Author's note: I felt you deserved one of these, given my horrible and inexcusable delays in updating. I'm very sorry for how long this story has taken, and I want you all to know how VERY MUCH I appreciate that you've kept reading. This year, especially the past six months, has been very difficult for me, and a lot of my time and energy has been directed elsewhere. That said, I am going to do my very best to finish this up before the summer's end. There are only a few chapters left to go, and this is a nice long one. Enjoy!

Chapter Twenty Nine

Jill closed her eyes in defeat, dropping both Glocks and raising her hands without waiting for an order. What was the point? Wesker had them. He'd won.

Stupid Chris, stupid Chris and his bloody let's-trust-former-Umbrella-mercenary plan! He'd better hope they had lost for good, because if they hadn't, Jill just might kill him!

She opened her eyes, forcing herself to meet Wesker's smug smirk with a defiant stare. "Congratulations," she said dryly. "What next?"

"Next, your companions follow your fine example," he said in that all-too-familiar, grating tone. She glanced over her shoulder to find Barry and Leon reluctantly disarming themselves. Like her, she suspected they hadn't done too thorough a job, but somehow she thought Wesker would anticipate that.

She glanced at Chris, unconscious on the floor (at least she hoped he was only unconscious -- she wanted to claim the task of killing him herself. Maybe Wesker would cut a deal...?)

For all her bravado, her throat had gone very dry, and when she tried to spout a sarcastic comment she found herself unable to speak. Mercifully, Wesker was ignoring her for the time-being, standing over Chris with an air of disappointment. "So this is it?" he murrmured. "I'd credited you with more imagination."

Hunk's gaze followed Wesker's. Seizing the opportunity, Jill slowly lowered her hands. When that didn't provoke a reaction, she worked her left hand toward the concealed pistol in the back of her waistband, keeping her body angled to hide her actions from immediate view. Leon and Barry, of course, had a clear sight, but she hoped they were doing the same thing. If they unleashed enough firepower, maybe they could throw him off-balance, grab Chris, regroup.

One second Wesker was frowning down at Chris. The next he had her back against his chest, one arm around her throat, her left wrist twisted painfully behind her. "None of that," he chided sofly. "Really, Jill."

"You wouldn't think much of me if I hadn't tried," she gasped, relieved to find her voice working. His arm tightened around her neck and she choked, wondering if that relief was a bit premature.

"Drop your weapons, gentlemen, if you want her to live."

Leon's eyes narrowed. "Why?" he demanded. "So you can use her in one of your sick experiments?"

"You're complaining, Mr. Kennedy? If not for my sick experiments, you would never have distracted me long enough for clever Valentine here to activate the self-destruct sequence at our last meeting. In fact, you could say I saved your lives."

Jill managed to laugh even through the pain, the tightness in her throat. Barry met her eyes and she nodded, not knowing what else to do. A clatter followed as her men disarmed themselves, and she knew a moment's pride at the arsenal they'd managed to stash on their persons.

Wesker released her throat but not her wrist. "You too, dear heart."

She resisted the impulse to spit in his face and tell him where he could shove his dear heart. Instead, she began dropping weapon after weapon onto the ground. By the time she'd finished all four men were regarding her with varying degrees of respect -- Barry's and Leon's proud, Hunk's reluctant, Wesker's almost paternal. She tore her eyes from his face, far too aware of the roll he'd played in her life, in Barry's life -- in Chris's. "You're a sick bastard," she said without any particular heat. She knew a lost cause when she saw one -- or, in this case, walked into it.

"Perhaps," he agreed, equally calm. "Mr. Burton, Mr. Kennedy -- if you'll follow Hunk into the facility?"

Barry's knuckles cracked as his hands clenched. "What about Jill?"

"We'll be right behind you," Wesker assured him with a trace of humor. "Really, anyone would think you didn't trust me."

All three of them bit off a comment at that. What was there to say?

"What about him?" Hunk nodded at Chris's inert form.

Wesker considered for a moment. Then, once again in a blur that defied her vision, he released Jill and delivered a sharp kick to the back of Chris's head. She screamed and lunged involuntarily, only to find herself imprisoned again. "I don't think he's going anywhere," Wesker continued as smoothly as though Hunk had just asked his question. "Proceed."

Jill strained against his grasp, striving to reach Chris -- or her pile of weapons -- striving to esacpe.

Of course, it was hopeless.

She had one last glimpse of Chris Redfield before Wesker wrenched her around a corner, leaving her with nothing but her rage, her revenge.

That, and the two small daggers still concealed against the backs of her thighs.

-----

The searing pain in her fingers and toes receding, Claire forced herself to concentrate. She'd seen the whole thing play out on the video monitors, and she was surprised they hadn't heard her screaming when Chris went down.

She didn't think he was dead, not yet. But she didn't know how long he had. Wesker meant to kill him, that was for sure. God only knew what he planned for the others.

She forced her eyes closed, forced herself to breathe and think instead of wasting her energy in futile struggles. The leather bonds held her to the table, but they didn't feel as tight as they had a few weeks before.

Had she lost weight? She smiled at the thought. Not enough to squirm free.

But maybe...

Rolling her head to the side, she fixed on the table of surgical implements just out of reach, even if she'd had a hand free. One of them was a scalpel. She ground her teeth, feeling like a mouse in a maze -- freedom so close and yet so far...

Well, she had to try, didn't she?

Her ankles were chafed and bleeding. Twisting her right foot against the leather restraint, she wiggled it, ignoring the fierce pain as she gouged her own wounds deeper and deeper. A slow, sticky coating of blood oozed around her skin. She squirmed some more, lubricating the leather as much as possible. Then, with a deep breath, she worked the toes of her left foot against the restraint, holding it still.

And she pulled.

It took all her strength not to scream at the agonizing pain. She pulled until she couldn't bear it a moment longer and collapsed on the bed, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

Had she made progress?

The leather looped tightly around her foot, cutting into her flesh -- releasing more blood, making things slippery. She took anothr breath, clenched her teeth, and repeated the entire operation.

It wasn't until the fourth time that the leather bond slid toward her heel. Encouraged, she scraped at it with her bare toes, biting her lip and tasting blood to distract herself from the pain.

And then, all at once, it slipped off.

Claire sagged against the table, panting for air, her triumph overwhelming her pain and her fear. She gave herself a moment to rest but not too long -- God only knew when Wesker would be back. Then, with all the strength she had left, she swung her body to the left and her leg to the right, aiming to catch the tray of surgical tools between her toes.

Instead, she knocked the whole thing to the floor.

It crashed so loudly she cringed, expecting every second for Wesker to come barging in. When no one appeared, she swung her leg over the bed, probing blindly and carefully -- the last thing she needed was to accidentally cut off her own toe -- until she managed to work her foot over what felt like the scalpel handle. Clenching it between her toes, she lifted her leg slowly and gracefully to the bed, executing it like a yoga maneauver -- no collapse, perfect control.

And then she had it.

From there it was the work of moments to get the scalpel into her hand and through her bonds, although she cut herself once or twice in her haste. A heap of bandages and first aid supplies remained on the counter; she quickly set about bandaging her wounds, keeping one eye on the monitors. There was no sign of Wesker, and Chris still remained prone on the floor.

Her jaw clenched. It was her turn to do some rescuing, whether Chris liked it or not.