Grayson had never expected to see Albert Wesker again, yet the man approaching them cut the same imposing figure, maintained that familiar air of a man who knew he was always in control.

"You're difficult men to find," Albert said, his expression incalculable under the dark sunglasses. He wore matte-black tactical gear—the same gear the zombies in Alfred's office had been wearing—and his blond hair, as it had always been for as long as Grayson had known him, was neatly combed back. "I've been tracking you on surveillance cameras," he said, strolling across the lawn. And then he came to a stop, about twenty yards away from them, and said, "Now that I've found you both, all that's left is Alexia. Where is she, Alfred?"

"Dead," Alfred replied, reaching for his gun, for the Walther on his hip.

Before Alfred's fingers could even brush the grip, Albert hurtled across the yard at a speed that could only be described as superhuman and kicked Alfred so hard in the stomach that he doubled-over and vomited on the flagstone. "I'm not going to ask again," Albert said, grabbing a fistful of Alfred's hair and yanking him straight, so their eyes met. Something like beads of dying laser light flickered restlessly under the tinted lenses. "Where is your sister?"

"I already told you," Alfred said, through his teeth. "Dead."

Albert punched him, the motion so quick that Grayson's eyes didn't even register it, bloodying Alfred's nose. "Alexia," Albert said smoothly. "Where?"

Alfred wriggled helplessly in Wesker's hold like a fish caught on a line. Blood gushed from his nostrils, pooling on his upper-lip. "I told—"

Albert made a fist, went to punch him again. Grayson launched himself at Wesker, tackling him to the lawn. Alfred scrambled for his bolt-action, which he'd dropped when Albert had kicked him, and fumbled to load a bullet into the chamber. Grayson straddled Albert and struck him in the face, then swung again, but Albert caught his arm this time, rolled, and kicked him away. He skidded across the wet grass.

A gunshot cracked, and Albert's chest exploded in a cloud of blood. But he kept walking, ignoring Alfred and the wound. "This is getting tiresome," Albert said, and he seized him by the shirt and dragged him across the lawn, then hurled him into a lamppost, the metal giving way and snapping under the impact. Then Albert wrenched him to his feet and bent him over the jagged stump of the lamppost, his throat hovering inches above a sharp protrusion of metal. "Tell me where Alexia is," Albert was saying to Alfred, "or I'm going to drop Harman on this stake." Albert spoke so dispassionately about impaling him that he might as well have been commenting on the weather. Then, to him, "No hard feelings, Harman. This isn't personal, I assure you."

"Sure," Grayson said, and tried to pull his head back. But Albert didn't let him; his fingers were like pneumatic claws. A fat bead of sweat slipped down the aquiline slope of his nose as he imagined himself falling on the spike, choking on metal and blood.

"Don't," Alfred said.

"Then tell me what I want to know," Albert said. "I know Alexia is alive, Alfred. I'd met a prisoner, David Burnside. Previously a systems administrator in Umbrella. He had data that he wanted to give me, in exchange for a way off Rockfort. I reviewed it, then sent him on his way. Nothing of particular interest, you see. Except for one thing. A cryogenics patent credited to Alexia, filed by Umbrella USA shortly before her 'death'. Is she in Antarctica, Alfred? I'd like a confirmation before wasting my time."

Grayson couldn't believe it, and for a moment he almost forgot about Wesker and the jagged metal inches from his throat. Ada hadn't been lying. This wasn't a confirmation, no; it could have simply been just that, a patent filed by Umbrella. But Grayson had never really believed in coincidences, not when things lined up so perfectly.

"How do I know you won't simply kill him after I tell you?" Alfred said.

"You don't. But that's a risk you'll have to take," Albert said.

"She's there," Alfred said, finally. "In Antarctica. Your sources are correct." He stepped closer, hands raised, palms turned out in a show of pacifism. "Now please," he continued, "let him go, Albert."

Grayson felt his heart stop, or perhaps slow to the point it felt as if it had stopped. Alexia, are you really alive? Or is Alfred just telling Wesker this to save me?

An alarm suddenly raised, sirens blaring. Albert pulled him back, away from the spike, and tossed him on his ass. "Seems my men activated the self-destruct sequence," he remarked. Then he looked at Grayson. "There was something else in that data," he said. "Project Darwin. No hard details, but your father's name was attached to it, Grayson. I'll have questions for you later, and for Alexia." He paused, adding, "Assuming you get off Rockfort before it—" and he pantomimed an explosion "–all goes up in smoke."

"How the fuck are you still alive?" Grayson asked. "They said you died in the Mansion Incident."

"I did." And then Albert smiled and was gone, sprinting away and over the wall. The wall was at least twenty feet high.

"Rodrigo, we're back," Claire said, climbing into the seaplane, an angry Steve trailing her heels.

Rodrigo was sitting in the co-pilot's chair, a fresh bandage on his wound, and an open first-aid kit between his boots. Red lights whirled beyond the windshield, and an automated voice dully counted down the minutes to detonation. "Why's the kid look so mad?" he asked. "Shouldn't you be happy, kid?" he asked Steve. "You're getting out of here."

Claire had spent the better part of an hour arguing with Steve about Alfred, and then the alarms had gone off, and they'd hauled ass back to the airport. "He wanted to kill Alfred," she said. "But right now, this island's about to blow the fuck up and take the honor from him." She looked at Rodrigo. "Any idea who tripped the self-destruct sequence?"

"Same guys who want to erase any connection to this place, so Umbrella can't find them," Rodrigo said, wincing and hugging his side. "Shit, even with all this goddamn antiseptic and a clean bandage, it still hurts."

"Probably infected," Steve said, and climbed into the pilot's seat, his thin, dirty fingers flipping switches and levers, and turning knobs. He quickly added, his eyes on the gauges, "The wound, I mean. Not suggestin' you were bit or nothin'."

"We'll get you to the hospital as soon as we land," Claire said, and smiled, patting Rodrigo's knee. "Just need you to hang in there, Rodrigo."

"About to take off," Steve said, flipping a few more switches and levers.

The plane lurched forward with a roar and a shake, and then it was hurtling out of the hangar, on the open sea, and lifting, rising up into the clouds. "We'll land in Lima. Closest city to here, accordin' to the latitude and longitude of our location," Steve said, checking a few of the gauges, his hands on the yoke. Clouds rolled past the windshield like wisps of cotton. "We'll deal with Customs and whatever else we gotta when we get there."

"I've never been to Peru," Claire remarked, sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the cool metal of the hull.

"I got relatives there," Rodrigo said. "In Surquillo. The ones who managed to leave San Amaro before Umbrella turned it into Rockfort."

"Least there's that," Claire said, and closed her eyes with the intention of only resting them. She yawned, said, "It'll be good to see your family," and then slept.

When she woke, gray light filtered through the windshield, the world white and solid beyond the glass. Steve was no longer sitting at the controls, but on the floor opposite her. Rodrigo still sat in the co-pilot's chair, slumped and motionless.

"He died while we were asleep," Steve said, watching her. "The plane switched over to auto-pilot, and I was tired, so I slept. When I woke up about an hour ago, I looked at our position. We're over the Antarctic."

Claire started awake. "What?" she said in disbelief.

"He was still alive when the controls locked," Steve said. "Apparently, he neglected to fuckin' tell us the planes are locked into their flight-routes. So people don't take off with Umbrella secrets in the cargo-bay."

"Why didn't he mention this?"

"Too focused on stayin' alive, maybe?" Steve said. He looked at Rodrigo's corpse, adding, "Not like it did him any good." Standing up, Steve sighed and said, "Rodrigo said there's people at this facility. We can still get help." He jerked his chin toward a row of lockers. "Arctic gear in there, so at least we won't freeze to death. Better get changed."

"They're Umbrella employees," Claire said. "You think they're gonna help us?"

Steve shrugged and strode over to the lockers, opening one with a squeak of old hinges. "We don't really gotta choice now, do we?" he asked, dressing himself in layer after layer of thermal gear.

Claire glanced at Rodrigo and frowned, then walked over to another locker, layering the gear over her clothes. The gear was a bit big on her, but warm. "Guess not," she conceded.