"So, there was a fire. An accident, it was said, a terrible tragedy—two scientists and three loyal assistants all burned up. Too bad, so sad, case closed—and so began the division of Umbrella known as White Umbrella. Bioweapons research. A playground for the filthy rich and their toadies, for men who'd lost anything resembling a conscience a long, long time ago. "I smile again. "For men like you.
"White Umbrella had thought of everything, or so they believed. What they hadn't considered—either because they were too shortsighted or ignorantly dismissive—was the young son of James and Helen, their only child, away at boarding school when his parents were burned alive. Perhaps they simply forgot about him. But Victor Darius didn't forget. In fact, Victor
grew up thinking about what Umbrella had done, dare I sayobsessingover it. There came a time when Victor could think of nothing else, and that was when he decided to do something about it.
"To avenge his mother and father, Victor Darius knew he would have to be extremely clever and very, very careful. So he spent years just planning. And more years learning what he needed to know, and even more making the right contacts, moving in the right circles, being as devious and underhanded as his foe. And one day, he murdered Umbrella, just as they murdered his parents. It wasn't easy, but he was determined, and he'd devoted his entire life to the project."
I grin. I say, "Oh, and did I mention that Victor Darius changed his name? It was a bit of a risk, but he decided to go with his father's middle name, or at least part of it. James Trenton Darius wasn't using it anymore, after all."
The speech always changed a little, but the essentials stayed the same. Trent knew that he would never have the opportunity to deliver it to all of them at once, but it was theideathat had kept him going, all these many years. On nights when he'd been so enraged that he couldn't sleep, the retelling of the story had come to be a kind of bitter lullaby; he imagined the looks on their tired old faces, the horror in their faded eyes, their trembling indignation at his betrayal. Somehow, the vision always soothed his fury and gave him some small peace.
Soon. After Europe, my friends. . . .
The thought followed him down into the dark, to the sweet, dreamless sleep of the righteous.