The Lazarus Strain
Summary: A routine mission is complicated for Sherry Birkin when the rogue agent she apprehends is supposed to be a dead marine. Combined with an overprotective mercenary for a partner and yet another government conspiracy after her blood, life isn't going to be easy in the DSO. Sherry/Jake, Billy/Rebecca, full cast.
AN: This fic is adapted from a Billy/Rebecca fic I started a million years ago and later scrapped, so if this first chapter seems familiar I apologize. Heavy focus on Sherry, with Sherry/Jake and Billy/Rebecca as the main pairings. Leon, Ada, Helena, Hunnigan, Chris, The Merchant, and Jill will also be featured with some side pairings thrown in for fun. I aimed for plot with romance as opposed to romance with plot, and I plead artistic license for any military or genetic procedure I will inevitably screw up. Enjoy!
Prologue: An Offer (He Couldn't Refuse)
THE PANAMA CANAL.
PANAMA.
16 JULY 2011.
Sweat made the shirt cling to nearly every surface of his torso, his back releasing slowly from the chair as he stood. It wasn't the first time he had come to Central America and its overly warm climate, but it was the first time he had visited in the middle of July. And as a bead of sweat dropped from his forehead and rolled to the underside of his chin, he was finding that he wasn't in a hurry to repeat the experience. In fact, his mind was beginning to remember his latest outpost in the remotes of Edonia with heart-warming fondness. Never a good sign. Edonia, he believed quite firmly, was where a man went to die, frostbitten and alone and forgotten.
That had almost been the case, actually.
The ferry he was on rocked to a slow stop. The trip had been miserable, as the last ride out was one hosted by a touring company. Which meant the ride was overpopulated with tourists. A blender of foreign languages and camera clicks permeated the air almost as certainly as the smell of his sweat. Three times since boarding he had been asked to take pictures of harangued, overtired couples and their over exuberant children. The fourth family had seen his reaction to the third family and wisely asked the fat man in the corner wearing a loud Hawaiian print shirt to snap a Polaroid instead.
Whoever coined this situation as 'fun' needed their head examined. Or removed.
"Welcome to the Panama Canal, the man-made natural wonder-!" He snorted. Man-made and natural did not belong in the same category. He tuned out the sound system as the welcome was repeated in rapid Spanish, then rapid French, and finally rapid what he assumed was Japanese.
Tourists.
Miserably he wiped the back of his hand across the flat of his forehead. Fucking tourists.
Time to get off the damn boat.
The pier was crowded, swarmed with an army of tourists, shippers, and merchants. The port was a hybrid of industry and commercialism- a towering, behemoth of a shipping frigate was docked next to the brightly painted PANAMA ADVENTURES! ferry and neither looked out of place. Children ran around playing tag next to greasy dock workers, soccer moms fussed in their purses next to loud, swearing foremen with clipboards. Hole in the wall bars with shattered windows were nestled cozily next to booths selling sunglasses and freshly squeezed lemonade. It was a clusterfuck.
It was a place to get lost.
His left hand tightened around the handle of his sweat-soaked leather briefcase, and he moved his considerable bulk through the masses. Thankfully, when a man was in service in his particular line of work as long as he was, the crowds tended to part. His expensive, Italian business loafers were almost immediately coated in dirt, mud, and whatever other grime the canal had to offer. They matched the now sweat-ruined Armani suit perfectly. Fucking fantastic.
He walked down the stretch of the docks for a few minutes before his eyes rested on a bar sign. The establishment didn't look like anything special. Corrugated metal for a roof and sides, the edges of which showed hints of rusting. A heavy door, with a small window at the top of it and what looked like the remnants of buckshot near the handle. Another piece of shit dive, or at least a bar that gave the appearance of one. Making a building look like something out of a B Western was one of the fastest ways to convince the tourist families that another place might be more hospitable towards the samplers of the 'local fare'. It was, cheekily enough, called The Dancing Rooster.
He lifted his free hand to his face and nudged a side button on his watch with his chin. The wristwatch illuminated purple, lights dancing before a 3-D display popped up. A miniature version of the building in front of him hovered over his watch's platform. Perfect. For some reason, he thought tracking down this particular mercenary would have been a bigger challenge.
He tugged down again on his tie, already loose, and walked in. The door opened and shut with a heavy, ominous boom. As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he was quickly able to discern that the book didn't match the cover. With plush area carpets, antique sitting chairs, and what looked to be an expensive collection of brandy bottles behind the counter- the dive bar on the inside made the impression of an old Gentleman's Hunting Club, the sort of place where rich men smoked Cuban cigars, hid from their trophy wives, and compared their millions in bellied laughter.
His entrance made several heads turn towards the door, then down again. If the rumors of the place were true, the occupants of the bar knew how to assess a person quickly, and then equally as fast return to their own business.
After all, The Dancing Rooster was the biggest mercenary bar in Central America.
He did feel a little disheartened when he noticed none of the occupants- all dressed less expensively and more suitably for the weather than him- went to check their weapons. Apparently he didn't cut as much of an imposing figure in a pit-stained Armani dress shirt and muddy slacks as he was hoping for. He slid his aviator sunglasses to the top of his head and walked to the bar.
There were three occupants positioned next to the barkeep. One he immediately identified as Not It due to the enormous bald spot conquering the few resisting strands of snow-white comb-over. Too old. His contact was situated somewhere in his thirties. 'He' also eliminated the other customer- a woman solidly into her forties and slamming shots of tequila like a frat boy at his first mixer.
That left occupant number three. He took a second to evaluate the man's back before sitting next to him. He immediately stood apart from the others in that he was wearing a high-collared, long-sleeved shirt—which was a thin fabric but still an unusual choice for the temperature. Not that he, wearer of the destroyed three-piece suit, could cast any stones in that department. His hair was longer than what he expected of an ex-service man, brushing the top of his shoulders. Though he sat comfortably nursing what looked like an Old Fashioned, there was a tenseness along his shoulders and back that portrayed he was ready to go for the gun resting in the holster on his side in a moment's notice.
The wearer of ruined Armani set his briefcase on the counter before sitting next to him.
The bartender, a dark-looking woman covered in tattoos and piercings, rose an eyebrow at him.
"A Manhattan."
A glass of straight rye whiskey was dumped in front of him. Cheap, room-temperature rye whiskey. He tried to restrain the outburst that was threatening to bubble up.
"Sorry," his contact's voice was smooth with a hint of gravel, "The owners aren't favorable to strangers here. Suits even less."
He turned to the speaker, "Enrico Marquez?"
His contact nodded. His eyes were a sharp brown, and he got the impression that Enrico was the sort of man who missed nothing.
He turned to the barkeep to give her a nasty scowl before he snapped open the clasps of his briefcase with startling efficiency. Even though none of the bar's customers turned to look, he knew they were listening in. Briefcases meant missions. Missions meant money. Mercenaries, as a general rule, were fans of money.
"Then let's get down to business before the charming staff offers me a Molotav."
Enrico's expression didn't shift from a bland disinterest, though he knew it to be to the contrary. Otherwise the man wouldn't have shown up for the job...interview. It had taken months of careful enticement, of thorough background research and expensive bribes, but the man in the ruined Armani was confident that he had…Enrico right where he wanted him.
"I understand that you have a background in this sort of…extraction?"
Enrico gave a sharp, curt nod. Semper Fidelis didn't leave a man that easily, Armani noted with humor.
"Here is our information regarding the case, and the outline perimeters of what your mission entails. A more thorough debriefing will occur pending your acceptance of the job and a formal disclosure contract, of course."
Enrico grunted in affirmation, an eyebrow raising when Armani slid him a thin, non-descript manila folder, "Hard-copy?"
"Safer. We've had an unfortunate obstacle with our digital information being…compromised."
Plus, Armani wanted the drama of black and white photographs. After years in the field, one took one's pleasures where one could.
A flash of paranoia- or was it caution at this stage?- appeared in Enrico's stare. "Doesn't inspire a lot of trust."
"Don't get your panties in a twist, the matter has been dealt with to the standards of the DSO. I consider myself an overly-cautious man, and the DSO doesn't run on the reputation of a few straggling fuck-ups."
The tension in his expression didn't falter, "You know my conditions to accepting a job?"
Armani waved a hand flippantly, "No personal information or background checks will be conducted on the acceptance of your position." Mostly because they were conducted before the name 'Enrico Marquez' even blipped on the radar, "We have no use for your history, Marquez. Only your skills." A lie. But a convincing one.
The tension eased slightly from his expression, and Enrico sent Armani a level stare before he turned his attention to the contents of the folder.
The first article was a glossy black and white photograph showing a bird's-eye view of what appeared to be a traditional university- except said university was nestled firmly in snow-capped mountains with only one, narrow road leading downward.
"Research Base Gamma, or as it's been dubbed by its staff, 'Rocky'. Accessible only by helicopter," Armani explained, the unspoken truth of its location clear: Top priority, confidential.
"Stateside?"
Armani fought down the grin he so desperately wanted to show, "Russia. Exact location will be disclosed after a contract is finalized."
Enrico nodded, a finger trailing down the narrow road, "Thought you said it was only accessed by helicopter?"
"A supply line, maintained by heavy guard and only used for emergency situations," Armani prayed to whatever god that could find him as he took a sip of the whiskey. It tasted like cat piss, but he was still breathing so the optimist in him concluded it wasn't poisoned.
"Anything underground?"
"Exact details will be disclosed after an official contract."
Enrico snorted, flipping it over. The next article was what appeared to be a logbook: dates, ID numbers, but no names.
"Our current research staff. As you can see, it's exclusive."
Six ID numbers. One of which was highlighted in acid yellow.
"And this one?"
"Our compromised head of research," Armani muttered.
"Compromised how?"
"A bullet in the back of the head."
The slightest twitch in the corner of Enrico's mouth was the only tell he gave as he flipped to another logbook. The same fare greeted him: dates, ID numbers, but no names. This logbook, however, spread four pages. "And this?"
"Support staff."
"Awful big."
"We value our independence."
Security. Lots and lots of security.
Enrico turned the logbook over. Underneath another file rested, detailing the security protocol, the shift rotations, and research lab hours of operation.
"That's it?" Enrico stated in disbelief at the minimal information.
"I'm not at liberty to disclose anything else until we have a formalized contract."
Enrico shook his head, "No one takes a job with this little intel."
Armani grit his teeth and tossed back the remaining contents of his cat piss, "Then I'll be straight with you. This is a DSO-funded operation, but strictly off the DSO books. Research Gamma is conducting experiments in a sensitive and highly classified area of national defense. Six months ago, someone on the inside murdered our head researcher and stole her data. Our head researcher was brilliant, born for the think tank, but she was also trained by specialist military companies in self-defense, firearms, security systems, and demolitions. So whoever this agent is, they know what they're doing to get the drop on her. Which means they're associated with someone organized. The United States government can't allow that data to go public, or we risk not only international disaster but possibly war."
Enrico shook his head, "So what do you want with me?"
"We need someone off our books to go to Russia, conduct an investigation, and find the son of a bitch." Armani's mouth twisted into a scowl, "Using any means necessary. Again, there's potential for war with thousands if not millions of casualties."
His contact sighed, rolling his shoulders. Armani noticed a peak of black ink stretched across the skin of his neck, almost entirely hidden by the collar of his shirt. Smart, but not smart enough. "What's the life expectancy for someone who takes the job?"
Honesty is the best policy, "Minimum."
Enrico groaned, "And the pay?"
Now Armani let that grin finally show, "Well worth your while, I promise."
"I want at least twenty million. American."
Armani snorted, "You'll be far more interested in my counter-offer, if you accept."
Enrico stared at him with distrust, taking another slow drink of his Old Fashioned. "Do I get tech support?"
"The best," Armani cracked his back, "And option for a protective detail."
Enrico actually laughed at that, a dark chuckle that made the hairs on the back of Armani's neck stand up straight, "Right. Protective detail, not a babysitter."
"That's right. Do you accept?"
A long silence stretched, and it seemed as if the entire bar had gone silent except for the slow, repetitive noise of the fans on the ceiling. "I guess I have nothing better to do."
Armani nodded, again trying not to show the smugness he was desperately feeling, as he pulled out another document from his briefcase and slid it to him, "Our standard disclosure."
Enrico took the contract and read through it. Armani knew it was basic information for a mercenary of Marquez's caliber: Top Secret confidentiality and discretion, maiming or death not the responsibility of the DSO, and of course, the fact that while Marquez would have access to all of the DSO's resources and staff, if he were caught the DSO would deny any affiliation.
He signed.
Armani smiled, knowing what came next would cement whether or not their intel into this mercenary was correct, "Welcome aboard, here's a more thorough profile on our late head researcher."
He slid another, thicker manila file to him. Enrico took it and opened it with the same smooth, detached countenance.
Then everything about him- from his breathing, to his movement, to even his heartbeat, seemed to freeze in an instant as he took in the profile of Rocky's head researcher. Hell yes, Armani thought, We got you now, don't we?
"What the hell is this?" Enrico spat, a cold fury overtaking him as he slammed the manila folder back on the counter.
"Our intel."
"Bullshit!" He turned and glared, a hand going for his gun, "How do you know about her?"
Armani kept his posture relaxed, his hands folded together neatly, "As you've been briefed, that is our late head of research at our facility in Russia."
"You're lying."
"No, I'm not. Read the file, and the one underneath it. We'll make the next point of contact within forty-eight hours. Get your affairs in order." Armani shut his briefcase with the finality of a man shutting a casket. He stood, ignoring the palpable rage that radiated from the man beside him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, leaning down by his ear. "We look forward to working with you against this threat, Mr. Marquez."
With that, Armani withdrew and took a leisurely walk towards The Dancing Rooster's exit. He was in no damn hurry to go back out into the heat.
After Armani left The Dancing Rooster, Enrico grabbed the glass he was drinking from and hurled it against the wall with all his strength. It shattered, and no one looked up from their own affairs as shards of glass crashed down to the floor. He slumped on his stool, turning the file over with a beaten, destroyed expression as two profiles slid from the folder:
Chambers, Rebecca S. PhD(s): Molecular Biology, Organic Chemistry, Genetics. F. Age 29. Head of Research at DSO Research Facility Gamma.
Former Affiliations: S.T.A.R.S., Bravo. Discharged with honor and distinction.
Deceased.
And underneath it:
Coen, William F. Lieutenant, United States Marine Corps. M. Age 26. Dishonorably discharged. Court-martialed. Further information classified.
Deceased.
The bartender wordlessly passed Enrico Marquez another Old Fashioned, which he finished in a long, steady drink.