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.R.S. 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 manag– ing 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 a minivan. 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 damn country. 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 power– house. David had bought it because it was so nonde-script, 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 ass– holes, 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 to me, anyway, and how the hell am I going to get us lost in Exeter, Maine, at eleven o'clock on a weeknight? There is no 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 they were cops, 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 actually felt open 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.
– oh hell
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 -and wham, 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 simul– taneously his most endearing and most annoying trait. "Everyone alright?" David asked, and Claire nod-ded, 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…"