“ETA . . . three minutes,” Brad called back, and Chris looked around the cabin, noting the silent, grim expressions of his teammates. Joseph had tied a bandana over his head and was intently relacing his boots. Barry was gently rubbing a soft cloth over his beloved Colt Python, staring out the hatch window. He turned his head to look at Jill and was surprised to find her staring back at him thoughtfully. She was sitting on the same bench as him and she smiled briefly, almost nervously as he caught her gaze. Abruptly she unhooked her belt and moved to sit next to him. He caught a faint scent of her skin, a clean, soapy smell.
“Chris . . . what you’ve been saying, about external factors in these cases ...”
Her voice was pitched so low that he had to lean in to hear her over the throbbing of the engine. She glanced quickly around at the others, as if to make sure that no one was listening, then looked into his eyes, her own carefully guarded.
“I think you might be on the right track,” she said softly, “and I’m starting to think that it might not be such a good idea to talk about it.”
Chris’s throat suddenly felt dry. “Did something happen?”
Jill shook her head, her finely chiseled features giving away nothing. “No. I’ve just been thinking that maybe you should watch what you say. Maybe not everyone listening is on the right side of this. ...” Chris frowned, not sure what she was trying to tell him. “The only people I’ve talked to are on the job—“ Her gaze didn’t falter, and he realized suddenly what she was implying.
Jesus, and I thought I was paranoid!
“Jill, I know these people, and even if I didn’t, the S.T.A.R.S. have psych profiles on every member, history checks, personal references—there’s no way it could happen.”
She sighed. “Look, forget I said anything. I just . . . just watch yourself, that’s all.”
“All right, kids, look lively! We’re coming up on sector twenty-two, they could be anywhere.” At Wesker’s interruption, Jill gave him a final sharp glance and then moved to one of the windows. Chris followed, Joseph and Barry taking the search up on the other side of the cabin.
Looking out the small window, he scanned the deepening dusk on automatic, thinking about what Jill had said. He supposed he should be grateful that he wasn’t the only one who suspected some kind of a cover up—but why hadn’t she said anything before? And to warn him against the S.T.A.R.S. . . .
She knows something.
She must, it was the only explanation that made any sense. He decided that after they picked up Bravo, he’d talk to her again, try to convince her that going to Wesker would be their best bet. With both of them pushing, the captain would have to listen. He stared out at the seemingly endless sea of trees as the helicopter skimmed lower, forcing his full attention to the search. The Spencer estate had to be close, though he couldn’t see it in the fading light. Thoughts of Billy and Umbrella and now Jill’s strange warning circled through his exhaustion, trying to break his focus, but he refused to give in. He was still worried about the Bravos—though as the trees swept by, he was becoming more and more convinced that they weren’t in any real trouble. It was probably nothing worse than a crossed wire, Forest had just shut it down to make repairs—
Then he saw it less than a mile away, even as Jill pointed and spoke, and his concern turned to cold dread.
“Look, Chris—“
An oily plume of black smoke boiled up through the last remnants of daylight, staining the sky like a promise of death.
Oh, no—
Barry clenched his jaw, staring at the stream of smoke that rose up from the trees, feeling sick. “Captain, two o’clock sharp!” Chris called, and then they were turning, heading for the dark smudge that could only mean a crash.
Wesker moved back into the cabin, still wearing his shades. He stepped to the window and spoke quietly, his voice subdued. “Let’s not assume the worst. There’s a possibility that a fire broke out after they landed, or that they started the fire on purpose, as a signal—“ Barry wished they could believe him, but even Wesker had to know better. With the ‘copter shut down, a fire starting on its own was unlikely—and if the Bravos wanted to signal, they would’ve used flares.
Besides which, wood doesn’t make that kind of smoke. . . .
“—but whatever it is, we won’t know till we get there. Now if I could have your full attention, please.” Barry turned away from the window, saw the others do the same. Chris, Jill, and Joseph all wore the same look, as he imagined he did: shock. S.T.A.R.S. some-times got hurt in the line of duty, it was part of the job—but accidents like this . . .
Wesker’s only visible sign of distress was the set of his mouth, a thin, grim line against his tanned skin. “Listen up. We’ve got people down in a possibly hostile environment. I want all of you armed, and I want an organized approach, a standard fan as soon as we set down. Barry, you’ll take point.” Barry nodded, pulling himself together. Wesker was right; now was not the time to get emotional. “Brad’s going to set us down as close to the site as he can get, what looks like a small clearing about fifty meters south of their last coordinates. He’ll stay with the ‘copter and keep it warm in case of trouble. Any questions?”
Nobody spoke, and Wesker nodded briskly. “Good. Barry, load us up. We can leave the rest of the gear on board and come back for it.”
The captain stepped to the front to talk to Brad, while Jill, Chris, and Joseph turned to Barry. As weapons specialist, he checked the firearms in and out to each S.T.A.R.S. team member and kept them in prime condition.
Barry turned to the cabinet next to the outer hatch and unhooked the latch, exposing six Beretta 9mm handguns on a metal rack, cleaned and sighted only yesterday. Each weapon held fifteen rounds, semi-jacketed hollow points. It was a good gun, though Barry preferred his Python, a lot bigger punch with .357 rounds. . . .
He quickly distributed the weapons, passing out three loaded clips with each.
“I hope we don’t need these,” Joseph said, slapping in a clip, and Barry nodded agreement. Just because he paid his dues to the NRA didn’t mean he was some trigger-happy dumbass, looking to kill; he just liked guns.
Wesker joined them again and the five of them stood at the hatch, waiting for Brad to bring them in. As they neared the plume of smoke, the helicopter’s whirling blades pushed it down and out, creating a black fog that blended into the heavy shadows of the trees. Any chance of spotting the downed vehicle from the air was lost to the smoke and dusk. Brad swung them around and settled the bird into a scrappy patch of tall grass, snapping wildly from the forced wind. Even as the rails wobbled to the ground, Barry had his hand on the latch, ready to move out. A warm hand fell on his shoulder. Barry turned and saw Chris looking at him intently.
“We’re right behind you,” Chris said, and Barry nodded. He wasn’t worried, not with the Alphas backing him up. All he was concerned with was the Bravo team’s situation. Rico Marini was a good friend of his. Marini’s wife had baby-sat for the girls more times than Barry could count, and was friends with Kathy. The thought of him dead, to a stupid mechanical screw-up . . .
Hang on, buddy, we’re comin’.
One hand on the butt of his Colt, Barry pulled the handle and stepped out into the humid, whipping twilight of Raccoon Forest, ready for anything.
THEY SPREAD OUT AND STARTED NORTH,
Wesker and Chris behind and to Barry’s left, Jill and Joseph on his right. Directly in front of them was a sparse stand of trees, and as the Alpha’s ‘copter blade revved down, Jill could smell burning fuel and see wisps of smoke curling through the foliage. They moved quickly through the wooded area, visibility dropping off sharply beneath the needled branches. The warm scents of pine and earth were overshadowed by the burning smell, the acrid odor growing stronger with each step. From the dim light filtering toward them, Jill saw that there was another clearing ahead, high with brittle grasses. “I see it, dead ahead!”