Before he could say anything, she lay the crowbar on the cement floor and looked up at him with a strained half-smile, brushing at her rust-dirty hands. “I’m glad you’re here. I don’t think I’m strong enough to do this by myself. .. ”
He hadn’t been sure before, but the helpless look she gave him cinched it; she was playing him, or trying to. He’d known Ada for all of twenty minutes, but he doubted seriously that she’d ever been helpless about anything.
“Looks like you’re doing just fine,” he said, holster-ing the Magnum but not making any move toward the manhole. He crossed his arms, frowning slightly. He wasn’t angry, just curious.
“Besides, what’s the hurry? I thought you wanted to talk to the reporter. About John, your Umbrella
friend_” The woman-in-distress look melted away and her delicate features turned cool and hard, but
not in a bad way; it was as though she was letting her real self show, the strong and self-assured Ada he’d first met. Leon could tell that he’d surprised her by not rushing to her aid and was glad to see it; he had enough to worry about without being manipulated by a mysteri-ous stranger. She’d been very careful to avoid his questions, but it was time for Ms. Wong to explain a few things.
Ada stood up, meeting his gaze evenly. “You heard him—he wasn’t going to tell us anything. And with this place as dangerous as it is, I don’t really want to stand around waiting for him to develop a con-science ... ”
She dropped her gaze, her voice softening.”. . . and I don’t even know if John’s in Raccoon. But I do
know that he’s not here—and I want to leave before the station’s completely overrun.”
It sounded good, but for some reason, he had the feeling that she was holding something back. For a few seconds, he struggled to think of a polite way to get her to open up—then decided to hell with it; under the circumstances, social graces would have to be suspended.
“What’s going on, Ada? Do you know something that you’re not telling me?”
She looked at him again, and again, he had the feeling that he’d surprised her—but her cool, dark gaze was as unreadable as ever.
“I just want to get out of here,” she said, and the sincerity of her tone was impossible to deny. If he didn’t believe anything else she’d said, he had to believe that much.
And I wish it was that easy—but there’s Claire, and even Ben, our asshole friend, and God knows how many others. . . .
Leon shook his head. “I can’t leave. Like I said, I may be the only cop left around here. If there are still people in the building, I have to at least try to help them. And I think it’d be best if you came with me.” Ada gave him another one of her half-smiles. “I appreciate your concern, Leon, but I can take care of myself”
He didn’t doubt it—but he also didn’t want to see her abilities tested. Granted, he was pretty untested himself, but he’d been trained to deal with crisis situations, it was his job.
And be honest with yourself—you lost Claire, you couldn’t help Branagh, and Ben Bertolucci could give a rat’s ass for your protection skills; you don’t want to fail with Ada on top of all that. And you don’t want to be alone.
Ada seemed to know what he was thinking. Before he could come up with a convincing argument, she stepped forward and put one slender hand on his arm, the humor fading from her bright eyes.
“I know you want to do your job here, but you said it yourself—we have to find a way out of Raccoon, try and get outside help. And the sewers are probably the best chance we’ve got. . .”
The light, gentle touch surprised him—and sent an electric flutter through his belly, an unexpected flush of warmth that left him feeling confused and uncer-tain. He managed to keep his reaction from showing, but just barely.
Ada continued, frowning thoughtfully. “How about this—help me with the manhole cover, and let’s see what’s down there. If it looks dangerous, I’ll come with you ... but if it’s not bad—well, we can talk about what to do next.”
He wanted to protest, but the truth was, he couldn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to do—and he wanted very much for her to know that he wasn’t some overbearing macho type, that he was receptive to compromise . . .
. . . and does the name “John” ring a bell? This isn’t a date for Chrissake, stop thinking with your hor-mones.
Feeling awkward even thinking about it with her hand still on his arm, Leon stepped away, nodding
briskly. Together, they crouched down next to the manhole. Leon picked up the crowbar and jammed one end beneath the lid; as he pulled back, Ada pushed on the bar, and with a heavy grating sound the thick metal plate came up. Leon put his back into it and heaved the lid to one side, clearing the opening—
• and both of them recoiled back from the smell that bellowed out of the dark hole, a choking, dark stench of blood and piss and vomit.
“Gah, what is that?” Leon coughed.
Ada sat back on her heels, one hand pressed to her mouth. “The bodies from the garage, they must have dumped them down here—“ Before he could ask what she was talking about, a scream of pure terror echoed through the basement halls, filtering through the closed door. The cry went on and on, a man’s voice, the panicked scream suddenly changing to a gurgling shriek of pain. The reporter.
Leon locked gazes with Ada, saw the same startled realization flash across her face—and then they were both up and running, pulling out their weapons and sprinting through the door before the echoes died. I left him, I shouldn’t have left him—
They ran down the corridor for the cell block, guilt driving Leon to run faster than he thought he could. Someone or something had gotten to Bertolucci—and had passed right behind his back to do it. Sherry stood in Mr. Irons’s office, rubbing at her good luck pendant and wishing that Claire would come back. She had crawled through a dozen dusty tunnels to get away from the monster and to lead it away from Claire, and was pretty sure it had worked—she hadn’t heard it again, and had come back to find that Claire had left; if the monster had found her, she would have been dead and ripped apart.
But she’s not here. Nobody is. . . .
Sherry sat on the edge of a low table in the middle of the room, wondering what she should do. She’d gotten used to being alone, and hadn’t even realized how lonely she’d been—but meeting Claire had changed that. Sherry wanted to see her again, she wanted to be with other people, she wanted her parents so bad that it made her ache. Even Mr. Irons would be okay, although Sherry didn’t like him; she’d only met him a couple of times but he was weird, showy and fake—and his office was creepy besides. Still, she’d gladly put up with him if it meant she didn’t have to be alone anymore. . . .
Footsteps. In the hall outside of the office. Sherry stood up and ran to the open door that led back to the armor room, hoping it was Claire and ready to sprint for cover if it wasn’t. She ducked around the door frame and held her breath, staring at the stuffed tiger in the hall and silently praying. The outer door opened and closed. Muffled steps on the carpet, moving slowly, and she tensed to run, at the same time trying to muster up enough courage to sneak a look—
“Sherry?”
Claire!
“I’m here!”
She ran back into the office and there was Claire, her whole face lit up with a beaming smile. Sherry flew into her open arms, so happy to see her that she wanted to cry.
“I was looking for you,” Claire said, holding her tightly. “Don’t run off like that again, okay?” Claire knelt
in front of her, still smiling—but Sherry could see the worry behind the smile and in her cool gray eyes. “I’m sorry,” Sherry said. “I had to, or the monster would have come.”
“What does it look like?” Claire asked, her smile fading. “Does it look—kind of red, with claws?”