A figure stepped into sight, a woman in red, and Annette fired—
• bam, but she was trembling, screaming inside, and the shot went high. It ricocheted off the cement wall with a whining, zipping sound, and the woman was raising a weapon of her own—
• and Annette fired again, barn-zip, but suddenly there was another one, a blurred, flying shape that leapt in front of the woman, knocking her out of the way, all of it happening at once—
• and Annette heard the cry of pain, a man’s cry, and felt a burst of roaring triumph. Got him, I got him—
But there could be more, she hadn’t hit the woman—and they were trained killers.
Annette turned and ran, her dirty lab coat flying, her wet shoes slapping against the cement. She had to get back to the lab, fast.
Time had run out.
TwEnfY-OnE
LEON STOPPED TO ADJUST HIS SHOULDER
harness, so Ada walked on ahead, musing over how surprisingly clear the first few tunnels had been. If memory served, this corridor let out right next to sewage treatment ops; past that was the tram to the factory, and then the machine lift to the underground. Conditions would probably get worse the closer they got to the labs, but with the trek as trouble-free as it had been so far, she was feeling optimistic.
Leon had been uncomfortably quiet since they’d opened the path into the sewers, only talking when it was necessary—watch your step, hold up a minute, which way do you think we should go ... she didn’t think he was even aware of the defenses he’d put up, but she was getting better at reading him. Officer Kennedy was brave, he was at least above-average in the brains department, he was a crack shot—and he didn’t know dick about women. When she’d blown off his attempt to comfort her, she’d confused and hurt him—and now he didn’t know how to interact with her. He’d chosen to withdraw rather than risk another rejection.
Really, it’s for the best. No point in leading him on when it’s not necessary, and it saves me the trouble of ego-stroking. . . .
She stepped into the intersection of the empty hall, thinking about the easiest place to part company from her escort—
• and saw the woman, just as she fired.
Bam!
Ada felt chips of concrete spray across her bare shoulders as she brought the Beretta up, a blur of emotions and realizations flashing through her in the instant it took to react. She wouldn’t be able to return fire in time, the woman’s next shot would kill her, anger at herself for being so stupid—and recognition. Birkin—
She heard the second shot—and then she was hit, shoved out of the way and falling to the cold floor as Leon cried out in pain and surprise, his warm bulk landing on top of her.
Ada took a deep breath, shocked and amazed as she understood what had happened, as Leon rolled off of her and clutched at his arm. She heard running footsteps and Leon’s harsh panting, and sat up. Oh, my God. No shit—
He’d taken a bullet. For her.
Ada stumbled to her feet, bending over him.
“Leon!”
He looked up at her, jaw clenched against the pain. Blood seeped through the fingers of his hand, pressed to his left armpit.
“I’m—okay,” he gasped, and although his face was pale, his eyes clouded with suffering, she thought he was probably right. It undoubtedly hurt like a son of a bitch, but it wouldn’t—shouldn’t—kill him. It would have killed me, Leon saved my life—
And on the tail of that thought, —Annette Birkin.
Still alive.
“That woman,” she blurted, the guilt hitting her even as she turned to run. “I have to talk to her.” Ada took off, sprinting around the corner and down the hall, the door at the end standing open. Leon would live, he would be fine, and if she could catch up to Annette, this whole goddamn nightmare would be over. She’d studied the file photos, she knew it was Birkin’s wife—and if, by chance, the woman wasn’t carrying a sample, she’d sure as hell know where one was.
She ran through the door and stopped short of jumping into yet another water-filled tunnel, pausing just long enough to listen, to scan the surface of the rippling murk. No splashing sounds, and there were still lapping waves to the left—
• and a ladder bolted to the wall, leading up to a fan shaft.
• goes to operations.
Ada plunged into the water and made for the ladder. There was a hallway farther along, but it was a dead end; Annette would surely have opted for es-cape.
She quickly scaled the metal rungs, refusing to let herself think about Leon (because he was fine) as she peered through the shaft and saw that it was clear. Mrs. Doctor was probably still running, but Ada wasn’t going to walk into another bullet. Through the shaft, a quick peek past the dead, massive blades of the vent fan at the far end, and back down another ladder. The giant two-story chamber that housed the sewage-treatment machines was emp-ty of life, as cold and industrial and strewn with equipment as she’d expected. There was a hydraulic bridge that spanned the room, raised to the level she’d exited on—which meant that Annette must have gone down via the west ladder, the only other way out. Ada flipped through her mental maps as she started across the bridge, remembering that it went down into one of the treatment center’s dumping grounds—
“Drop it, you bitch!”
Behind her. Ada halted, feeling a pain inside—the pain of a hearty slap to the ego. The second time she’d screwed up, badly, in as many minutes—but there was no way she was going to obey Annette’s hysterical command. The woman’s aim was for shit and Ada tensed, preparing to drop, to spin and fire—
Barn-ping!
The shot hit the floor next to Ada’s right foot, glancing off the rusting bridge. Annette had her. Ada dropped the Beretta, raising her hands slowly, turning to face the scientist.
Jesus, I deserve to die for this. . . .
Annette Birkin walked toward her, a Browning nine-millimeter trembling wildly in one outstretched hand. Ada winced inwardly at the sight of that shaking gun—but saw a possible opportunity as An-nette moved closer, finally coming to a stop less than ten feet in front of her.
Too close. Too close, and she’s right on the edge of a total collapse, isn’t she?
“Who are you? What’s your name?!”
Ada swallowed heavily, putting a stutter into her voice. “Ada, Ada Wong. Please don’t shoot, please, I haven’t done anything—“ Annette frowned, backing up a step. “Ada... Wong. I know that name—Ada,
that was John’s girlfriend’s name....”
Ada’s mouth dropped open. “Yes, John Howe!
But—how did you know? Do you know where he is?” The disheveled scientist glared at her. “I know because John worked with my husband, William. You’ve heard of him, of course—William Birkin, the man responsible for the creation of the T-Virus” Annette fairly glowed with a mix of pride and despair as she spoke, giving Ada hope; it was a weakness that she could use. Ada had read the files on William Birkin—read about his steady climb through Umbrella’s hierarchy, the advances in virology and genetic sequencing... and about the scientific ambi-tion that had made him a veritable sociopath. It looked as though his wife was operating on a similar plane—which meant that the Mrs. would have no problem pulling the trigger.
Play it dumb, and don’t give her a reason to doubt it. “T-Virus? What’s—“ Ada blinked, then widened her eyes. “Doctor—Birkin? Wait, the Doctor Birkin, the biochemist?”
She saw a flash of pleasure cross Annette’s face—but then it was gone, and there was only despair. Despair and the flickering of bitter madness, deep in her bloodshot eyes.
“John Howe is dead,” she said coldly, “he died three months ago at the Spencer estate. My condo-lences—but then, you’re about to join him, aren’t you? You’re not going to take the G-Virus away from me, you can’t have it!”