Chapter
Two
The Discovery
Chris Redfield was practically shaking with rage as he helped Barry and Wesker load the Alphas' helicopter. He'd known, deep in his gut, that something would go wrong with Irons' plan, and at the Bravos' expense. If anything had happened to the Bravos, he'd have to beat out the other five Alphas to get at Irons, too, before they waylaid the shit out of the good parts of Irons' hide.
He smiled, calming a little at the thought. The Raccoon S.T.A.R.S. had been hand-picked by Captain Wesker, and every last one of them were people he'd want backing him up. Well, except for maybe Brad...
He sighed, knowing he shouldn't think lowly of a teammate and unable to help it anyway. Brad "Chicken Heart" Vickers was one of the biggest wimps Chris had ever met, and it was somewhat frightening to realize his life might one day depend on Vickers's capability. Sure, the guy was bright, a graduate from one of the best universities in the world. Sure, Chris had never seen a better hacker in action. But Vickers was the kind of person who probably slept with a nightlight on; and at the moment, sitting in the cockpit of the Alphas' helicopter, Brad looked ready to puke.
Chris shook his head, turning his thoughts to the mission. If Vickers threw up, that was his problem. All Chris cared about was the Bravos, and getting them back alive. Joseph had sounded almost frantic when he'd called Chris earlier. Joseph and Wesker had been at the communication system in the police station's S.T.A.R.S. office, listening as Richard Aiken, the team's expert on radio equipment, had relayed the Bravos' progress. Someone had screamed in the background, Joseph had told him, and then there were the words "Oh, shit!" and "Mayday!" before the entire link just went to static. It didn't sound good. Angela Cortez had said the police chief was distinctly "not happy," and had given the Alphas the go-ahead for the rescue attempt.
No, Chris told himself. Not attempt. We're gonna find the Bravos, no matter how many cannibals we gotta kill to do it.
And maybe then we can all bust up Irons anyway.
Chris could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins already, ready to kick ass. It was a feeling he'd grown up with, though in mild doses as an athlete in high school—football, track, pole-vaulting. He'd become accustomed to it long before his mediocre grades and awesome athletics had attracted an Air Force recruiter when he was eighteen, urging him to join up. Chris had adored the Force, actually, but when a friend of his and two other guys hadn't made it from behind enemy lines, Chris had disobeyed orders to go back and save them. Three lives rescued, but his jerk-off of a C.O. (AN: commanding officer) had gotten him court-marshaled for it (partially because he'd punched out the C.O. before he left), and Chris ended up being honorably discharged. Then, a year later, Barry Burton had led him to the S.T.A.R.S. special unit in Pennsylvania, and about a month ago, they'd been selected for the cannibal murders case in Raccoon City. He lived for the Job, for being with S.T.A.R.S.; the only thing that mattered outside of it was Claire, his younger sister, and he didn't want his team in danger any more than he would want it for Claire; he was fiercely loyal to her. When he was only twelve, some kid had pulled her hair, and Chris had punched his lights out. Though Claire had given the kid an elbow in the ribs and a kick to the groin...
Same sentiment, different method...
Chris smiled thinly, running a hand over the cool metal Beretta nine-millimeter in his hand. It was custom-made for the S.T.A.R.S. by a friend of Barry's who owned a gun shop in town, Robert Kendo. Kendo had showed Chris a few of the basics of being a gun-smith, but Chris had never been great at it. Jill could properly formulate gunpowder a lot better, just one of her many talents...
Chris sighed, holstering the handgun. As the S.T.A.R.S. helicopter flew towards the area where they'd last heard the Bravos' signal, only one thing could overpower the time-to-kick-ass excitement in his system—hormones. Like the chemical rush of adrenaline, his chemical rush of being girl-crazy had increased since high school football, too. Jill was a great woman, even though her youth had been... misspent. She was a tough, smart, highly-qualified S.T.A.R.S. operative—
Admit it, Redfield. She's hot, too.
Chris couldn't completely suppress the grin of idiocy that came to his face. It wasn't that he was some obsessive testosterone type; he wasn't ruled by his hormonal urges, he just didn't ignore them, either. And Jill was an incredible person. Maybe once the case was solved...
Case. Oh, yeah.
He chuckled at his idiot mental processes. Those had probably increased a lot since school, too—
"Chris, have you found it yet?" Wesker said, his voice rather stern.
"No, I haven't found it yet," he replied, sighing and raising the high-powered binoculars to his eyes. Quit goofing off, he told himself.
Jill gave him a strange look. Her hair was slightly damp, and he could smell a light scent of strawberry or maybe cherry shampoo. She smiled at him a little, grabbing her own pair of binoculars and scanning the horizon to the right.
"Anything?" she asked.
"Nope."
"Hmm." Suddenly she nearly dropped the binoculars. "Look, Chris!" she exclaimed, pointing far right.
He swallowed. A large plume of oily smoke was wafting towards the darkening sky.
"Shit," he murmured, even as Brad turned the 'copter. It wasn't too much of a crash, if that was what the smoke meant (and probably did). He'd seen quite a few nice helicopters and planes bite the dust in the Air Force; definitely no explosions, and probably nothing life-threatening. He repeated his thoughts aloud to the others. "It looks more like a radiator overheating," he added, though that didn't sound quite right. His skills were more about marksmanship and piloting, not auto mechanics.
"I doubt that's what happened," Joseph replied. Though Joseph didn't have a pilot's license, he was the Alpha's vehicle specialist, and knew the mechanics of everything from go-carts to tanks just as well as Barry knew handguns to bazookas. "You're right, though—don't think the gas tank's blown, nothing major."
"It's not the helicopter crash I'm worried about," Wesker said grimly. "It's whatever's in those woods that's killed every other person to set foot in Raccoon Forest."
"Thank you, Mr. Optimism," Jill muttered.
Chris sighed.
He
un-holstered the Beretta.
Ending notes: I want reviews and e-mails, guys! Please?
