He moved off of Claire, felt her sit up beside him, heard her ragged, frightened breathing.

God, not sarin, soman, let them want us alive—

Within seconds, David's nose and eyes started to water viciously and he felt a wave of relief. Not nerve gas; they'd used a CN or CS tear gas. The Umbrella team was going to smoke them out.

"West door," David said, and Claire choked out an affirmative, the chemical compound disseminating quickly into the frigid air, an effective but thankfully nonlethal weapon.

He turned back and felt a hand brush across his chest.

"I can walk," Rebecca said, coughing, and David threw her arm across his shoulders anyway and started for the door, moving as fast as he could through the black. He heard Claire gasping but holding her own, keeping up with them.

David hurried forward, planning as he went, trying not to breathe too deeply. There'd be people at both doors, waiting—

—but how close? They'll want to be right there, waiting to subdue their choking victims. . ..

He had it. As they came to the wall, David fished into his hip bag, pulling out the smooth, round antipersonnel grenade and pulling the pin.

"Claire, Rebecca, behind me!"

Already blind in the dark, the tears only hurt; they

didn't interfere with his aim as he pulled his nine-millimeter and swept it in front of him, finding the door.

BAM!

He blew a hole in the door's edge, unlocking it, hearing the surprised cries of the men outside. With hardly a pause, David jerked the door open,how far to the fence, fifty, sixty meters—

—and lobbed the grenade, a gentle toss out the door, closing it just as fast as he could, throwing his weight against it and thanking God that it was so very durable—

—andKA-WHAM,the door fought with him as the

impact fuse went, dirt and shrapnel slamming against it like a wild beast clawing for entrance. David held on, only a second's war but a fierce one nonetheless. The thundering boom of the M68 gave way to moans and howls of pain, barely audible over the ringing in his ears and the screaming of his breathless lungs.

"Cover to the right and head left!" He shouted, and yanked the door open, whipping the H&K from side to side. The pallid moonlight showed him only three men, all down, all hurt and screaming and still alive beyond the veil of his tears.

Kevlar, full-body maybe—

They'd expect a run to the front, to their escape vehicle, so David turned left. He fixed his wet gaze on the dark fence as Claire and then Rebecca tumbled out behind him, coughing and crying.

"Fence," he said, as loud as he dared, and reached back for Rebecca, sliding his arm around her waist. They stumbled over one of the fallen men, clutching at his bleeding face, and managed a shagging run

toward escape, Claire right behind. She sidled quickly after them, the M-16 aimed back toward the front of the compound.

Good girl, we might make this, over the fence and circle away from the van, out into the desert—

They ran, closing the distance much faster than David could have hoped, the fence only ten yards behind the rear of the building they'd been in, the building he'd chosen because of it; the others angled toward the front, too much distance, and the first would have been too obvious—

—then they were almost to the fence when someone fired the machine gun from the darkness behind them, from the cover of the building's other side. At least one of the Umbrella team had fought logic and come around by the unexpected route.

Claire was on it, returning fire, the rapid chatter of the two automatics merging into an explosive duo.

The invisible shooter was either hit or ducking as the thundering song went solo, Claire peppering the darkness with the .223 s.

"Claire! Up and over!" David shouted, reaching out for the M-16. She let it go and turned, scaling the fence easily.

"Rebecca, go!" David pulled the trigger and held it, spraying bullets across the cold night, hearing return fire from seemingly everywhere at once, three, maybe four shooters—

—and there was a cry from behind him, from Rebecca, only halfway up the metal grid. A few drops of warmth spattered across David's face and he

stopped firing, jumping to catch her before she could let go.

"Got it!" Claire shouted from the other side, and she fired through the mesh, the nine-millimeter rounds pounding and loud, David's pulse even louder. Rebecca was pale, panting harshly, obviously in pain—but she managed to hang on to the fence, even to climb a little as David straddled the fence and lifted her up.

He half-carried her over the top, and as soon as Claire reached up to help, David turned and fired again at the oncoming attackers, still hidden in the shadows, his fury drying the last of the chemical tears.

Bloody bastards, she's still just a girl—

The M-16 went dry and he jumped, then Rebecca was between them, leaning heavily on David's shoulder, and they were staggering out into the freezing desert night.

thirteen

WITHIN MINUTES OF THE ATTACK, LEON could see that Cole was in no shape to lead. The Umbrella worker was stumbling blind, headed only vaguely in the direction they needed to go and more from happenstance than by design.

And now that we know they can attack from the ground... he and John didn't both need to be watching the skies, so to speak.

"Henry—why don't you let me take over as guide

for a few minutes?" Leon asked, glancing back at John. John nodded, not looking all that hot himself; he seemed extremely tight, his gaze darting rapidly back and forth, his hands tight on the M-16.

Maybe he's thinking about the others. About them being "taken."

"Yeah, okay, that'd be—okay," Cole nodded, his relief all too apparent. He wiped at his sweaty brown

hair and hurried to get behind Leon, John still in back.

Leon was nervous, but not nearly as frightened as he had been, at least not for the three of them. The birds, Dacs, were unpleasant and dangerous, but it was a relief to have seen them; they weren't as terrible as his imagination had led him to believe upon hearing those first savage cries. Monsters from the mind were always worse than the real thing, and the Dacs weren't even all that durable. As long he and John were on their guard, they should make it okay.

They were headed due south, so Leon angled them again, realizing that he was starting to catch glimpses of what might be the far wall. The setup was disorienting; the trees were not all that close together, but were scattered so that the woods seemed dense when you looked across it; the thick ground cover, some kind of molded plastic, didn't move underfoot, but there were slopes and rises in the material that made it even harder to get a feel for the size of the chamber.

This is so weird, so over the top—so utterly like Umbrella.

It was like the vast laboratory facility beneath Raccoon, complete with its own foundry and private subway—unbelievable, except he'd seen it himself.

And he knew from the ex-S.T.A.R.S. that there'd also been an isolated cove on the Maine coast guarded by teams of viral zombies, and a "deserted" mansion in the woods, the Spencer place—that one had been rigged with secrets, keys, codes, and passages, like the setting for a spy movie that no one would ever buy.

Now this—simulated environments beneath the

barren Utah salt flats. What had Reston called it? The Planet. It was an extravagant, decadent, immoral

waste; ridiculous, except—

—except we're stuck in it, and God only knows what we'll be up against next.

Leon kept moving, trying not to think about what Claire and the others might be going through. Reston had obviously assumed that the rest of the team had been nabbed, but he didn'tknow.He also didn't know how resourceful Claire and Rebecca were, or how brilliant David was as a strategist. They'd all slipped away from Umbrella before, and there was no reason to think that they wouldn't do it again.

Leon was so intent on the private pep-talk that he didn't see the clearing until they were practically on top of it, less than twenty feet away. He stopped, remembering the last attack—and chided himself for not paying attention.

"Let's back up and go around," he said—and then he heard the beat of wings, and knew it was already too late. In the wilted shadows above the open space, one, two, three of them were diving off perches, soaring down into the rounded clearing.