Disclaimer: I own none of the characters in the work below. If I did. . .nevermind, you don't want to know.
Synopsis: Set six months after the Las Plagas incident, our favorite RE characters crossover with a few (hopefully) familiar TV characters. Rated 'T' for bad language and stupid humor. Borders on AU.
Resident Evil: A Crossover
Chapter One
Leon Kennedy let himself into his apartment with a sigh of relief. He
locked the door, engaged the security system he'd personally installed, and
slumped back against it. His clear blue eyes swept over the large, darkened
interior, more out of habit than anything else. Of course, there was nothing
hiding in the darkened corners, or in the shadows beyond the large windows,
but the importance of being aware of his surroundings was a lesson he had
learned the hard way.
He reached for the light switch and the room was flooded in soft white
light. Wincing at its brightness, he shrugged out of his coat and dropped over
the back of the sofa. He ambled into the kitchen and took a beer out of the
refrigerator. He went into the living room and took a seat before his
computer. He booted it up, twisted the cap off his beer, and settled back to wait.
God, it had been a bitch of a day. No zombies or any other assorted undead creatures, no crazed South American villagers controlled by an aggressive parasite. No, it had been much, much worse.
He had spent the day at the mall.
He laughed quietly, resting his tawny head against the back of the chair. Ashley and four of her closest friends had gone shopping, and he and the other Secret Service agents assigned to protect her had been forced to endure nearly seven hours in D.C.'s largest mall. A day spent listening to the giggling of teenage girls as they spent their fathers' money with a carelessness that would always shock him. Ashley was a good kid. She had a lot of guts and always took his concern over her safety seriously. For all of that, she was still a seventeen-year-old girl with a fondness for ugly clothes and really bad music.
Leon took a drink of his beer as he signed into his personal email page. He shifted uncomfortably as the gun he wore in a shoulder-holster dug into his side, but he left it where it was. He wouldn't take it off until he went to bed, and then he slept with it under his pillow. The need to have a weapon close to him was one he'd developed more than six years ago, and he didn't think that anything could break it. He didn't even know if he wanted to break it. When left with a choice, he chose life.
He opened an email labeled, "Urgent," groaning as he did so, expecting another boring presidential assignment. The groan was cut off abruptly, his blue eyes widening, as disbelief filled him. Shock numbed his senses for a long moment before being buried under a avalanche of stronger emotions, fear being the most predominant.
"Shit!"
Leon slumped back in the chair, his clear blue gaze locked on the screen before him. Someone had somehow managed to hack past the White House's security system and leave a cryptic email on his computer. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but the proof was there, jumping out at him from the plain white screen.
New York. Vorshlag Industries. Las Plagas. Umbrella. Albert Wesker. Steve Burnside.
A screen name accompanied it: Bdragon1. Leon didn't know who this person was, but that wasn't important. What mattered was the implication that Umbrella Inc. was still running their B.O.W experiments, this time using the Las Plagas sample that Ada Wong had stolen from him six months ago.
Frowning, he saved the email and used his government clearance to look up Vorshlag Industries. Owned by billionaire Kenneth Irons, former gunrunner turned businessman. A pillar of the community now, Irons donated millions to various charities every year. Rumors of illegal dealings persisted, and he was affiliated with several biotech firms, all of which specialized in genetic research.
Personal security: Ian Christian Nottingham. Thirty-six years of age, former Army Ranger. He was highly skilled and very intelligent; his I.Q. was 198. Only surviving member of a privately-funded military organization called the Black Dragons, from '95—'97. More rumors, this time of psychotropic drug therapies and even genetic engineering. Suspected to be behind the deaths of his brothers in arms. Lethal and extremely dangerous, and completely loyal to Kenneth Irons, who had in fact raised him.
Leon grunted. Well, at least he knew who Bdragon1 was, now. Looked as though Ian Nottingham might not be as loyal as reported. He had no idea who Steve Burnside was, and he really didn't care. What bothered Leon was the possible involvement of Albert Wesker. While he had never personally met the man, he had heard a lot about him from the other Raccoon City survivors. Especially, from Claire Redfield's older brother, Chris.
He winced at the thought. He hadn't seen Claire since she had left for Paris so long ago. They had grown close for a time after the incident in Raccoon City, until she had gotten confirmation from Barry Burton of her brother's whereabouts. Chris Redfield had been in Europe with Barry and Jill Valentine, two fellow S.T.A.R.S. members.
He'd come home to find her packing her bags, on her way to the Umbrella headquarters in France, where Chris was rumored to be. He'd begged her not to go; God knew, they had both still woke screaming in the night, unable to forget the horror they had barely survived. Her willingness to throw herself back into the nightmare they nearly hadn't escaped had terrified him. They had argued, and she'd walked out on him. She'd promised to return, alive and unharmed, but he hadn't believed her.
After Claire's desertion, he had taken refuge in his anger and moved he and Sherry to California, as far away from the east coast as he could possibly get while still staying in the country. He'd worked for the local police for about four months when he received his first visit from the U.S. Government. His heroics--their word, not his--had brought him to their attention. They'd wanted his help for a newly-formed anti-Umbrella task force. He'd declined, and they'd threatened to take Sherry if he didn't cooperate.
Leon had found himself moving yet again. Sherry had been thirteen and in the middle of eighth grade. It hadn't been an easy on her, but she hadn't complained. No, her nightmares had just gotten worse, until he'd been forced to find her a psychiatrist--government-issued, of course.
He'd gone undercover in the F.B.I., of all places. He'd found the suspected information leak, and Umbrella had lost one more small cog in their international machine. He'd even kept in touch with Chris for a while, via email, in his quest to use his new-found connections to help his former comrades.
When he'd opened his personal email to find a message from Claire Redfield, he'd been stunned. And excited, Leon remembered with a bitter smile. His hands had actually shook as he'd clicked on her name, but it had only lasted until he'd read the damned thing. She'd been captured in Paris by Umbrella forces and taken to a prison complex on Rockfort Island.
He hadn't been able to leave his federal jailers to help her, but he had done the next best thing. He had emailed Chris and sent her beloved brother there to rescue her, all the while praying that he wasn't too late.
Leon didn't know what had happened after that. To this day, he had heard no more from the Redfields. He kept tabs on them through the connections he'd made in the spook world, but that was only superficial stuff. Neither Claire or her brother had ever bothered to call and see how he was doing. He sent them information when he could, though he usually kept his identity a secret. They had turned their backs on him, and as much as it hurt, he found that he couldn't do the same. After seven long years, Claire still meant to much to him to let go.
In the meantime, he had been trained in the shadow world of Black Ops by his government. His unit was under the direction of the President himself, and he had been partnered with former Navy Seal Jack Krauser. Until Jack had been declared dead after his transport helicopter crashed in 2002. After that, he had refused another partner, and his jailers had been only too happy to comply with their pet's demands. Only the best for the man they'd put so much effort in securing, he thought sourly.
Once Umbrella Inc. had been dismantled by the government, his role had changed. He lived not far from the White House now, his main job to guard Ashley Graham, the President's beloved teenage daughter. And it was a killer.
Ashley had been kidnapped by the Los Illuminados, a religious cult in South America, and his first assignment had been to retrieve her. They had both nearly died when Saddler, the head of the cult, had injected them with the Las Plagas parasite. Had they not found the cure before they escaped, they would have been turned into mindless slaves of the Los Illuminados. They would have been fully aware of what was happening to them, but unable to stop it. It would've been worst than being turned into a zombie, and as good as being dead.
Leon sighed heavily. He had received an accommodation from President Graham for the rescue, and his life had been blessedly uneventful ever since.
Sherry had graduated from high school last summer, and gone off to college just last month. He'd had a lot of time on his hands, and he had to admit that he was bored. He had nearly picked up the phone a dozen times, tempted to call Claire, just to see how she was doing, to hear her musical voice after so long. She hadn't been willing to talk to him seven years ago, and he doubted that that had changed. Now that he had a legitimate excuse to call, he was ashamed to discover that he was scared to.
Sherry had kept in touch with her, and she'd told Leon how angry Claire had been. As far as he knew, Claire still hadn't forgiven him for leaving during her absence. Leon couldn't blame her, it had been a shitty thing to do, but he hadn't had a choice. He couldn't go with her; someone had to care for the twelve-year-old girl they'd rescued from that hell. He had honestly believed that Claire would be killed by Umbrella, and he hadn't been able to deal with it. So, he'd moved, and tried to leave her behind.
Not that it had worked, Leon thought with a bitter laugh. Everywhere he went, he found himself looking for her. He'd actually followed a woman through a mall once because she'd worn her rich red-brown hair in a ponytail. The lady had nearly called the cops, until he'd convinced her that he really had thought she was someone else.
Oh, God. Leon laughed softly at the memory. That woman had been pissed. He'd still been a cop in California then, and it'd been his badge that had convinced her not to call the police and report him. He was still surprised at the disappointment he'd felt when he realized it wasn't Claire. He had thrown himself into his work after that, cracked a few high-profile cases from behind the scenes, and joined the Secret Service. He had no social life to speak of, and he didn't want one. He'd learned his lesson with Claire Redfield.
Leon shook his head and wrote a quick email to Claire, not giving himself time to think about it. He left his email address and his cell phone number, and attached the mysterious message from Bdragon1. If he knew Claire Redfield, she would show it to her brother first, who would show it to Valentine, and then to the rest of the S.T.A.R.S. team. It would remain to be seen if they would try to leave him out of the loop, or if they would accept them into their little group.
Not that it mattered, he reminded himself firmly. This wasn't something he could ignore. With or without S.T.A.R.S., he was going to New York.
He went back online, wanting to know all there was to know about Vorshlag Industries, and Kenneth Irons, before he left for New York.
Claire Redfield switched on her computer, easing into the chair with a sigh. She'd had a bitch of a day, and her feet were killing her. She was going to go over tomorrow's training simulation, throw dinner in the microwave, and go to sleep. She heard the annoyingly familiar voice inform her that she had mail and groaned. Probably another invitation from Rebecca to go hiking or fishing. She hated to fish, and she'd rather mountain-climb than hike.
But Rebecca Chambers wasn't the adventurous type. She was like a calm pool of water, and she constantly made Claire want to throw a few rocks in just to see the ripples. Rebecca was just so damned nice. It really made it hard to tease her the way she wanted to.
Claire saw her email address and smiled. Yep, a message from Becca. Maybe she could talk the younger woman into going bunji-jumping, or something equally exciting. Definitely no fishing! She was about to click on it when a familiar name caught her eye.
Leon Kennedy.
She stared at the screen in shock, her mind refusing to accept what was right in front of her face. She hadn't heard from Leon since he'd walked out on her almost seven years ago. The bastard had broken her heart, and taken Sherry away from her. What the hell gave him the right to contact her, now?
Oh God, had something happened to Sherry!
Claire opened the message, trying to control a sudden trembling. All she saw was his name, a phone number, and a request to look at an attachment. Resentment instantly flooded her, and she fought it. Leon didn't give a shit about her. He never had. He wouldn't contact her unless it was important, and the most important thing in his life was Sherry Birkin.
She clicked on the attachment and froze. Eleven simple words, each more devastating than the last. New York. Vorshlag Industries. Las Plagas. Umbrella. Albert Wesker. Steve Burnside.
Umbrella and Albert Wesker, she thought, fear rising up to choke her. She still had nightmares from the beating he'd given her in Antarctica. Chris had saved her, but she'd never forgotten how helpless she'd felt as he'd batted her around like an annoying fly. He'd nearly killed her, and he'd done it with almost no effort. If Chris hadn't distracted him, and Claire Redfield would be dead today.
Claire shuddered and covered her face with her hands. Damn it, she had worked so hard to rebuild her life after Umbrella Inc. had devastated it. The nightmares had never stopped, and Leon's desertion had only compounded them. To this day, she still woke up crying, his name on her lips and that damned ache in her heart. The images of the T-virus mutations that still haunted her dreams hadn't done nearly as much damage to her peace of mind as memories of Leon Kennedy had.
And Steve, she thought incredulously. She pictured the cinnamon-haired young man she had met on Rockfort Island, his brash smile lighting his green eyes, his voice taunting her as he offered to trade the golden Lugers for something fully automatic.
Claire smiled to herself at the memory. Steve had been seventeen to her nineteen, but that hadn't made a difference. He had been brave for all of his inexperience, saving her life more than once. She remembered his vulnerability after he had been forced to kill the zombie that had once been his father. He had shut himself away from her after that, away from the world. Then, he had popped back into her life, infuriating her with his cocky teasing, and stopped Alfred Ashford from taking her life--while the psycho was in drag, of course.
Then, he had been captured by Alexia Ashford. He had been injected with the T-Veronica virus and mutated beyond belief. He had nearly killed her, coming to his senses at the last minute, and turning that battle ax on himself. He had died in her arms, his last words piercing her heart and shattering it.
I love you, Claire.
She shuddered and pushed the memories away. Although she had card for Steve, she had been in love with Leon. He hadn't known that. If he had, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe, he wouldn't have been so hell-bent on protecting her. She didn't know, and she couldn't afford to brood about it now. There was too much to be done.
She forwarded the email to Chris, even though she knew that he and Jill had planned a quiet evening alone. They had even threatened to turn the ringers off on their phones, even though S.T.A.R.S. members were technically on-call at all times. Chris might not even see the email before morning, and Claire realized that she couldn't take the chance that he might not see it. If Umbrella were up to their old tricks, they all needed to be ready.
She printed a copy of the email and shut down the computer. She changed into a pair of jeans and a tshirt, grabbed her leather jacket, and was out the door.
"Dammit!" Chris Redfield groaned as his computer chirped obnoxiously. He lifted his head and gave the machine a dirty look. The last thing he wanted to do was respond to an email that might send he and Jill on another mission. "I am not going to answer that!"
Jill Valentine laughed softly, her head falling onto his shoulder. "Yeah, right, Mr. Responsibility."
He grunted and tightened his arms around her. "This was supposed to be our night," he grumbled with disappointment. "We don't get enough time alone together as it is."
She made an inarticulate sound of agreement, pressing her lips to his throat. "I know you too well, Redfield. You're not going to be able to ignore it."
"Try me," he growled playfully, flipping her beneath him and kissing her senseless.
Jill grinned up at him as he raised his head, loving the way his blue eyes flashed when he was annoyed. God, but Chris Redfield made her happy! "Go on," she urged him, giving him a gentle nudge. "Check it and get it over with. You know it's going to drive you crazy until you do."
"Dammitt, Valentine, I hate it when you're right." He nuzzled her throat for a few moments before withdrawing with a dramatic sigh. "This had better be a future mission, or heads are going to roll."
She just laughed again, clutching the sheet to her as she watched him. Unabashedly naked, he bent over the computer's keyboard and punched a few keys. His big body went still for a long moment before he began swearing profusely. He grabbed the phone and quickly dialed, half-turning to wave her forward.
"What is it?" she asked, alarmed by his reaction. Chris was usually so calm and cool, a rock of stability. Little ruffled his feathers, but when it did, it was usually bad. "Chris?"
"Come on, Claire, answer," Chris muttered, swearing again when her phone continued to ring.
Jill eased past him and read the email. She paled, swallowing hard against a sudden feeling of nausea. Umbrella, she thought with a shudder. She clutched the sheet tighter around her, her good mood gone. Damn it, Umbrella Inc. was dead. They had taken the huge pharmaceutical corporation down themselves. They couldn't possibly have managed to resurrect themselves, could they?
Chris cursed again beside her, running a hand through his spiky brown hair. She couldn't even manage a smile as it stood straight up, making him look as though he'd been electrocuted. She laid a hand on his arm, drawing his deep blue eyes to her own.
"Try her cell," she suggested with a calmness she didn't feel.
He flashed her a grateful smile and dialed again. It was answered on the first ring, and relief surged through him. "Claire, are you all right?" he demanded sharply.
"I'm fine, Chris. You got the message?"
"Yeah, I got it." He exhaled harshly. "Kennedy sent it to you?"
"Yeah." Silence, and then, "Do you think there's anything to it?"
"I don't know, Claire. But I don't think we can ignore it."
"I know. Are you going to contact the others?"
He nodded, then remembered that she couldn't see him. "Yeah, I'll call the rest of Alpha Team in. Where are you?"
"I'm almost to your place. What about Barry?"
Chris hesitated. "He's retired now, Claire. I don't want to drag him back into this."
"Okay. I'll see you in a few minutes. Tell Jill I'm sorry I interrupted your night alone."
"Wait, Claire." Chris hesitated before saying, "About Burnside--"
"No, Chris. Just. . .no."
He sighed as the line clicked off. He closed the phone and turned to Jill, who's light blue eyes were dark with worry. He slipped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head. "Claire's on her way here. We need to get dressed and call the team."
Jill nodded and huddled closer. "Do think it's true?" she asked quietly. "Do you think that Umbrella is working on its experiments in New York?"
"I don't know," he answered heavily, rubbing his cheek against the dark silk of her hair. "I hope not, Jill, but we can't take any chances. We have to check this out."
"Of course, we do." Jill straightened and sent him a weak smile. "Why don't you take a shower while I call the others?"
Chris shook his head immediately, as she'd known he would. "No, I'm the leader of Alpha Team. I'll do it." He sent her a small, worried smile. "You get dressed first, okay?"
"Okay." She brushed her lips over his and retreated into the bathroom.
"Damn." Chris stared after her for a long moment, dread uncoiling deep in his stomach. This was their worst nightmare, what they had worked so hard to prevent. After the nightmare of the mansion, and Rockfort Island, and the hell of Antarctica, he'd thought it was over. They had revealed Umbrella's true nature to the world, and the nightmare they had unleashed upon it. Umbrella Inc. had gone down in flames, forever, they'd believed. Now it looked as though they had merely gone underground, and they had to be stopped.
And Wesker, Chris thought with hatred. Albert Wesker was still alive, had survived the attack of the mutated Alexia Ashford. The son of a bitch had blackmailed Barry, used them all to test Umbrella's B.O.W.s, and nearly beat his sister to death. By all rights, he should be the one suffering from nightmares and the occasional flashback. Instead, he was alive and well somewhere in New York, creating more living nightmares to unleash on an unsuspecting populace.
And let's not forget Steve Burnside, he told himself angrily. He hadn't actually met the boy, but he had found Claire sobbing over his body as though her heart had broken. He'd had to peel her away from him, and she'd had nightmares where she woke screaming his name for more than a year. She'd told him that she felt responsible for death, because the kid had developed a crush on her and been determined to be her hero.
Chris shook his head and grabbed the phone. Claire knew better, but guilt was a powerful thing. He dialed Rebecca's number and pushed thoughts of Claire's savior aside. There was no time to lose if they were going to stop Umbrella.
Rebecca Chambers gazed at the message on her laptop screen with a sense of disbelief. She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten, praying that her eyes were playing tricks on her. She opened them and found her hopes dashed. Six years after the horror she had endured aboard the Umbrella train, the Arkley Mansion, and the Spencer Mansion, it was starting again.
She reread the message, hope creeping in to battle with the fear. Seven years was a long time, but she had never stopped wondering. The message could be a trap, of course, but Rebecca didn't think so.
New York. Vorshlag Industries. Las Plagas. Umbrella. Albert Wesker. Billy Coen.
Maybe it was just her desire to see him again that made her so eager to believe. Billy would be thirty-three now, and he was still a fugitive from military justice. He'd been accused of killing twenty-three civilians during the war in Afghanistan. He'd denied it, of course, but Rebecca had surprised herself by believing him.
He hadn't left her on that train in the Arkham mountains, though it would have been easy to do. He had saved her life, and together they had had battled the biological creatures that Dr. Marcus had unleashed. He had proved to be a good partner, calm under pressure, cool almost to the point of coldness. When they had parted, she'd let him go, even though he was an accused murderer. He'd told her what had happened in that little village in Africa. She knew that he could have lied to her, but she had seen him in the throes of a flashback once, and she just knew that Billy Coen had been telling the truth.
She didn't know what Las Plagas meant, or what the Fortune 500 company Vorshlag Industries had to do with them. But if Umbrella and Albert Wesker were involved, a lot of people were going to die. As a medic, her job was to heal others. Even without the tease of Billy Coen, she wouldn't be able to turn her back on this.
She was writing an email to Chris when her phone rang. She grabbed it and tucked it between her shoulder and her ear. "Hello?"
"Rebecca, it's Chris."
"Hi, Chris." Her blue-gray eyes went to the email as she asked, "What's up?"
"We've got a problem, Becca. Can you come to my place tonight?"
Rebecca paused. "You got one too, didn't you?" she asked softly.
There was a long silence. "Yeah. Wesker's alive," he added, his voice suddenly harsh.
"So, it says." She hesitated, not wanting to mention Billy, who was still a sore spot between she and the rest of Alpha Team. "I'll be right there, Chris. Have you called Carlos?"
"He's next. Claire is already on her way. Watch your back, Becca."
"I will. See you soon."
Rebecca hung up and shut down the computer. She pulled on her weapons vest and armed herself, making sure she had plenty of ammo. All of Umbrella's creatures took at least a clip to kill. She checked her med-kit, grabbed her keys, and flew out the door. There was no time to waste.
Carlos Olivera ignored the ring of the phone, all his attention focused on the woman in his arms. He was off duty, damn it, and he was busy! It rang twice more before his machine picked up. Redfield's voice came over the line, and his words caused Carlos' blood to run cold.
"Carlos, check your email and rendezvous at my place. Umbrella's back."
He cursed and rolled off the blond, ignoring her protest as he went to his computer. He waited impatiently for it to boot up, praying that Redfield was wrong. He clicked on the newest message and cursed fluently in Spanish. It looked like the Special Tactics and Rescue Service was going to New York to battle more undead B.O.W.s.
Oh, joy.
He felt small, feminine hands slide over his shoulders and reached up to thrust them away. "I have to go," he said abruptly, rising from the chair. "Duty calls, and all that."
The blond—who's name escaped him just now—put her hands on her slender hips and pouted. "You're just leaving?"
"Si, senorita." Carlos grinned at her angry look. For some reason, she hated it when he spoke anything but English around her. "Sorry, chica, but I have to work."
"Damn it, Carlos. You can't do this to me, again!"
He headed for the shower, throwing over his shoulder, "Just let yourself out, sweetcakes. I'll call you when I get back."
He shut the door on her angry, "Oh, no, you won't!", grinning all the while. She was a lot of fun in bed, but not so much out of it. Typical woman, he thought with a mock sigh. He jumped in the shower, trying to push back the memories of his time in the U.B.C.S., Raccoon City, and the Nemesis.
It didn't work.
He had once been a member of the Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service, until he had been betrayed by his friend and ally, Nicholai Ginovaef. He and Jill had nearly died because of him, only luck and their willingness to shoot first and ask questions later had saved their lives.
Then, there had been the giant mutation called Nemesis that had followed them all over Raccoon City, chanting, "S.T.A.R.S.," like some sort of idiot-savant, trying to kill them--with a gatling gun. Compliments of an hombre named Wesker.
After battling a giant snake, killing Nicholai, and finally defeating Nemesis, they'd made it out of the city. Just in time to see the nukes hit it, Carlos thought caustically. Jill had gone on to Europe to find her best friend and S.T.A.R.S. comrade, Chris Redfield. Carlos had tagged along for the hell of it. It had been interesting, to say the least.
Once he'd gotten over his crush on Jill, and his disappointment at her choice of Redfield over him, he'd joined the new S.T.A.R.S. Alpha Team, which had started as an anti-Umbrella unit, and never looked back. Once thing was certain—life was never boring around the Raccoon City survivors.
He jumped out of the shower and dressed in his S.T.A.R.S. uniform, making sure his weapons vest was fully stocked, before climbing into his Hummer. Time for action, he thought with a reckless smile, ignoring nightmare visions of zombies and other assorted monsters. Down time was highly overrated, anyway.
Billy Coen glanced around the darkened warehouse where he was currently hiding with careful cobalt eyes. Satisfied that they were alone, he turned to the dark shadow standing motionless a few feet away. "Any word, yet?"
"They have all accessed their email," a soft but deep male voice replied. "Kennedy has contacted the younger Redfield, and she has passed the message along. I took the liberty of emailing Chambers, Burton, and Hunk separately, as a precaution. It shouldn't be long, now."
Billy grunted, tapping his thigh with the pistol in his hand. "I hope not. We're not going be safe here for too much longer."
Ian Nottingham inclined his head once, his dark eyes intense as he too searched the shadows. "We have done all that we can," he said simply. "The rest is up to them."
"If they don't come, we're screwed," Billy reminded him unnecessarily.
Ian remained silent, his mind on the horrors they had both witnessed. "If they do not come, we will go to them," he said finally. "I have no intention of being used that way."
Billy stiffened. "I don't want to end up in front of a firing squad, Nottingham."
"And I do not wish to be implanted with a Las Plagas," Ian stated calmly in return. "We must wait, Billy. All we can do until they arrive is keep ourselves alive and out of Wesker's hands."
"Easier said than done." Billy checked his weapon, making sure it was fully loaded. He wasn't going down without a fight, and they sure as hell wouldn't take him alive either. "We should've killed Irons when we had the chance."
Ian sighed at the man's words. "We would not have survived the attempt, Billy. Irons would have."
"How can you be so sure?" Billy asked impatiently. "He's not a B.O.W."
"No, he's not. But his bond to the Witchblade makes him nearly invulnerable."
"Fucking mystical sword," Billy muttered, angry at himself for getting into this mess in the first place. "Zombies and B.O.W.s and soul-stealing parasites aren't bad enough. Oh, no. We've got to deal with an ancient, shape-shifting weapon too."
Amber eyes gleamed. "They're not zombies," Ian reminded him placidly.
"Close enough for me." Billy paused. "At least, they're not giant leeches this time."
"Something to be thankful for, I'm sure," Ian murmured with a hint of laughter.
One corner of Billy's thin lips quirked up in response. The assassin had a warped sense of humor, once he remembered it was there. "You're a strange one, Nottingham. Damned strange."
Ian merely smiled. "So, I've been told."
"What about your girlfriend?" Billy said in an abrupt change of subject. "When are you going to give her more than cryptic clues as to what your boss is up to?"
The smile disappeared completely. "I do not want Sara involved in this."
His voice had deepened dramatically, his words laced with menace. If he'd cared, Billy might have been scared. "Look, I get that she doesn't seem to like you very much, but we need all the help we can get here. If Pezzini is as powerful as you say—"
"No." Ian stood and approached him silently. "If Irons implants a parasite in Sara Pezzini, he will have an unstoppable supernatural tool. Once he learned how to control the Las Plagas, he would use Sara to kill us, and anyone else that stood in his way. It's a chance we can't afford to take. As much as I want her to investigate Father, I don't want her hurt by him."
"And the fact that you're in love with her has nothing to do with it," Billy drawled sarcastically.
"Of course, it does." Ian lowered his gaze out of habit. "It is as true as it is obvious. I would be lying if I said otherwise. But the Witchblade has a history of deserting its Wielder at her most dire hour, and I refuse to be a part of bringing that about. I have warned her of the danger Irons poses to her. That will have to be enough."
Billy sighed at that. He understood completely. He'd been hesitant about this plan simply because Rebecca Chambers was still a member of S.T.A.R.S., and he hadn't wanted to see her hurt. But they were out of options, and he couldn't spare her any longer. Besides, he wanted to see her. Seven years apart was long enough.
"So, we sit on our thumbs and wait," he uttered with impatience .
"Yes. Unless," Ian added smoothly, "you wish to continue actively hunting these creatures before your comrades arrive."
He snorted. "They're not my comrades, Ian. And no, I'll wait for backup to show before I take on those damn monsters again."
"Then, we wait." Ian echoed his sigh and took a seat on an old crate. "I wish we had a chessboard to pass the time."
"I'd settle for a deck of cards." Billy saw the assassin's surprised look and shook his dark head. "Never played poker, huh?"
"No." Ian tilted his head to one side. "Do you enjoy gambling?"
Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug, the faint light from the windows briefly illuminating the black tribal tattoo that ran down his right arm. "I just like to play, whether money's involved or not."
"Mmmm." Ian fell silent for a long moment. "You were with Force Recon, were you not?"
Billy's dark blue eyes narrowed on his. "Yeah, and you were a Ranger. So what?"
"How many do you think you have killed for your country, Lieutenant Coen?"
He reigned in the angry remark that sprang to his lips, knowing that the other man had a point to make. He always did when asked questions like that. "More than I care to remember," he answered finally. "Why?"
"I was wondering why you found it necessary to hide your presence here from all but Miss Chambers," Ian told him simply. "They are soldiers, are they not? All soldiers kill. Do they truly believe they are different?"
"Yes, they do." Billy took a seat near him, his handsome features impassive. He'd kept an ear out for news of Rebecca Chambers, and that had included gathering information on S.T.A.R.S. "They believe in right or wrong, black and white. They don't even see the gray areas that we live in."
Ian shook his head at that. "Sara is the same," he offered. "Her world hasn't been normal since she acquired the blade, and yet she still refuses to see it as it truly is."
"Rebecca was like that until we survived Arkham together. She didn't have to let me go, Nottingham. She would have been well within her legal rights had she shot me dead. But she didn't," Billy murmured, rubbing the spot in his chest where his dog tags had once lain. "In the end, she did the right thing and let me walk away. She's different from the rest of them."
Ian smiled faintly. "I think that, perhaps, I am not the only one in love."
Billy slanted him a nasty look but let the comment go. "Why don't you crank up the laptop and see if anyone's reached out to touch us, yet," he suggested warningly.
The assassin only smiled again and opened the laptop.