The man grinned, his eyes twinkling. "Leon Kennedy, I presume," he said softly, and Leon was suddenly absolutely sure that whoever he was, this man was trouble with a capital "T."
THREE
JOHN WAS ON HIS FEET BEFORE LEON HAD finished his warning, hopping out into the aisle and stepping in front of Leon in a single stride.
"Who the hell—" John snarled, his shoulders set, ready to break the thin mam in two if he so much as blinked wrong.
The stranger held up pale, long-fingered hands, looking as though he could barely contain his de-light—which made John all the more wary. He could easily pound the guy into hamburger, what the hell was he sohappyabout?
"And you're John Andrews," the man said, his voice low and calm and as pleased as his expression. "Formerly a communications expert and field scout for the Exeter S.T.A.R.S. It's so good to meet you— tell me, how are your ribs? Still tender?"
Shit. Who is this guy? Johnhad broken two ribs and
cracked a third on the cove mission, and didn't know this man—how the hell did this man knowhim?
"My name is Trent," the stranger said easily, nodding at both Leon and John. "I believe your Mr.
Trapp can vouch for my identity ... ?"
John flicked a glance back, saw that David and the girls were right behind them. David gave a quick nod, his expression strained.
Trent. Goddamn. The mysterious Mr. Trent.
—The same Mr. Trent who had given maps and clues to Jill Valentine, just before the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. had discovered Umbrella's initial T-Virus spill at the Spencer estate. The Trent who had given a similar package to David one rainy August night, information about Umbrella's Caliban Cove facility, where Steve and Karen had been murdered.
The Trent who'd been playing games with the S.T.A.R.S.—with people'slives—all along.
Trent was still smiling, still holding his hands up.
John noticed a black ring made out of stone on one slender finger, the only affectation that Mr. Trent seemed to have; it looked heavy and expensive.
"So what the hell do you want?" John growled. He didn't like secrets or surprises, and he didn't like the fact that Trent seemed totally unimpressed by his formidable size. Most people backed down when he got in their face; Trent seemed amused.
"Mr. Andrews, if you please . . . ?"
John didn't move, glaring into Trent's dark, intelligent eyes. Trent gazed back impassively, and John could see cool self-assurance in that bright gaze, a look that was almost but not quite patronizing. As big
and buff as John was, he wasn't a violent man—but that confident, mirthful look made John think that Mr. Trent could use a good beating. Not by him, necessarily, but bysomeone.
How many people have died, just because he decided to stir things up a little?
"It's alright, John," David said quietly. "I'm sure that if Mr. Trent meant us harm, he wouldn't be standing here introducing himself."
David was right, whether John liked it or not. He sighed inwardly and stepped aside, but decided that he definitely didn't like it; from what little he knew about the man, he didn't like it atall.
Gonna be watching you, "friend."...
Trent nodded as though there had never been any question and walked past John, smiling at all of them. He motioned for them to sit in the seats on one side of the cabin; he took off his trench coat and put it aside, moving slowly and carefully, obviously aware that any sudden moves could be detrimental to his health. Beneath the coat he wore a black suit, black tie, and shoes; John didn't know clothes but the shoes were Asante. Trent had taste, anyway, and a shitload of money if he could afford to blow a couple thou on footwear.
"This may take a few moments," he said. "Please, get comfortable." He pushed himself up to sit atop one of the chairs opposite their group, moving with a smooth grace that made John feel even less comfortable. He moved like someone with training, martial arts maybe. . . .
The others sat or leaned against the chairs, each of
them studying the uninvited guest, each looking as unhappy about his appearance as John felt. Trent studied them in turn.
"Mr. Andrews, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Trapp, and I have already met. . . ." Trent looked back and forth between Rebecca and Claire, his sparkling gaze finally settling on Claire.
"Claire Redfield, yes?" He seemed a little more hesitant, which wasn't a surprise. Rebecca and Claire
could have been sisters, both brunettes, same height, only a few months difference in age.
"Yes," Claire said. "Does the pilot know you're on board?"
John frowned, irritated with himself for not having asked first. It was a fairly important question, and it hadn't occurred to him. If the pilot had let Mr. Trent aboard. . . .
Trent nodded, running one pale hand through his tousled black hair. "Yes, he does. In fact, Captain Evans is an acquaintance of mine, so when I realized that you were going . . . traveling, I arranged for him to be in the right place at the right time. Much easier than it sounds, really."
"Why?" David asked, an edge coming into his voice that John had only ever heard in combat situations. The captain was right on the verge of being seriously upset. "Why would you do that, Mr. Trent?"
Trent seemed to ignore him. "I realize that you're concerned about your friends on the continent, but let me assure you that they're in the best of health.
Really, there's no reason for you to worry yourselves—"
"Why?"David's voice was steel.
Trent stared at him, then sighed. "Because I don't want you to go to Europe, and making it so that Captain Evans is your pilot means that you won't.
You can't. In fact, we should be turning back any moment now."
Claire stared at him, feeling her stomach knot, feeling that knot transforming into a burning, leaden anger.
Chris, I won't see Chris—
John pushed away from the seat he'd been leaning on and grabbed Trent's arm before Claire could even open her mouth, before anyone had time to respond to his statement.
"Tell your 'acquaintance' to keep right on goin' the way we're goin'," John spat, glowering at Trent. From the way John's hands were shaking, Claire thought
there was a good chance that he would break Trent's arm—and found that she didn't think that was such a bad idea.
Trent wore an expression of mild discomfort, nothing more. "I'm sorry to interrupt your plans," he said, "but if you'll hear me out, I think you'll agree that it's for the best—if you really want to stop Umbrella, that is."
For the best? Chris, we have to help Chris and the others, whatisthis shit?
She waited for the others to explode into action, to storm the cockpit, to tie Mr. Trent to a chair and force him to explain himself—but they were all silent, looking at one another and at Trent with shock,
anger—and interest, guarded but interest nonetheless. John loosened his grip, glancing at David for direction.
"This had better be a good story, Mr. Trent," David said coolly. "I'm aware that you've—helped us in the past, but this kind of interference isn't the kind of help we want or need."
He tipped his head at John, who reluctantly let go of Trent and stepped back. Not very far back, Claire noticed.
If Trent had been worried at all, there was no sign of it. He nodded at David, and in his low, musical voice, started to speak.
"As I'm sure you're all aware, Umbrella, Inc., has facilities in locations all around the world, factories and plants that employ thousands of people and generate hundreds of millions of dollars each year. Most of them are legitimate pharmaceutical or chemical companies, and have no relevance to this discussion, except that they're quite profitable; the money generated by Umbrella's legal enterprises allows them to finance their lesser-known operations—operations that you and yours have recently had the misfortune to come across.