"Hello, Scott Harman?"
"Yes?"
"You don't sound so good."
Scott coughed. It was a wet, rumbling cough. "Who is this?"
Wesker smiled. "An old friend. Tell me, where do you keep your research?" He looked at the guard, a man named Paul Steiner, bound to the chair. Blood jellied above Steiner's right eye, where Wesker had struck him with his pistol. "I was told you were using the labs here. Keeping tabs on your son's progress, I assume?"
Steiner moaned, blood bubbling in the corners of his mouth, through the cracks between his red teeth, spilling over his chin. Overhead, the ceiling fan turned slowly, making the shadows strobe on the rough plaster walls of the security office.
"Albert Wesker," Scott said, darkly.
"The very same."
"You died."
Wesker caught his reflection in the chrome of a coffee percolator, eyes glowing like hot coals. He took the dark sunglasses from the breast-pocket of his tactical vest and slid them over his eyes. "I did," he said. "But we're not here to discuss my situation, Scott. Where are you keeping your research?"
"What do you want with it?"
"Answers, Dr. Harman."
Scott coughed as though he was trying desperately to dislodge something big and uncomfortable in his chest. Then, "It's not there, Wesker."
"I'm not amused, Scott."
"Good."
"I suppose I'll have to ask Alexia, then. My current employer is quite interested in her. But me? She's unimportant to me, as is her research."
"Alexia is dead," Scott said, and paused for a length of time. Then, slowly, "What do you know, Wesker? Tell me—"
Wesker cut the call. He folded his cellphone, pushed down the antenna, and pocketed it, turning to Steiner. "Suppose you're not getting on that plane after all, Mr. Steiner."
Steiner mewled.
Wesker unceremoniously slit the man's throat with his S.T.A.R.S knife, and the security officer made a wet dying noise, then went limp, motionless, the contents of his esophagus spilling over his shirt. The fan's shadows pinwheeled above Steiner's corpse, the soft thrumming of the wooden blades filling the room.
Wiping the blade clean on Steiner's pants and sheathing it, Wesker left the office.
A row of dead payphones stood opposite the door to the security office, the dividers scrawled over in crude permanent marker hieroglyphs, and scratch-marks. His radio crackled; one of his men came over the line. "Sir? Echo Team's dead. Found them in the power-station, alongside a dead technician."
"Any word from Delta on the whereabouts of Alfred Ashford and Alexia Ashford, or Grayson Harman?"
"They're still searching, sir."
"Contact me when they're found."