Стефани Перри: Nemesis

Wouldn't their contacts be surprised when they failed to report in? Wouldn't it be amusing if only one Watchdog survived and was able to name his price for the information that had been gathered? And wasn't it

amazing to think that a man could become a multimillionaire if he was willing to expend thought, a bit of effort, and a few bullets?

Nine people. He was nine people away from being the only Umbrella employee to have the information they wanted. Most, if not all, of the U.B.C.S. would die quickly, and then he'd be free to find the other Watchdogs, to take their data and end their miserable lives.

This time he couldn't help it; Nicholai grinned. The mission that lay ahead promised to be an exciting one, a true test of his many skills ... and when it was over, he was going to be a very wealthy man.

In spite of the cramped seating and the dull roar of the 'copter's engines, Carlos was only faintly aware of his surroundings. He couldn't get his mind off of Trent and the decidedly weird conversation they'd had only a couple of hours ago, and he found that he kept replaying it, trying to decide if any of it was useful.

To begin with, Carlos had trusted the guy about as far as he could toss him. The man had been way too happy; not outwardly so much, but Carlos had gotten the definite impression that Trent was laughing about something just beneath the surface. His dark eyes had fairly danced with humor as he'd told Carlos that he had information for him, stepping back into the alley he'd emerged from as if there had been no question Carlos would follow.

There hadn't been really. Carlos had learned to be very careful in his line of work, but he also knew a few things about reading people—and Trent, though obviously strange, hadn't been particularly threatening.

The alley had been cool and dark and had smelled faintly of urine. "What kind of information?" Carlos had asked.

Trent had acted as though he hadn't heard the question. "In the shopping district downtown, you'll find a diner called Grill 13; it's just up the street from the fountain and right next to the theater, you can't miss it.

If you can manage to get there by"—he'd glanced at his watch—"say, 1900 hours, I'll see what can be done to help you."

Carlos hadn't even known where to start. "Hey, no offense, but what the hell are you talking about?"

Trent had smiled. "Raccoon City. It's where you're going."

Carlos had stared at him, waiting for more, but Trent had seemed to be finished.

God knows how he got my name, but thisbatoain't playing with a full deck,

"Uh, listen, Mr. Trent—"

"Just Trent," he'd cut in, still smiling.

Carlos had started to get irritated. "Whatever. I think you might have the wrong Oliveira ... and while I appreciate your, uh,concern, I've really got to get going."

"Ah, yes, duty calls," Trent had said, his smile fading. "Understand, they won't tell you all you need to know. It will be far, far worse. The hours ahead may be dark ones, Mr. Oliveira, but I have faith in your abilities. Just remember—Grill 13, seven o'clock. Northeast corner of the city proper."

"Yeah, sure," Carlos had said, nodding, backing away into the daylight, wearing a somewhat forced grin of his own. "Good deal. I'll make a note of it."

Trent had smiled again, stepping out after him. "Be very careful who you trust, Mr. Oliveira. And good luck."

Carlos had turned and started to walk quickly away, throwing a glance back at Trent. The man had watched him, hands in his pockets again, his stance casual and relaxed. For a nutbag, he sure didn'tseem crazy ...

...andhe seems a lot less crazy now, eh?

Carlos had still made it to the office a little early, but nobody seemed to have heard anything off the grapevine about what was up. At the short briefing presented by the U.B.C.S. platoon leaders, they'd all been told what few facts there were: a toxic chemical spill had occurred earlier in the week in an isolated community, causing hallucinations that bred violence. The chemicals had dissipated, but regular civilians continued to be harassed by those who'd been affected; there was evidence that the damage could be permanent, and the local police hadn't been able to get things under control. The U.B.C.S. was being sent in to help evacuate the citizens who hadn't been affected, and to use force, if necessary, to protect them from harm. Top secret all the way.

In Raccoon City. Which meant that maybe Trent knew something, after all... and what didthat mean?

If he was right about where we're going, what about the rest of it? What didn't they tell us that we need to biow? And what could possibly be far, far worse than a mob of deranged and violent people?

He didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing.

He'd first picked up a gun at the age of twelve to help defend his family from a band of terrorists, and had

gone pro at seventeen—for four years now, he'd been paid to put his life in danger for one cause or another. But he'd always known what the stakes were, and what he was up against. This was not at all cool, the thought of going in blind. The only consolation was that he was going in with over a hundred experienced soldiers; whatever it was, they'd be able to handle it.

Carlos looked around, thinking that he was with a good group. Not good men, necessarily, but adept fighters, way more important in combat. They evenlooked ready, their eyes hard and watchful, their faces determined—

—except for the B squad leader, who was staring off into space and grinning like a shark. Like a predator. Carlos was suddenly uneasy, looking at the guy, Nicholai something-or-other, cropped white hair, built like a weight lifter. He'd never seen anyone smile quite like that...

The Russian met his gaze, and his grin widened for just a moment, in a way that made Carlos want to sit with his back to a wall, a gun in hand—

—and then the moment was over, and Nicholai nodded absently at him and looked away. Just another soldier acknowledging a comrade, nothing more. He was being paranoid, that meeting with Trent had him on edge, and he was always a little skitchy before a fight...

Grill 13, next to the theater.

He wouldn't forget. Just in case.

THREE

JILL'S PLAN WAS TO SKIRT THE TOWN TO THE southeast, sticking to side streets and cutting through buildings as much as possible; the main streets weren't safe, and many of them had been blocked off in an attempt to corral the zombies, before things got too bad.

If she could make it far enough south, she should be able to cut across farmland to Route 71, one of the feeders to the main highway.

So far, so good. At this rate, I'll make it to 71 before it gets completely dark.

It had taken less than an hour to make it from the suburbs to the apparently empty apartment building where she now stood, shivering a little from the damp chill that pervaded the poorly lit hallway. She'd dressed for ease of movement rather than protection from the elements—a tight shirt, a miniskirt, and boots, as well

as a fanny pack to hold extra magazines. The body-hugging outfit clung to her like a second skin and would allow her to move quickly. She'd also brought a plain white sweatshirt for when she made it out of the city, which she now wore tied around her waist—for the time being, she'd rather suffer the chill and have her arms free.

The Imperial was a slightly run-down apartment building at the southern edge of uptown Raccoon. Jill had discovered from her earlier excursions that once infected, the T-virus zombies went in search of food as soon as they could, abandoning their homes and taking to the streets. Not all of them, of course, but enough so that cutting through buildings was generally safer than being out in the open.

A noise. A soft moan coming from behind one of the apartment doors farther down the hall. Jill froze, gun in hand, straining to hear which side it came from, and realized in the same moment that she could smell gas.