benches and looked through the basic medical supplies, nodding to himself. They were as ready as they were going to be…
Wesker grinned suddenly, wondering what Brian Irons was doing right now.
Shitting his pants, no doubt. Wesker chuckled as he stepped back out onto the sun-baked asphalt, getting a sudden clear mental image of Irons, his pudgy cheeks red with anger and crap dribbling down his leg. Irons liked to think he could control everything and everyone around him and lost his temper when he couldn't, and that made him an idiot.
Unfortunately for all of them, he was an idiot with a little bit of power. Wesker had checked him out carefully before taking the position in Raccoon City, and knew a few things about the chief that didn't paint him in a particularly positive light. He had no intention of using that information, but if Irons attempted to screw things up one more time, Wesker had no qualms about letting that information get out… …or at least telling him that I have access to it; it'd certainly keep him out of the way.
Barry Burton stepped out onto the concrete carrying more ammo cache, his giant biceps flexing as he shifted his hold on the heavy canvas bag and started for the 'copter. Chris and Joseph followed, Chris with the sidearms and Joseph lugging a satchel of RPGs, the compact grenade launcher slung over one shoulder.
Wesker marveled at Burton's brute strength as the Alpha climbed in and casually set the bag down as though it didn't weigh over a hundred pounds. Barry was bright enough, but in the S.T.A.R.S., muscle was a definite asset. Everyone else in his squad was in good shape, but compared to Barry, they were pencil-necks.
As the three of them stored the equipment, Wesker turned his attention back to the door, watching for Jill. He checked his watch and frowned. It had been just under five minutes since their last contact with Bravo, they'd made excellent time… so where the hell was Valentine? He hadn't interacted with her much since she'd come to Raccoon, but her file was a rave review. She'd gotten high recommendations from everyone she'd worked with, praised by her last captain as highly intelligent and unusually calm in a crisis. She'd have to be, with her history. Her father was Dick Valentine, the best thief in the business a couple of decades back. He'd trained her to follow in his footsteps, and word had it that she had done quite well until Daddy had been incarcerated…
Prodigy or no, she could stand to buy a decent watch.
He silently urged Jill to get her ass into gear and motioned for Vickers to start the blades turning.
It was time to find out how bad things were out there.
THREE
Jill turned toward the door of the dim and silent S.T.A.R.S. locker room, her arms full with two bulging duffel bags. She set them down and quickly pulled her hair back, tucking it into a wellworn black beret. It was really too hot, but it was her lucky hat. She glanced at her watch before hefting the bags, pleased to note that it had only taken her three minutes to load up.
She'd gone through all of the Alpha lockers, grabbing utility belts, fingerless gloves, Kevlar vests and shoulder packs, noting that the lockers reflected their user's personalities: Barry's had been covered with snapshots of his family and a pin-up from a gun magazine, a rare.45 Luger, shining against red velvet.
Chris had pictures of his Air Force buddies up and the shelves were a boyish mess-crumpled T-shirts, loose papers, even a glow-in-the-dark yo-yo with a broken string. Brad Vickers had a stack of self-help books and Joseph, a Three Stooges calendar. Only Wesker's had been devoid of personal effects. Somehow, it didn't surprise her. The captain struck her as too tightly wound to place much value on sentiment.
Her own locker held a number of used paperback true crime novels, a toothbrush, floss, breath mints, and three hats. On the door was a small mirror and an old, frayed photo of her and her father, taken when she was a child and they'd gone to the beach one summer. As she'd quickly thrown the Alpha gear together, she decided that she'd redecorate when she had free time; anyone looking through her locker would think she was some kind of dental freak.
Jill crouched a bit and fumbled at the latch to the door, balancing the awkward bags on one raised knee.
She'd just grasped it when someone coughed loudly behind her.
Startled, Jill dropped the bags and spun, looking for the cougher as her mind reflexively assessed the situation. The door had been locked. The small room held three banks of lockers and had been quiet and dark when she'd come in. There was another door in the back of the room, but no one had come through it since she'd entered- which means that someone was already here when I came in, in the shadows behind the last bank. A cop grabbing a nap?
Unlikely. The department's lunch room had a couple of bunks in the back, a lot more comfortable than a narrow bench over cold concrete.
Then maybe it's someone enjoying a little leisure time with a magazine, her brain snarled, does it matter? You're on the clock here, get moving!
Right. Jill scooped up the bags and turned to leave.
Miss Valentine, isn't it? A shadow separated itself from the back of the room and stepped forward, a tall man with a low, musical voice. Early forties, a thin frame, dark hair and deep set eyes. He was actually wearing a trench coat, and an expensive one at that.
Jill readied herself to move quickly if the need arose. She didn't recognize him.
That's right, she said warily.
The man stepped toward her, a smile flickering across his face. I have something for you, he said softly.
Jill narrowed her eyes and shifted automatically into a defensive position, balancing her weight on the balls of her feet. Hold it, asshole – I don't know who the hell you think you are or what you think I want, but you're in a police station…
She trailed off as he shook his head, grinning broadly, his dark eyes twinkling with mirth. You mistake my intentions, Miss Valentine. Excuse my manners, please. My name is Trent, and I'm… a friend to the S.T.A.R.S.
Jill studied his posture and position and eased her own stance slightly, watching his eyes for even a flicker of movement. She didn't feel threatened by him, exactly… … but how did he know my name?
What do you want?
Trent grinned wider. Ah, straight to the point. But of course, you're on a rather tight schedule…
He slowly reached into a pocket of his coat and pulled out what looked like a cell phone. Though it's not what I want that's important. It's what I think you should have.
Jill glanced quickly at the item he held, frowning.
That?
Yes. I've assembled a few documents that you should find interesting; compelling, in fact. As he spoke, he held out the device.
She reached for it carefully, realizing as she did that it was a mini-disk reader, a very complicated and costly micro computer. Trent was well-financed, whoever he was.
Jill tucked the reader into her hip pack, suddenly more than a little curious. Who do you work for?
He shook his head. That's not important, not at this juncture. Although I will say that there are a lot of very important people watching Raccoon City right now.
Oh? And are these people 'friends' of the S.T.A.R.S., too, Mr. Trent?
Trent laughed, a soft, deep chuckle. So many questions, so little time. Read the files. And if I were you, I wouldn't mention this conversation to anyone; it could have rather serious consequences.
He walked toward the door in the back of the room, turning back to her as he reached for the knob. Trent's lined, weathered features suddenly lost all trace of humor, his gaze serious and intense.
One more thing, Miss Valentine, and this is critical, make no mistake: not everyone can be trusted, and not everyone is who they appear to be – even the people you think you know. If you want to stay alive, you'll do well to remember it.
Trent opened the door and just like that, he was gone.
Jill stared after him, her mind going a million directions at once. She felt like she was in some melodramatic old spy movie and had just met the mysterious stranger. It was laughable, and yet– and yet he just handed you several thousands of dollars worth of equipment with a straight face and told you to watch your back; you think he's kidding?
She didn't know what to think, and she didn't have time to think it; the Alpha team was probably assembled, waiting, and wondering where the hell she was.
Jill shouldered the heavy bags and hurried out the door.
