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 cou-ple 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 /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, who-ever 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 criti-cal, 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 assem-bled, waiting, and wondering where the hell she was. Jill shouldered the heavy bags and hurried out the door.
They’d gotten the weapons loaded and secured and Wesker was getting impatient. Although his eyes were hidden by dark aviator sunglasses, Chris could see it in the captain’s stance and in the way he kept his head cocked toward the building. The helicopter was prepped and ready, the blades whipping warm, humid air through the tight compartment. With the door open, the sound of the engine drowned out any attempt at conversation. There was nothing to do but wait.
Come on, Jill, don’t slow us up here. . . . Even as Chris thought it, Jill emerged from the building and jogged toward them with the Alpha gear, an apologetic look on her face. Wesker jumped down to help her, taking one of the stuffed bags as she climbed aboard.
Wesker followed, closing the double hatches behind them. Instantly, the roar of the turbine engine was muted to a dull thrum.
“Problems, Jill?” Wesker didn’t sound angry, but there was an edge to his voice that suggested he wasn’t all that happy, either.
Jill shook her head. “One of the lockers was stuck. I had a hell of a time getting the key to work.” The captain stared at her for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to give her a hard time, then shrugged. “I’ll call maintenance when we get back. Go ahead and distribute the gear.”
He picked up a headset and put it on, moving up to sit next to Brad as Jill started passing out the vests. The helicopter lifted slowly, the RPD building falling away as Brad positioned them to head northwest. Chris crouched down next to Jill after donning his vest, helping her sort through the gloves and belts as they sped over the city toward the Arklay Mountains. The busy urban streets below quickly gave way to the suburbs, wide streets and quiet houses set amidst squares of browning grass and picket fences. An evening haze had settled over the sprawling but iso-lated community, fuzzing the edges of the picturesque view and giving it an unreal, dream-like quality. Minutes passed in silence as the Alphas prepared themselves and belted in, each team member preoccu-pied with his or her own thoughts.
With any luck, the Bravo team’s helicopter had suffered only a minor mechanical failure. Forest would’ve set it down in one of the scraggly open fields that dotted the forest and was probably up to his elbows in grease by now, cursing at the engine as they waited for Alpha to show. Without the bird in work-ing order, Marini wouldn’t start the proposed search. The alternative . . .
Chris grimaced, not wanting to consider any alter-natives. He’d once seen the aftermath of a serious ‘copter crash, back in the Air Force. Pilot error had led to the fall of a Huey carrying eleven men and women to a training mission. By the time the rescuers had arrived, there’d been nothing but charred, smok-ing bones amidst the fiery debris, the sweet, sticky smell of gasoline-roasted flesh heavy in the blackened air. Even the ground had been burning, and that was the image that had haunted his dreams for
months afterwards; the earth on fire, the chemical flames devouring the very soil beneath his feet. . . . There was a slight dip in their altitude as Brad adjusted the rotor pitch, jolting him out of the un-pleasant memory. The ragged outskirts of Raccoon Forest slipped by below, the orange markers of the police blockade standing out against the thick muted green of the trees. Twilight was finally setting in, the forest growing heavy with shadow.