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 masquerad-ing 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 hard-er 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 relation-ship. 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 care-fully 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 another quote from this office!’ And he says—“ “Chris!” Wesker interrupted the chief, sitting for-ward. “Good, you’re here. Looks like we can stop wasting time.”
Irons scowled in his direction but Chris kept his poker face. Wesker didn’t care much for Irons, either, and didn’t bother trying to be any more than polite in his dealings with the man. From the glint in his eye, it was obvious that he didn’t care who knew it, either. Chris walked into the office and stood by the desk he shared with Ken Sullivan, one of the Bravo team. Since the teams usually worked different shifts, they didn’t need much room. He set the unopened can of soda on the battered desktop and looked at Wesker. “You’re sending Bravo in?”
The captain gazed back at him impassively, arms folded across his chest. “Standard procedure, Chris.” Chris sat down, frowning. “Yeah, but with what we talked about last week, I thought—“ Irons interrupted. “I gave the order, Redfield. I know you think that there’s some kind of cloak-and-dagger going on here, but 7 don’t see any reason to deviate from policy.”
Sanctimonious prick. . . .
Chris forced a smile, knowing it would irritate Irons. “Of course, sir. No need to explain yourself on my behalf.”
Irons glared at him for a moment, his piggy little eyes snapping, then apparently decided to let it drop.
He turned back to Wesker. “I’ll expect a report when Bravo returns. Now if you’ll excuse me, Captain. ...” Wesker nodded. “Chief.”
Irons stalked past Chris and out of the room. He’d been gone less than a minute before Barry started in. “Think the chief took a shit today? Maybe we all oughtta chip in for Christmas, get him some laxa-tives”
Joseph and Brad laughed, but Chris couldn’t bring himself to join in. Irons was a joke, but his mishan-dling of this investigation wasn’t all that funny. The S.T.A.R.S. should’ve been called in at the beginning instead of acting as RPD back up.
He looked back at Wesker, the man’s perpetually composed expression hard to read. Wesker had taken over the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. only a few months ago, transferred by the home office in New York, and Chris still didn’t have any real insight into his character. The new captain seemed to be everything he was reputed to be: smooth, professional, cool—but there was a kind of distance to him, a sense that he was often far removed from what was going on. . . . Wesker sighed and stood up. “Sorry, Chris. I know you wanted things to go different, but Irons didn’t put a whole lot of stock into your . . . misgivings.”
Chris nodded. Wesker could make recommenda-tions, but Irons was the only one who could upgrade a mission’s status. “Not your fault.”
Barry walked toward them, scruffing at his short, reddish beard with one giant fist. Barry Burton was only six feet tall but built like a truck. His only passion outside of his family and his weapons collec-tion was weight lifting, and it showed. “Don’t sweat it, Chris. Marini will call us in the second he smells trouble. Irons is just pullin’ your chain.”
Chris nodded again, but he didn’t like it. Hell, Enrico Marini and Forest Speyer were the only experi-enced soldiers in Bravo. Ken Sullivan was a good scout and a brilliant chemist, but in spite of his S.T.A.R.S. training, he couldn’t shoot the broad side of a barn. Richard Aiken was a top-rate communica-tions expert, but he also lacked field experience. Rounding out Bravo team was Rebecca
Chambers, who’d only been with the S.T.A.R.S. for three weeks, supposed to be some kind of medical genius. Chris had met her a couple of times and she seemed bright enough, but she was just a kid.
It’s not enough. Even with all of us, it may not be enough.
He cracked open his soda but didn’t drink any, wondering instead what the S.T.A.R.S. were going up against, Billy’s pleading, desperate words echoing through his mind yet again.
“They’re going to kill me, Chris! They’re going to kill everyone who knows! Meet me at Emmy’s, now, I’ll tell you everything. ...”
Exhausted, Chris stared off into space, alone in the knowledge that the savage murders were only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.
Barry stood by Chris’s desk for a minute, trying to think of something else to say, but Chris didn’t look like he was in the mood for conversation. Barry shrugged inwardly and headed back to where Joseph was going through files. Chris was a good guy, but he took things too hard sometimes; he’d get over it as soon as it was their turn to step in.
Man, it was hot! Seemingly endless trickles of sweat rolled down his spine, gluing his T-shirt to his broad back. The air-conditioning was on the fritz as usual, and even with the door open, the tiny S.T.A.R.S. office was uncomfortably warm.
“Any luck?”
Joseph looked up at him from the pile of papers, a rueful smirk on his lean face. “You kidding? It’s like somebody hid the damn thing on purpose.” Barry sighed and scooped up a handful of files. “Maybe Jill found it. She was still here when I left last night, going through the witness reports for about the hundredth time. . . .”
“What are you two looking for, anyway?” Brad asked.
Barry and Joseph both looked over at Brad, still sitting at the computer console, headset on. He’d be monitoring Bravo’s progress throughout their fly-by of the forested district, but for now he looked bored as hell.
Joseph answered him. “Ah, Barry claims that there are floor plans in here somewhere on the old Spencer estate, some architectural digest that came out when the house was built—“ He paused, then grinned at Brad. “Except that I’m thinkin’ that ol’ Barry’s gone senile on us. They say memory is the first thing to go.” Barry scowled good-naturedly. “Ol’ Barry could easily kick your ass into next week, little man.” Joseph looked at him mock-seriously. “Yeah, but would you remember it afterwards?”