her thoughts of leaving had been put on a back burner, left alone for awhile. For the first time in her twenty-three years, she'd started to feel like a part of the community she lived and worked in, the change so subtle and gradual that she'd hardly noticed.
Six weeks ago, Becky and Pris had wandered away from a family picnic in Victory Park and became the first two victims of the psychopaths that had since terrorized the isolated city.
The photo trembled slightly in her hand, sparing her nothing. Becky lying on her back, staring blindly at the sky, a gaping, ragged hole in her belly. Pris was sprawled next to her, arms outstretched, chunks of flesh ripped savagely from the slender limbs. Both children had been eviscerated, dying of massive trauma before they'd bled out. If they'd screamed, no one had heard…
Enough! They're gone, but you can finally do something about it!
Jill fumbled the papers back into their folder, then stepped outside into the early evening, breathing deeply. The scent of freshly cut grass was heavy in the sun-warmed air. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked happily amidst the shouts of children.
She hurried to the small, dented gray hatchback parked by the front walk, forcing herself not to look at the silent McGee house as she started the car and pulled away from the curb. Jill drove through the wide suburban streets of her neighborhood, window down, pushing the speed limit but careful to watch for kids and pets. There weren't many of either around. Since the trouble had started, more and more people were keeping their children and animals indoors, even during the day.
The little hatchback shuddered as she accelerated up the ramp to Highway 202, the warm, dry air whipping her long hair back from her face. It felt good, like waking up from a bad dream. She sped through the sun-dappled evening, the shadows of trees growing long across the road.
Whether it was fate or just the luck of the draw, her life had been touched by what was happening in Raccoon City. She couldn't keep pretending that she was just some jaded ex-thief trying to stay out of jail, trying to toe the line to make her father happy, or that what the S.T.A.R.S. were about to do was just another job. It mattered. It mattered to her that those children were dead, and that the killers were still free to kill again.
The victim files next to her fluttered slightly, the top of the folder caught by the wind; nine restless spirits, perhaps, Becky and Priscilla McGee's among them.
She rested her right hand on the ruffled sheaf, stilling the gentle movement and swore to herself that no matter what it took, she was going to find out who was responsible. Whatever she'd been before, whatever she would be in the future, she had changed… and wouldn't be able to rest until these murderers of the innocent had been held accountable for their actions.
Yo, Chris!
Chris turned away from the soda machine and saw Forest Speyer striding down the empty hall toward him, a wide grin on his tanned, boyish face. Forest was actually a few years older than Chris, but looked like a rebellious teenager – long hair, studded jean jacket, a tattoo of a skull smoking a cigarette on his left shoulder. He was also an excellent mechanic, and one of the best shots Chris had ever seen in action.
Hey, Forest. What's up? Chris scooped up a can of club soda from the machine's dispenser and glanced at his watch. He still had a couple of minutes before the meeting. He smiled tiredly as Forest stopped in front of him, blue eyes sparkling. Forest was carrying an armful of equipment-vest, utility belt, and shoulder pack.
Wesker gave Marini the go-ahead to start the search. Bravo team's goin' in. Even excited, Forest's Alabama twang slowed his words to a stereotypical drawl. He dropped his stuff on one of the visitors' chairs, still grinning widely.
Chris frowned. When?
Now. Soon as I warm up the 'copter. Forest pulled the kevlar vest on over his T-shirt as he spoke.
While you Alphas sit taking notes, we're gonna go kick some cannibal ass!
Nothing if not confident, us S.T.A.R.S. Yeah, well… just watch your ass, okay? I still think there's more going on here than a couple of slobbering nut jobs hanging around in the woods.
You know it. Forest pushed his hair back and grabbed his utility belt, obviously already focused on the mission. Chris thought about saying more, but decided against it. For all of his bravado, Forest was a professional; he didn't need to be told to be careful.
You sure about that, Chris? You think Billy was careful enough?
Sighing inwardly, Chris slapped Forest's shoulder lightly and headed for ops through the doorway of the small upstairs waiting room and down the hall. He was surprised that Wesker was sending the teams in separately. Although it was standard for the less experienced S.T.A.R.S. to do the initial recon, this wasn't exactly a standard operation. The number of deaths they were dealing with alone was enough to call for a more aggressive offense. The fact that there were signs of organization to the murders should have brought it to A1 status, and Wesker was still treating it like some kind of a training run.
Nobody else sees it; they didn't know Billy…
Chris thought again about the late-night call he'd gotten last week from his childhood friend. He hadn't heard from Billy in awhile, but knew that he'd taken a research position with Umbrella, the pharmaceutical company that was the single biggest contributor to the economic prosperity of Raccoon City. Billy had never been the type to jump at shadows, and the terrified desperation in his voice had jolted Chris awake, filling him with deep concern. Billy had babbled that his life was in danger, that they were all in danger, begged Chris to meet him at a diner at the edge of town and then never showed up. No one had heard from him since.
Chris had run it over and over again in his mind during the sleepless nights since Billy's disappearance, trying to convince himself that there was no connection to the attacks on Raccoon and yet was unable to shake his growing certainty that there was more going on than met the eye, and that Billy had known what it was. The cops had checked out Billy's apartment and found nothing to indicate foul play… but Chris's instincts told him that his friend was dead, and that he'd been killed by somebody who wanted to keep him from talking.
And I seem to be the only one. Irons doesn't give a shit, and the team thinks I'm just torn up over the loss of an old friend.
He pushed the thoughts aside as he turned the corner, his boot heels sending muted echoes through the arched second floor corridor. He had to focus, to keep his mind on what he could do to find out why Billy had disappeared, but he was exhausted, running on a minimum of sleep and an almost constant anxiety that had plagued him since Billy's call. Maybe he was losing his perspective, his objectivity dulled by recent events…
He forced himself not to think about anything at all as he neared the S.T.A.R.S. office, determined to be clear- headed for the meeting. The buzzing fluorescents above seemed like overkill in the blazing evening light that filled the tight hallway; the Raccoon police building was a classic, if unconventional, piece of architecture, lots of inlaid tile and heavy wood, but it had too many windows designed to catch the sun.
When he'd been a kid, the building had been the Raccoon City Hall. With the population increase a decade back, it had been renovated as a library, and four years ago, turned into a police station. It seemed like there was always some kind of construction going on.
The door to the S.T.A.R.S. office stood open, the muted sounds of gruff male voices spilling out into the hall. Chris hesitated a moment, hearing Chief Irons's among them. Just call me Brian Irons was a self-centered and self-serving politician masquerading as a cop. It was no secret that he had his sweaty fingers in more than a few local pies. He'd even been implicated in the Cider district land-scam back in '94, and although nothing had been proved in court, anyone who knew him personally didn't harbor any doubt.
Chris shook his head, listening to Irons's greasy voice. Hard to believe he'd once led the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S., even as a paper-pusher. Maybe even harder to believe that he'd probably end up as mayor someday.
Of course, it doesn't help much that he hates your guts, does it, Redfield?
Yeah, well. Chris didn't like to kiss ass, and Irons didn't know how to have any other kind of relationship. At least Irons wasn't a total incompetent, he'd had some military training. Chris pasted on a straight face and stepped into the small, cluttered office that served as the S.T.A.R.S. filing cabinet and base of operations.
Barry and Joseph were over by the rookie desk, going through a box of papers and talking quietly.
Brad Vickers, the Alpha pilot, was drinking coffee and staring at the main computer screen a few feet away, a sour expression on his mild features. Across the room Captain Wesker was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, smiling blankly at something Chief Irons was telling him. Irons's bulk was leaned against Wesker's desk, one pudgy hand brushing at his carefully groomed mustache as he spoke.
So I said, 'You're gonna print what I tell you to print, Bertolucci, and you're gonna like it, or you'll never get
