—and the rage, the pain and red fury that hit John like a hurricane as he realized what had happened, that Karen was dead, that Steve had been turned into one of those crazy asshole's zombie soldiers—
—and John screamed, what did you do to him, not thinking, spinning instead, firing at the blank-faced drone behind them, the round punching neatly through its left temple and the cold air stinking like death as the creature fell—
—and pain! Pain, tearing through him as Steve,
Stevie, his friend and comrade, shot him in the back. John felt blood dribble from his lips, felt himself turning, felt more pain than he thought he could feel. Steve had shot him, the mad doctor had used the virus on him and Steve wasn't Steve anymore and the world was spinning, screaming—
John, John wake up you're having
"—a bad dream. Hey, big guy—"
John sat up, his eyes wide and his heart thumping, feeling disoriented and afraid. The cool hand on his
arm was Rebecca's, the touch gentle and soothing, and he realized that he was awake, that he'd been dreaming and was now awake.
"Shit," he mumbled, and sagged back against his seat, closing his eyes. They were still on the plane, the soft drone of the engine and the hiss of canned air putting to rest the last of his confusion.
"You okay?" Rebecca asked, and John nodded, taking a few deep breaths before he opened his eyes again.
"Did I—did I yell or anything?"
Rebecca smiled at him, watching him closely.
"Nope. Just so happens I was on my way back from the bathroom and saw you twitching like a rabbit. It didn't look like you were having much fun ... hope I didn't interrupt anything good."
The last was almost a question. John forced a grin and avoided the subject entirely, glancing out at the passing darkness instead. "Three tuna sandwiches before bed was a bad idea, I guess. We almost there?"
Rebecca nodded. "We're just starting the descent. Fifteen, twenty minutes, David says."
She was still scrutinizing him, still wearing an expression of warmth and concern, and John realized he was being an idiot. Keeping that shit to oneself was a sure ticket to losing one's mind.
"I was in the lab," he said, and Rebecca nodded, it was all he needed to say. She'd been there.
"I had one just a couple of days ago, right after we decided to leave Exeter," she said softly. "A real nasty one. It was kind of a combination, stuff from the Spencer lab and from the cove."
John nodded, thinking about what a remarkable
young woman she was. She'd faced down a houseful of Umbrella monsters on her first S.T.A.R.S. mission, and had still decided to come with them to check out
the cove when David had asked.
"You kick ass, 'becca. If I were a few years younger, I think it might be love," he said, and was pleased at her blushing, grinning reaction. She was probably smarter than him by half, but she was also a teenage girl—and if he remembered correctly from back in his day, teenage girls weren't adverse to hearing about how cool they were.
"Shut up," she said, her tone of voice telling him that he had, in fact, thoroughly embarrassed her— and that she didn't mind.
A moment of comfortable silence rested between them, the last dregs of the nightmare fading as the cabin pressure fluctuated, the plane on its way down. In a few minutes, they'd be in Utah, of all places. David had already suggested that they get to a hotel and start making plans, that they would go in tomorrow night.
Go in, get the book, and then get the hell out.
Easy . . . except hadn't that pretty much been the plan for the cove?
John decided that once they landed, he wanted to do a little more talking with Trent. He was up for the mission, for getting the book and throwing a few wrenches into Umbrella's works in the process—but he still wasn't happy with Trent's rather selective information. Yeah, the man was helping them—but why so weird about it? And why hadn't he told them what their Europe team was doing, or who was
running White Umbrella, or how he'd known to put his own pilot on their charter?
Because he's on some power trip, that's why. Control freak.
That didn't seem quite right, but John couldn't think of any other reason that their Mr. Trent was being such a secret agent wannabe spy. Maybe if he got his arm twisted a little, he'd be more forthcoming. . . .
"John—I know you don't like him, but do you think he's right about this being a snap job? I mean, what if this Reston won't give it up? Or what if—what if something else happens?"
She was trying to sound professional, her tone light and easy, but the troubled look deep in her mild brown eyes gave her away.
Something else. Something like a viral spill, something like a crazy scientist, something like biomonsters getting loose. Like the something that always happens around Umbrella. . . .
"If I have anything to say about it, the only thing that will go wrong is that Reston will shit himself and the smell will be terrible," he said, and was again rewarded with a grin from the young woman.
"You're a dork," she said, and John shrugged, thinking how easy it was to make the girl smile— and wondering if it was such a good idea to get her hopes up.
A few moments later the small plane touched down easily and for the first time, the pilot used the intercom system. He told them to remain seated until the plane had stopped and then clicked off, not bothering
with the usual crap about how he hoped they'd enjoyed their flight or what the current temperature was; for that, at least, John was grateful. The small craft rolled across the tarmac, finally coming to a gentle stop, the team standing and stretching and putting on their coats.
As soon as he heard the outer door pop, John stepped past Rebecca and walked to the front of the cabin, determined not to let Trent get off before they'd had a chance to chat. He pushed through the curtain, a cold wind blowing into the small passage behind the cockpit, and saw that he was too late. The pilot, Evans, was standing in the doorway to the cockpit by himself.
Somehow, Trent had managed to slip away in the few seconds it took John to walk through the tiny plane. The metal stairs that had been pushed to the outside of the craft were empty—and even though John took the steps two at a time, hitting the ground in less than a heartbeat, there was still nothing to see in the endless stretch of tarmac, and no one at all except for the man who'd brought the stairs out. When asked about Trent, the airport worker insisted that the first person off the plane had been John himself.
"Son of a bitch," John spat, and it didn't matter, because they were in Utah. Trent or no Trent, they had arrived—and because it was after midnight, they had less than a day to get ready.
FIVE
JAY RESTON WAS PLEASED. IN FACT, HE WAS as happy as he'd been in a long time, and if he'd known it would feel so good to be back in the field, he would have done it years ago.
Managing employees, the kind who actually get their hands dirty. Making things happen and seeing the results unfold, being a part of the process. Being more than just a shadow, more than some nameless darkness to be feared....
Thinking these things made him feel strong and vital again; he was barely fifty, he hadn't yet come to see himself as even middle-aged, but working in the trenches again made him realize how much he'd lost over the years.
Reston sat in the control room, the pulse of the Planet, his hands behind his head and his attention fixed on the wall of screens in front of him. On one screen, a man in coveralls was working on a series of
trees in Phase One, adding another coat of green to a row of faux evergreens. The man was Tom Something-or-other, from construction, but the name wasn't important. Whatwasimportant was that Tom was painting the trees because Reston had told him to, face-to-face at the morning briefing.