Forty-One
The ice cubes in Rebecca's glass are slowly melting. The red and blue lights overhead are reflected on the slick surface of the table. The music is loud; it's some German industrial band. Rebecca's finding it difficult to discern the tune of the song they're in the middle of. The lead singer is a younger girl. Her hair is blonde, short, and spiked. Her nose and lip are pierced. She's wearing ripped tights underneath a pair of satin knickerbockers, a bright red sweater, and black, shit-kicker boots. She's screaming more than she's singing. Rebecca has no idea what the song is about, but she's pretty sure it isn't a love song.
"Do you actually like this kind of music?" she asks him.
The corner of his mouth turns up.
"When I'm in the proper mood, yes."
"Do you understand what she's saying?"
"Not in the slightest."
Rebecca chuckles and downs what's left in her glass.
"I don't think I can take much more of this."
"I think they're finishing their set," he says.
"What?"
She can't hear him over the dramatic climax of the music.
"I said I think they're finishing their set."
Sure enough, the song clatters and crashes to an end. The lead singer yells something out to everyone watching. Some people in the audience cheer. The band walks off stage. Rebecca looks at him. There's something about his countenance that seems somehow foreign. He turns his head and smiles at her.
"Next time I get to pick the place," she says.
"As you wish."
Rebecca looks down at her watch. It's very late. She's not sure if it's legal for the place to be open at this hour, but she's not familiar with the club scene in Berlin so she doesn't ask. She's still pumped from her mission of that night. She needs to wind down and asked to be taken for a drink. Rebecca's not a big drinker, but occasionally she craves the feeling of something strong burning her throat, warming her up. It's cold out, but the club is warmed by the lighting, the people, the noise. It's also the first time she's been out with him in a while. She asked him if they could go for a nightcap and didn't expect him to say yes. But he did. He's not drinking anything, though. Of course not. He's sitting next to her, calm, and waiting patiently for her to finish.
"Where did you go earlier?" she asks.
"When?"
"I was waiting in the car for a while. You were gone for a good fifteen minutes."
"I had a matter to attend to," he says.
"What kind of matter?"
"I wanted to make sure no one was following you."
"I don't think anyone saw me," she says. She starts to retrace her steps in her head, to come up with instances where she might be discovered. She couldn't think of any. She got into the storage facility easily enough. She left just as swiftly, with the box in tow.
She thinks about that box now. She wants to ask him about it.
"Albert?"
"Yes?"
She holds her hand out. He cocks an eyebrow at her.
"Can I see it again?"
He takes it out of his jacket pocket and hands it to her. She looks at him, tries to discern what he might be feeling at this moment. His face reveals nothing. She takes it from him, holds it between both her hands, and looks at it. This is what he asked her to retrieve for him on her first mission for him.
A photograph.
She knew it wasn't a real mission, of course. It's just practice. Hollum isn't an easy man to defeat. Taking him out will require much more than a night time raid of an old public storage unit. He gave her the mission as a test, to see if she'd be able to handle herself in a more strenuous situation. In a situation where her enemy will be armed to the teeth and ready for blood. But when she realized what she'd gone in to retrieve, she knew it was significantly more important than he'd originally let on. She thinks so, at least. When he got back to the car he congratulated her on her accomplishment, then took the photograph from her and put it in the inside pocket of his long, black leather trench coat. He didn't mention anything about it. She wants to know why.
"How old are you in this picture?" she asks.
"About three or four."
"This is the only baby picture you have?"
"It's the only one in existence, as far as I'm aware."
"You kept it locked up?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I didn't want anyone to get their hands on it." He looks at her, his smile wry. "I've a reputation to maintain."
She smirks.
"You were a cute kid," she says.
"Was I?"
"Yeah. Cuter than me. I looked like a little monkey when I was born."
"Not so now," he says.
He puts his hand on her thigh, caresses her skin. She puts her hand on his, squeezes it a little.
"I'm really surprised you'd show me this," she confesses.
"Why's that?"
"You don't talk about your childhood much."
"I suppose I don't."
"Why not?"
"There's not much to tell."
She looks down into her glass.
"I don't know. I get the impression there is."
"The stories blend together," he says. "It all sounds the same after a while."
"You were abused."
"Yes."
"For, like, almost all your childhood."
He nods. "It changed you," she says.
"Not so much." He looks up as a waiter comes by and asks if they'd like anything else to drink. It's one of the only things he understands in German. He orders another for Rebecca. Nothing for himself.
"You don't think it influenced who you are today?" she asks. She promises herself she won't think about her past with him. She wants to think of him as someone new, someone she hasn't known for very long. It makes things easier.
He shrugs.
"Of course it did. I won't deny it. But eventually choices were made. And I made them myself."
"Maybe you would've made different choices," she says. She looks down at the photograph. "You look like an angel in this picture."
He chuckles.
"Still so hopeful."
"What do you mean?"
He straightens his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose.
"Are you familiar with The Merchant of Venice?"
"The play?"
"Yes."
"We had to read it in school."
He grins.
"It's a favourite of mine. Very raw. It's one of Shakespeare's finest works. Often misunderstood. But its genius has transcended time." He leans back in his chair. The band starts to reassemble onstage. Some of the musicians pick up their instruments and start to tune them. It's not so loud that he can't continue. "There's a line in that play that always stuck with me," he says. "I've never forgotten it. I understand it. Completely." He watches as the wiry lead singer returns and starts barking orders at her crew. "The villainy you teach me, I will execute. And it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction." He nods. "I understand that, most of all."
Rebecca looks at him. She doesn't notice the waiter when he puts her drink on the table.
"What do you mean?"
"Only that abuse plants a seed," he says. "But revenge will make it grow. I chose revenge." He looks at her. "I am what I aspired to be."
She watches as the band take up their instruments again. She wants to leave now, but notices her full drink next to her. She figures she'll have one more, even if it means another aural assault. She reaches for it and takes a swig, and it burns on its way down. Her body warms, her cheeks flush. She can't reason with him. Not tonight. The situation isn't conducive for a fight, or heart-to-heart.
Not that she can ever have his heart.
"What's our next move?" she asks, changing the subject.
"I have to monitor what Hollum's men will go after next," he says. "The penthouse was destroyed. Fortunately most of the files there were useless anyway. Nothing he didn't already know."
"What are they after?"
"Any significant discoveries I've made that they haven't come across yet. Data, reports, samples, that kind of thing."
"Wouldn't he have stuff like that of his own?"
"Hollum is many things," he says. "But I know for a fact he's not a scientist."
"You've hidden all this data, these reports and samples and stuff?"
"Yes."
She wants to ask him where, but she doesn't. It's not likely that he'd tell her.
"Has he gotten hold of them?"
"Yes. Which is why I've got to up the ante."
"All of them?"
"Not all of them. The most important information is still safely out of reach."
Rebecca takes another swig.
"What information's that?" she asks, thinking he won't say.
"You're looking at it," he replies.
The girl onstage launches into another furious song.
Confused, Rebecca looks at him. "We should go," he says. "Finish your drink."
"What do you mean, I'm looking at it?"
He nods towards the stage. The lead singer starts to jump up and down, ranting and raving, her skinny legs shuddering with adrenaline. Rebecca looks at her. Her face goes pale under the red and blue lights.
"Oh my god..." For the first time, she recognizes the look on his face.
Pride.
"She looks like her mother," he says.
Rebecca glances at the photograph.
Not by a longshot.
Forty-Two
Nothing can distract Jill when she's driving. Chris knows this. He's tried to get her attention in a car on many an occasion. He'll start telling the most obnoxious tale, stories that don't make any sense. He'll even switch between English and some mock language that he'll make up on the fly. Jill will respond with a low, "Mm-hmm." Chris will point out that she's not listening, and he'll get the same acknowledgement. Nothing phases her. Tonight, not even the bullets whizzing past the car can send her off course.
"You should've been an Indy racer, you know that?" Chris asks as he holds onto the arm rest in the passenger seat.
"Mm-hmm."
He looks over his shoulder. Four black cars are in hot pursuit. Jill is trying to shake them. Whenever she encounters another driver, one that isn't trying to shoot out her tires, she dodges them with ease. They don't know what's going on, don't know that the cars behind her are trying to run her off the road. They honk angrily at her. Some of them start shouting slurs about women drivers out their windows. One guy screams at her, calling her a bitch. Chris rolls down his window and shouts, "Fuck you, motherfucker!" at him. He turns back to Jill. "Stupid assholes!"
"Mm-hmm."
Her tires squeal as she makes a last second turn. Chris holds on again, then chuckles.
Lately, Chris hasn't been able to keep a straight face when he's sent on a mission. He's been out of commission for so long, resigned to lurking in the background and waiting for others to make their moves, that every little task sends a rush of adrenaline right through him. It's the same thrill he used to get when he first joined the Air Force, the same thrill he got when taking on the worst of the worst in S.T.A.R.S. He hasn't felt it since he got back from Antarctica with Claire. Chris hates feeling useless; he always has to be in the middle of things. It's funny, now that they're on the road and heading anywhere that might lose their attackers. Jill offered to give up the wheel, but he said no. He'd get too excited and they'd run the risk of crashing. And Jill's a better driver anyway.
"Jeez, these guys don't quit!" he shouts.
"Mm-hmm."
The other drivers switch their highbeams on, trying to blind Jill. It's not working. She makes another sharp turn, and they struggle to keep her in their sights. Chris looks at her in admiration.
"You're fucking hot when you drive, you know that?"
"Mm-hmm."
"You need a better car though. This piece of shit's gonna die in a year."
He looks over his shoulder. Another peal of gunshots rings out. One of the bullets hits the rear window, shattering it into a million pieces.
"Keep your head down!" he yells. They duck.
"You wanna play hardball, huh?" Jill mutters, referring to their pursuers. "Play with this."
She slams on her brakes. The cars are too slow to react; they dodge and pass her just enough that she's able to swing the car around and take off in the direction they came in. The fact that their assailants have to turn their vehicles around at the same time gives them a head start. Jill steers onto the main road, then keeps her eyes open for a side street to disappear in.
Chris starts to load the second of two .44 magnums. He's waiting for the perfect opportunity to lean out the window and start firing back. Jill swerves along the road and finally turns onto a stretch of asphalt that leads out to the boonies. As the lights of the city fade away, the starts become brighter and brighter. Chris pauses for a moment to look up at the night sky. He can see clouds in the distance. It's going to rain.
"I had this car when I was seventeen," Chris starts. "It looked awesome, but man was it a total lemon. I put more money into that car than I'd paid for it because I didn't want my mom to give me a lecture. And I used to bribe Claire with Dairy Queen so she'd help me wash it on Saturdays. It was sweet when it was running. When I had a hot date I'd take it to drive-in movies, when they still had those, even though the drive-ins were going out of style by the time I got my license. The drive in's a great place to make out."
"Mm-hmm."
He looks over at Jill and smiles.
"Slow down a bit," he says.
She does, but not much. He rolls down the window and climbs through it until he can sit on the car door. He takes aim and, one by one, starts picking off the cars. Two out of the four swerve off the road and fall behind. The others stick close, but they keep missing him. "These fuckers are lousy shots!" he calls.
He empties the magnums. A bullet whizzes by his ear. He ducks back into the car to reload.
"Don't you wanna hear about my hot dates at the drive-in?"
"Mm-hmm."
Chris chuckles and starts to reload again. He's about to make up a story to tell Jill when he hears another motor roaring behind them. He turns his head, trying to see if one of the cars he thought was taken care of managed to pick up the pursuit again.
"Do you hear that?" he asks.
"Mm-hmm."
"It sounds like a motorbike. Where the hell's it coming from?"
He cranes his neck and looks through the shattered rear window. The darkness behind the cars is ripped apart by a crackle of orange light. Someone else is shooting a rapid-fire weapon behind the black cars. Chris can't see who it is. "Thank Christ someone's on our side. Who the hell is that? He's driving without his lights on, crazy motherfucker!"
Another peal of rapid-fire bullets tears through the night. The cars trailing Jill's spin out of control. A sickening crash disturbs the steady revving of the engines along the twilight road. Whoever's on their side, they took care of their pursuers with ease. Jill slams on the brakes and waits. The vehicle isn't just an average dirt bike. It's a well-tuned and expensive Harley Davidson. Not even the dirt from the chase can hide the luxury. They slow and come to stop a little way ahead of Jill's car. There are two riders on the bike; one driver, and one sharpshooter. The sniper's carrying a TMP. They're both dressed in riot gear.
"Wait here," Chris says to Jill.
Now that she's not driving, she pipes up.
"Fuck you, I'm not staying in the car."
"Fine, but I'm going first."
"Suit yourself."
They get out of the car and approach the two riders.
"Hey!" Chris calls. "You guys Secret Service?"
The driver pulls off the gas mask. Chris stops. It's a woman.
"Did Leon send you guys?" she asks.
Chris nods.
"Who are you?"
The driver gets off the bike and saunters over to them, holding her mask in her hand. When she's in Jill's headlights, they can finally recognize her.
"Ashley Graham?" Jill asks.
"You must be Jill," she says with a small smile. "Nice road work there."
"Thanks."
"What are you doing here?" Chris asks.
"Our job," she replies, indicating the other rider on the bike. Chris looks over at him.
"Hey there."
The sniper raises his hand in greeting. Chris waves. "You gonna take your mask off too, buddy?" he asks.
The sniper shakes his head and says nothing. Neither Chris or Jill want to push him. They've seen how accurate he is with a scopeless gun at high speeds. Ashley blushes.
"Maybe later. We're coming with you guys."
"Where?" Jill asks, suspicious.
"Wherever you guys are right now. You're gonna need escorts."
"You're gonna escort us?" Chris asks, incredulous.
Ashley looks at him.
"Yeah," she says simply.
Jill chuckles.
"Okay," she says. "Follow me."
She turns around and heads back to the car. Ashley returns to the bike and swings her leg over it, replaces the mask, and revs the engine. Chris follows Jill, then gets back into the passenger side. He closes the door and starts to laugh.
"Fucking women drivers, huh? They're the best." He looks in the back seat. "You alright there, Cumberland?"
Cumberland looks up from where he's lying on the back seat of the car. His thinning hair has gone more than a few shades of white. He raises a shaky thumb at Chris.
"Fucking great, thanks," he says. Chris smiles.
"Anything broken?"
Cumberland looks at the large bullet proof box he was given to transport the device. It's still intact.
"I don't think so..."
"Alright. Let's move out, Valentine!" he says joyously.
"Mm-hmm," she replies as she pulls back onto the road.
Forty-Three
He's sitting at a small table in the corner.
Out of sight, out of mind.
He blends in with the background. The walls and floors are painted black. It makes the long, chrome counter top of the bar stand out. Most of the patrons of the bar are talking heads. Almost all of them are wearing various shades of black, so that their pale faces look like they're floating above their skinny bodies. Their avant-garde hairstyles were probably cut with razor blades; bangs and layers come off their heads in all sorts of perfect angles. They're talking, drinking, laughing. He can't understand a word they're saying.
Every half an hour he orders another drink. He doesn't drink, of course. Instead he tips the booze over the side of the table, little by little, so that the floor in the corner of the room gets sticky with alcohol. He tried ordering a double of Southern Comfort, his choice way back when, but he couldn't figure out how to say it. The waitress, a curvy thing with short red hair, decided to pick something out for him. Whatever it is, it's bright blue and smells like air plane fuel. Other people are holding the same drink in their hands and sipping slowly, as if they're nursing a broken heart with each touch of their thin lips on the edge of the glass. He tipped her generously, and her hips wiggled as she walked away.
He thought of Rebecca.
Rebecca is back at the flat. Things have been strained between them. He's used to it now. It reminds him of all the hours she spent in the penthouse, staring out the window, or at the floor, or at the walls. Or at him. Sometimes he can forget about all that's passed between them, choosing to concentrate on the task at hand. He treats it as if he was still in control of things, of Umbrella, even from half way across the world. He remembers what it's like to be in the company of someone who at any moment will have to go back to where she belongs. The problem, however, is that so much has passed between them. When she's not around, he's able to ignore it. Rebecca, though, can't ignore it. And she can't forget.
The one thing he never thought he'd have to deal with, he's in the thick of.
Girl problems.
He tips the rest of his drink into the corner.
It's funny, when he thinks about it. Forty-nine, and this is the first time he's actually had what, at the very least, resembles a relationship. He smiles cynically and puts the empty glass down on the table. There was a time when he vowed never to let anyone come between him and his goals; especially a woman. There was a time when he shunned anything that remotely resembled affection; even something as trivial as shaking the hand of a colleague. Things are always so much easier when he doesn't have to consider anyone else. He's used to being able to do whatever pleases him, whether it be for business or pleasure. Lately he's gone back to doing just that - making his own rules, not answering to anyone. The silent treatment suits him just fine, most of the time. If anything, it makes him more comfortable. It reminds him that he's still in charge.
The waitress brings him another without him having to ask. She winks as she walks away, and he can't help but roll his eyes when her back is turned. He'll never fully understand why some women find him attractive. He's barely said anything to her, and yet she's quite willing to walk out of the club on his arm. It's always the younger ones who seem to harbour that kind of lust. He thinks it may have something to do with what he wears out. Black seems to suggest a certain superiority, no matter what dolt happens to be wearing it. Looking around the room, there's plenty of Euro-trash sporting obsidian suits for her to take her pick. Or maybe she really wants him to buy her a drink when her shift ends. They aren't cheap, and he's on his fifth.
He knows what's going on; the changes that take place in his body whenever Rebecca's around. He's not stupid. There are times when he's able to remain strictly scientific about the whole thing. He knows there's something about Rebecca, physically, that he needs. The chemical reaction of his body to hers is beyond intense. It's a rush of sensations that he didn't feel for a decade, until she became his prisoner, and then his lover. He remembers the first time he fucked her, and the drunken feeling that came over him, the intoxication of her young, supple body stroking every inch of his own. She walks by him, steps within ten feet of him, and his heart starts to beat, his mouth starts to water. He can taste her in the air. He craves her, whenever he's close enough to smell her. She consumes him.
So what does that mean?
It means that, if he subjects himself to the cure, he can't be sure whether he'll feel the same way about her once it's over.
His secret. What keeps him beyond her reach.
The music is so loud the speakers are buzzing and shaking with every energetic pulse. He closes his eyes for a moment and listens to the pounding bass line. No matter how loud the music in any given club is, his hearing remains intact. He's just about to call it a night when he hears someone shouting in recognition. At first he ignores it, figuring the salutations are happening somewhere in the sea of patrons. It isn't until he opens his eyes that he realizes two men are standing in front of his table, and one of them is staring right at him. "Albert?" he asks.
He freezes, unsure of whether or not he should acknowledge. He doesn't recognize any of them. They're in their late forties, but they look older, almost weathered. "Albert Wesker?" the man asks again. His pronunciation is proof he doesn't speak any English.
"Yes?"
The man starts to nod, starts to speak earnestly in German. Albert can't follow what he's saying. "My apologies... I don't..."
"He says he knows you," the other man says. "You can't hear him?"
"I don't speak German."
The friend translates Albert's words. The man nods, and starts to relay his message to his friend instead, hoping the right words will reach Albert's ears.
"He says he knows you from when you were kids," the friend says with a smile. "Even with your glasses, eh? He's got a nice eye, eh?"
Albert shakes his head.
"He's mistaken me for someone else," he says.
"He knows your name."
"Albert!" the man says again. "Albert Wesker!"
Albert lets out an irritated sigh, but they can't hear it above the music.
"What's his name? What's your name?" he asks. The friend translates the question.
"Christoph!" he replies. "Christoph Ruecker!"
Albert's jaw tightens.
It's the first thing Christoph has said to him since that afternoon, all those years ago, in the yard.
The man starts to babble, starts to go on and on. The friend tries to keep up with his translations. "He says he knew it was you because of where you're sitting here in the corner... He wants to know what you do now."
Albert pauses; there are many professions to pick from.
"I'm a scientist," he says finally.
His answer is given to Christoph.
"He says he knew you'd do well for yourself, because you were always so smart."
Albert nods, but doesn't answer. Christoph continues. "He says you're looking very good."
"Tell him thank you," Albert replies, not knowing what else to say.
"You were taken to America?"
"Yes."
"So you don't speak German anymore?"
"No..." He looks up at Christoph, who can't stop staring at him. "I've forgotten..."
Christoph's eyes become keen, start to glaze over, but his smile is still huge. He leans over to his friend and speaks again.
"He says he's glad you had the chance to leave and grow up in the States," he explains. "He says he's always wanted to visit."
"Yes..."
"It was a good opportunity for you."
Albert nods. There's nothing else he can say.
Christoph grabs his friend's arm; his speech picks up, to the point where he's almost talking too fast for his translator to catch his words. As he speaks, his face starts to twist up. "He says he's sorry."
"What?" Albert asks.
"He says he's sorry for what they did to you. He says he's sorry for his part in all of it."
Albert doesn't answer. He looks at Christoph, at the tears that are now leaking out of his eyes. He's always despised seeing a grown man cry, and it's making him uncomfortable. Christoph continues to blubber on, and his friend translates for him. "He says he should have taken the blame, but he was too scared. He says he's ashamed of it still."
Albert nods.
"He says he asks for your forgiveness."
Albert looks at the friend.
"My forgiveness?"
"Yeah, he says he's sorry and he wants your forgiveness."
Albert looks at Christoph and immediately starts to tally up the score, starts to count up the injuries he suffered that day. He remembers spending the night in filthy wet clothes, shivering, unable to warm up no matter what he tried. He remembers his blackened eye and bruised body. He remembers the hours he spent dreaming about vengeance against the boy who walked the fine line of friendship but who left him alone and humiliated. The worst thing he can do now, as this drunken man stands snivelling in front of him, is deny him the peace of mind. But if he looks closely, he can almost see what's happened to this man for the past forty years, and what's still happening to him; as he grew older, not a single trace of that brown haired boy was left behind.
Everything dies.
Albert nods.
It needs no translation.
Christoph holds out his hand. Albert hesitates for a moment before he stands. He returns the gesture, and they shake. Christoph continues to tell Albert he's sorry, over and over again. His friend puts his arm around him and tells him they should go. He looks back at Albert.
"He's drunk, eh? Very drunk. But you made his night."
He leads Christoph away. "Have a good one, eh?" he calls over his shoulder.
Albert raises his hand and watches them go, waits until they've disappeared completely. He opens his wallet and tosses down enough euros to buy the entire bar a couple of rounds. Then he heads for the door.
It's raining.
He prays that Rebecca is still right where he left her.
Forty-Four
Ada finishes the steaming bowl of ramen she's been feasting on for the last little while. The waitress barely got her hands out of the way before Ada drove her chopsticks into the heap of noodles and broth and began slurping them up. She's never liked air plane food, and the flight was thirteen hours. If she didn't have a couple of protein bars in her purse with her she would have starved.
It's raining outside, and the tiny ramen restaurant is filled to the brim with business men and their lovely guests. Ada is the only one sitting by herself, though it suits her just fine. The tables here are small, so small there's barely enough room to eat without knocking someone with your elbow. She doesn't know how people can stand it. Ada's never been good with crowds. Of course, making her uncomfortable is what Wesker does best. He's probably relishing the idea of her packed into this place like a sardine in a can. Still, the soup really hit the spot.
There are thousands of lights on outside, thousands of flashing bulbs advertising products, restaurants, theatres. The streets are teeming with people, even at this hour. The sky is dark grey, on the verge of dusk. It's so cold outside, Ada can feel it deep down in her bones. She shivers at the thought of leaving. When the waitress comes by again, she asks for a bowl of steamed rice. She doesn't want to have to give up her seat. Besides, for a slender girl, she's got a voracious appetite. And she hasn't eaten in a while. Not this good, anyway.
She sees him step through the doorway. He strides towards her, and the waitresses practically jump out of his way. The business men turn their heads to look at him. He's an imposing presence; his height, his blonde hair, his glasses, and his long leather jacket. Ada chuckles. She's never seen him wear it before. It seems appropriate that he'd wear another animal's hide. She wonders why it's taken him this long to drag it out of his wardrobe. He pulls out the adjacent chair and sits down. The waitress puts down Ada's bowl of rice and asks, in English, if he'd like anything. He asks for some tea, but he won't drink it. Ada looks up at him through her lashes. "Nice jacket."
"Do you have the information with you?"
She frowns. He won't give her the satisfaction of flirting back.
"Of course I do."
"Finish your meal. You can give it to me outside."
Ada reaches for the soy sauce and drizzles it over the rice.
There's something different about him, but she can't tell what. He watches her intently as she devours the rice, never taking his eyes off her. When the waitress returns and puts the tea down in front of him, he shoves it towards her, without a word. She reaches out for it, since he's offered it to her. His silence is making her uncomfortable, but she won't let that on. Instead she concentrates on picking up every single grain, to the point where he wouldn't be the least bit surprised if she licked the bowl clean. The second the last grain is gone, he asks for the bill. When it arrives, he puts down the cash. Ada smiles. "What a gentleman, picking up my tab."
"You don't have any money on you."
"You're sure about that?"
"Yes."
She doesn't say anything, because he's right.
They stand, and he allows her to head for the door first. As she walks past, she feels his hand on the small of her back, guiding her out of the restaurant. It's a curiously affectionate gesture, but she prickles at it. A shiver runs right through her. She has to stay out in the open. There's no way he'd try anything with all those pedestrians outside. It's part of the reason why she agreed to come all this way to meet him. If there's one city in the world where you can't get away with anything, it's Tokyo. There are too many witnesses about.
Ada pushes the door open, and they start to walk. The heavy rain has stopped, replaced by a light drizzle and the threat of fog. Singing advertisements beckon to everyone who passes; ads for cameras, mp3 players, mobile phones and other gadgets. Outside a large electronics store, a line up has formed. Something is launching at midnight, and people have been waiting for hours. Ada doesn't understand that type of hysteria. Nothing has ever gotten her that excited. She looks at the patrons in the line. They're mostly teenagers. Ada remembers what she was doing when she was their age. It wasn't lining up for the latest toy, that's for sure. She starts to reminisce when she feels him guide her towards a long black car. He opens the door and unceremoniously nudges her towards it. She's shocked, but doesn't resist. She gets into the back seat, and he follows her. The driver pulls away.
Wesker turns to her.
"Miss Wong."
"Yes?"
She won't hand it over until he asks.
"You know what I want."
"I've got it with me."
"Put it on the seat."
Ada smiles coyly.
"Aren't you forgetting something?"
He leans down and picks up a briefcase, then tosses it at her feet.
"You can count it first, if you'd prefer it that way."
"I was hoping you'd say please."
He doesn't answer. She rolls her eyes, opens her purse and hands him a reconnaissance disk. "It's all there."
"Is that so?"
She looks at him.
"That's so," she replies, with bite.
He nods. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out something shiny and black.
"Tokyo's a wonderful city," he starts, opening the device. Ada's heart starts to race. "The Japanese, they're remarkable. They have this... affinity... with appliances. Contraptions. Things to make life easier for the average person."
The door automatically locks.
Ada's palms start to sweat.
"For example," he continues. "This little indulgence is a portable DVD player." He looks at her. He's grinning. "Ever seen one of these?"
Ada nods.
"Really it's not all that extraordinary," he says. "Though this one is a lot more compact, a lot more portable. It's made by Sony." His grin grows wider. "Gotta love Sony."
"Wesker..."
"I thought I'd show it to you, since you came all this way. And what a perfect opportunity this is to try it out." He opens the drive and places the reconnaissance disk in the cradle, then closes it. It makes a whirring noise as it loads. The screen lights up, then goes black. White words flash in a corner of the screen.
No disk.
Ada lunges for the door, but she's too late. The DVD player comes crashing down on the side of her face. Stunned, she slumps onto the seat and grabs her chin. He's broken her jaw for sure.
"You've always loved making things difficult for yourself."
Ada strikes back at him with her leg. He grabs her ankle and twists it so that she cries out in pain. She goes limp, presses herself against the door. "Where's the disk, Ada?"
She shakes her head.
"You leave Billy Coen alone," she says through clenched teeth, slurring her words. Pain shoots through her face. It feels as if she's being stabbed with a hot poker.
"Where's the disk?" he asks again, calmly. She reaches behind her, tries to get her gun out of its holster beneath her jacket. In a blur, he picks her up and slams her back down on the seat, and all her weapons are gone. "Don't tell me you've gone sentimental on me, Ada. Give me the disk."
"I don't have it."
"You have it. You're not that stupid. As soon as you've had enough, you'll hand it over to me. And I've got a full tank of gas."
He picks her up and slams her down again for good measure. "Give it to me."
"What do you want with Coen?" she asks, groaning.
"There you go again, Ada. Taking me for a fool." He shakes his head. "Give me the disk."
The car comes to a stop. Ada slips her finger under the lock and flips it up, then kicks him square in the face and flings the door open. She scrambles out of the car, forgetting her plan of remaining in public sight, and bolts for the nearest alley way. She can hear her heart and breath pounding in her ears. She dives for a garbage bin and tries to get on top of it to scale a wall, but he catches up to her, leaps onto the garbage bin in a single bound, and drags her back down. He slams her down on the concrete so hard she loses her breath. She stares up at him, her eyes wide, and gasps. He straddles her, leans in so close she can smell him.
She remembers this kind of violence. She can't seem to get away from it.
"Give me the disk, Ada," he murmurs gently, stroking her cheek with a cold, gloved hand. "Or I'll smash your face in."
"Leave Coen alone," she says, her eyes watering.
"Give me the disk, Ada."
"Leave him alone!"
The gloved hand closes around her throat. He starts to squeeze. Her hands go to his. She tries to pry him off, but she can't. His hand is like a vice.
"Do you have any idea what you've nearly cost me?" he asks, his voice quiet, menacing. "Do you have any idea what damage you've done?"
"Leave him alone..."
"You thought all this time you had me under your thumb," he continues, watching her face turn red. "You've no idea what you've gotten yourself into."
"Fuck you!" she snarls.
"You want to play with me, Ada? Hrmmm? Is that what you want?"
Ada tries to scream, but can't. "Alright then," he says. "Let's play."
He raises his fist.
Ada closes her eyes, and pulls the real disk from her jacket. "What's this?" he asks, though he knows full well what it is. He releases her throat and eases off of her, then yanks her up and shoves her head onto his lap. Stunned, in pain, gasping for breath, she can't move. She lays next to him on the concrete ground, limp. He pulls the DVD player out of his jacket pocket again, then presses the button to open it. "What do you know? It still works." He chuckles and puts the disk into the cradle. "Remarkable, this kind of craftsmanship." He presses play, and the disk begins to spin.
The information he needs flashes across the screen.
He strokes her black hair as he watches it.
He looks down at her.
"That's my Ada," he says softly. "A natural-born coward."
He closes the player and puts it back in his pocket, then hoists her up to her feet. He brushes the dirt off of her clothes, then puts his arms around her and holds her close. He starts to walk her backwards towards the brick wall.
"What're you gonna do?" she asks.
"That was the final straw, Ada."
"What're you gonna do?"
"I told you what I'd do if you crossed me again."
She starts to struggle, but it's useless.
"You bastard!"
"Bastard?" He slams her against the wall. His jaw is tight. His fingers reach up and dig into her cheeks. He holds her fast. "Bastard? Do you know what a bastard is?"
The tears spill from Ada's eyes. She glares at him, in rage, in fear, helpless.
"A bastard is an illegitimate child," he says steadily. "A child born in shame."
"That's exactly what you are," she spits. She stops struggling. It won't make any difference now.
He shakes his head.
"No," he says, with a menacing smile. "I'm an orphan. There's a difference. But then, you know that, don't you, Yin?"
Ada's face turns ghostly pale.
He nods. "Yes," he says. "I suspect you do."
He leans into her, so close that his lips graze her cheek. "Give me one reason. One reason to let you live."
She starts to shake. She can hardly speak. Her head is filled with pain, her body is bruised, she can't breathe. It's cold, and she's shivering. The rain is starting to fall harder. Her face is soaked with tears. She's chilled to the bone. She has nothing left.
"Leon..." she whispers.
He nods.
"Of course," he says. "Of course."
He walks her back to the curb, where the car is waiting. He opens the door for her and eases her into the back seat. He orders the driver to take her somewhere, to get her cleaned up and looked after. Then he turns to her again. "I don't believe we'll be seeing each other again," he says. "But thank you so much for all your efforts." He leans in and kisses her. She's too weak to fight. "Pleasure working with you," he says with a smile. Then he closes the car door and watches them drive away.
Forty-Five
The raindrops are dripping down the sides of the windows, and Claire won't take her eyes off the road. There's a heavy spray coming off the tires of the car ahead of them; it's a mix of water and dirt from the road, and Claire's wipers are on full tilt. She keeps her hands on the wheel and doesn't say a word. Her eyes are fixed squarely on the car ahead. Claire's never liked driving in the rain. She got the eccentricity from riding in the passenger seat of her mother's station wagon. Without fail, if it was raining, her mom would complain, state how dangerous it was. The neurosis passed on to Claire, though unwittingly. Now her fingers grip the wheel tightly, and her knuckles turn white, and her hair is down on her shoulders.
Leon is sitting next to her.
He's staring straight ahead as well, trying not to look too closely at the ugly scenery. They're on an industrial street in some town that used to be booming with steel workers. Big Industry has left its ugly, crumbling facades and towering smoke stacks behind. A lot of windows are boarded up, and the only places still conducting business are flea markets and pawn shops, and the occasional donut shop dive. There are no parks, no playgrounds, and the rain has forced a lot of the residents indoors. It's depressing, to say the least. Even still, a small grin keeps sneaking up on him; a grin he feels, given the circumstances, he should keep under wraps.
Claire was the first to wake up this morning. She wiped the sleep from her eyes and stretched her arms over her head, then turned to her left. There he was, lying on his back, in a calm morning doze. She smiled and took in his profile. His lips, slightly parted, kissed her the night before, went down on her, caressed her, whispered to her. His eyes, lightly closed, saw right through her, saw deep into a part of her that she'd kept locked up after so much guilt and shame. His fingers, relaxed, had touched her, felt her, entered her, stroked her. She didn't want to wake him up; he looked perfect. But eventually he opened his eyes and saw her, reached out and lightly dragged a finger over her cheek. "Hey," he said.
She smiled. Her lips are pink.
"Hey."
And he pulled her to him, and made love to her again.
They're going to be late. They were supposed to pick her up an hour ago, at an abandoned airport that mostly served private and charter flights until it fell to ruin. Wesker told them they were landing at one o'clock sharp; it's almost two. Claire's trying to make up for the lost time. She turns a corner and picks up speed. The rain starts to fall harder; the drops bounce off the hood of the car, pound the roof so that the vehicle fills with echoes. The heat in her Mustang hasn't been working lately. She can see her breath. She wants a coffee badly, but they can't stop to get one. They would have been able to, if they'd left earlier, but they had other things on their minds.
Claire can't stop thinking about the night before. She can't get the images out of her head. Leon's hips, bucking forward and back, swirling, his legs anchoring him to the bed, keeping hers apart. Leon's hands, on her breasts, on her face, in her hair, holding her steady, moving her in time with him. She hears his voice in her head, murmuring so softly, so gently, that she almost forgets the vulgarity of his words. "That's it, baby, fuck me... fuck me..." Over and over again. Every time she remembers it, her stomach flips over. Someone like Leon, so heroic, so boyish, even with the deep voice and the years of training and experience; she'd never have thought he could say such crass things. But the more she thinks about it, the more it seems to make sense. Where else can a man like him get away with it, if not in bed?
But the morning was different. The morning was relief, then anxiety. Neither of them knows what to do now. They don't know how things will be when other people are around. No doubt Chris will more than disapprove. Maybe Jill too, though she's the more understanding of the two. Ashley and her body guard are so into each other they don't care about the romantic interludes going on. And it's none of Cumberland's business one way or the other. Still, Claire and Leon are uncertain. And they're too shy to talk to each other. The things uttered in bed, no matter how coarse, always roll off the tongue more easily than those spoken in the morning light.
That's why Claire was so happy that, at dawn, it was more of the same.
"Claire..."
"... god..."
"... that's it, baby..."
A grunt, a gasp. "... you like it, don't you..?"
"... yeah..."
A tickle, a squeal of delight.
"... you're beautiful..."
"... Leon..."
"... and tight..."
"... harder..."
"... and wet..."
"... yes..."
His fingers reached down, pinched her clit while he rode her.
"... right here..." he whispered.
And she opened her eyes. "... right here..."
And she nodded. "... you're so close..."
And she moaned. "... so close..."
"... Leon..."
"... gonna come..?"
"... yeah..."
"... gonna come, baby..?"
"... yeah..."
"... good... fuck me... good..."
When they woke up it was ten to one, and they weren't even close. They aren't stupid; they know what they've done. They're late, and someone's counting on them.
It's not so easy after all.
They pull into the abandoned airport. The asphalt is cracked, bleached grey by the sun. It's crumbled away to such a degree that there are weeds growing out of it in places. The buildings were demolished long ago, save for one broken down tool shed that's slowly caving in under the weight of the rain on its sagging roof. The runways are overgrown with grass and splattered with bird shit. There's broken glass on the ground, but nothing around to explain where it came from.
A lone figure is standing in the centre of what used to be the airport. A small person, holding a single suitcase. Her face is grey, her head bowed, her long jacket soaked through with rain. Her boots are filling with water, but there's nowhere to take shelter, and she doesn't have an umbrella. There's no sight of the plane, or a chaperone, or anyone else to give them instructions, to tell them what's going on. She's been waiting for an hour, in the rain.
Claire stops the car; she and Leon get out quickly, as if running now will do any good. They rush over to her.
Rebecca hears their footsteps and turns around.
"Come here," Leon says, opening his jacket and putting his arm around her to shelter her from the rain. She doesn't move. Claire picks up her bag.
"Get to the car," she tells them, because she can't think of anything else to say. Leon ushers Rebecca along, and they go back to Claire's Mustang. It's finally warmed up, after blowing chilly air for almost a half hour. Leon covers Rebecca until she's sitting in the back seat, then gets into the passenger seat while Claire takes the wheel and makes her way back to the main road, then makes a left and starts to drive back to the shelter.
"I'm so sorry we're late," Claire says.
"Are you okay?" Leon asks Rebecca.
She's looking out the window; her large green eyes are reflecting the rain slicked streets, darkening them. She's leaning her arm on the window's edge. She's biting the knuckle of her index finger. Leon looks at her. "Rebecca?"
She looks at him. "Do you want a coffee or something? Are you hungry?"
She closes her eyes and shakes her head, then opens them again and goes back to staring at the scenery. "You tired?" he asks.
Her eyes are glassy, as maudlin as the weather.
"A little," she says quietly, her words muffled by her knuckle.
"We'll be there soon, don't worry."
"Okay."
It's quiet.
Then, softly, Rebecca starts to cry.
Claire and Leon look at each other. Then they look away.
No matter how good it felt, they should have been here. Sooner.
