The solemn quiet was broken by the barking of dogs, faint through the shadowy trees. From the number and location, it sounded like the RPD K-9 unit had just reached his house. Barry looked away from the corpse, his thoughts returning to the imme-diate situation. They had to move.
“Where can we go?” David asked quickly. “Is there somewhere Umbrella wouldn’t think to look, a cabin, an empty building.. . someplace we can get to on foot?”
Brad!
“Chickenheart’s lease isn’t up for a couple of months,” Barry said. “His place is empty. And it’s less than a mile from here.”
David nodded briskly. “Let’s go.”
Barry turned toward the park’s playground, leading the others across the moonlit clearing. There was a small trail that let out two blocks away, hopefully far enough away from the action that the cops wouldn’t follow. Barry had walked through the park a million times, his wife at his side, his children dancing at their feet_... my home. This is my home, and it won’t ever be the same again.
As they ran through the warm, peaceful night, Barry felt the hole in his arm start to bleed again. He clapped his right hand over the sticky dressing with-out slowing, letting the pain fuel his determination as they tore through the scrubby trees and headed for Brad’s house.
No more. No more of this. My girls aren’t going to grow up in a world where this can happen, not if I have any say in it.
So much had already happened, and this was only the beginning of their fight. There were still people working with the S.T.A.R.S. he trusted, that they could count on, and he wasn’t going to be caught off his guard twice. The next time Umbrella came knock-ing, maybe they wouldn’t have to run. And if Rebecca and David could pull off the Maine operation, they’d have what they needed to take the company down, once and for all.
Umbrella had messed with the wrong people. Barry planned on being there when they figured that out. Jill picked the lock expertly, using a bent safety pin and one of Rebecca’s earrings to open the door to the small cottage. Rebecca had swept Barry off to the medicine cabinet, while Chris went searching for a shirt. David and Jill checked the small house thor-oughly, David’s satisfaction growing with each pass-ing moment.
He couldn’t have imagined a better hideout, and it was comforting to know that Barry and the two Alphas would have a safe spot to work from. The two-bedroom home shared a backyard with a security-conscious family; bright lights snapped on when Da-vid opened the back door, flooding the small lawn brilliantly—and from the sight of the neighbor’s side, they definitely had a rather large dog somewhere on the premises. There were houses close on either side of the rental, and the front window looked out on an open schoolyard just across the street. There would be no cover for an approaching team.
The house was furnished simply, if untidily; it was obvious that the occupant had fled in a panic.
Person-al items and books were strewn randomly across the rooms, as if Vickers had been unable to decide what to take in his hurry to flee Raccoon City. With what happened tonight, I can’t say I blame him for running. . ..
Mr. Vickers had obviously been in the wrong line of work, but that didn’t necessarily make him a coward. Risking one’s life on a day-to-day basis wasn’t for everyone—and considering the recent developments, it was wisest for someone like Vickers to remove himself from the situation. They could have used the help, but from what little Barry had told him, the Alpha pilot wasn’t someone they wanted to work with. Even if he didn’t get himself killed, he’d lost the trust of his teammates, and nothing could be worse when it came to crisis situations.
David sat in the dark, cramped living room on a rather hideous green couch, collecting his exhausted
thoughts as Jill dug through the kitchen. He’d found a blank pad of paper and a pen, and had already scribbled down the names and home numbers of his team and various contacts, as well as Brad’s phone number to take with him. He gazed blankly around the shadowed room, fighting off the adrenaline slump that so often followed battle. He didn’t want to forget anything important, any detail that needed to be discussed before he and Rebecca left. If they wanted to make their plane, Barry, Jill, and Chris would have to deal with the aftermath of the attack on their own.
• the S.T.A.R.S., Trent’s poem, objectives and con-tacts—
It was hard to focus after such a draining experi-ence, and it didn’t help matters that he’d been tired to begin with. He hadn’t slept well in days, and thinking of all that lay ahead of them only made concentration harder. Rebecca’s information about Dr. Griffith was disconcerting, to say the least, and though he was no less determined to carry out the Caliban Cove opera-tion, it was just one more concern to add to a seemingly endless list.
Chris walked into the room wearing a faded blue sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and fell into a chair across from David, his face hidden in shadow. After a moment, he leaned forward, enough light filtering through the closed blinds so that David could see his expression. The younger man’s gaze was tired, thoughtful—and apologetic.
“Look, David . . . the last couple of weeks have been rough on all of us, you know? Waiting to see what Umbrella was gonna do, the suspension, feeling like our friends died for nothing ...” Chris stopped himself, then started again. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot earlier, and I’m glad you’re on our side. I shouldn’t have been such an asshole about it.”
David was surprised and impressed by the sincerity behind the words; when he was in his twenties, he would’ve rather had his fingernails pulled out than display any emotion—except anger, of course. He’d had no trouble expressing anger.
Yet another legacy from dear old Dad. . . . “I don’t think you have anything to be sorry for,” David said softly. “Your concerns are more than justified. I—I’ve been under a bit of strain myself, and I didn’t mean to come across as domineering. The S.T.A.R.S. are—that is, they mean a lot to me, and I want us ... I want for them to be whole again. . . .”
Jill walked in from the kitchen, saving David from continuing with his fumbling speech. Much to his relief, Chris seemed to understand; he met David’s gaze evenly, nodding, as if to say that the air had been cleared between them. David sighed inwardly, won-dering if he’d ever be able to overcome his awkward-ness with expressing emotions.
He’d done a lot of thinking since Barry had first called, about himself and his almost obsessive anger over the S.T.A.R.S. betrayal—and had come to the unsettling realization that he wasn’t happy with the way his life was turning out. He’d thrown himself into his career in an effort to avoid dealing with a dysfunc-tional childhood, something he’d always known—but now, facing Umbrella and the treachery of an organi-zation that he considered his family, he’d been forced to really think about the implications of his choice. It had made him an excellent soldier, but he didn’t have any close friends or attachments .. . and having his “family” taken away had come as a cruel wake up to the fact that he had based his life on running from human contact.
Brilliant for me to have figured it out this late in the game. I suppose I should thank Umbrella for that much; if they don’t kill me, they’ll at least have managed to send me into therapy.
Jill had brought out a pitcher of water and several mismatched glasses which she passed around as Barry and Rebecca joined them. Barry wore a clean bandage on his arm and seemed pale in the dim light, certainly shaken by their discovery of Captain Shannon. David felt bad about killing Shannon, though he’d recon-