I do not own Capcom or any of the characters that they have created, nor do I own the characters and storylines in S.D. Perry's Resident evil novels. This story, however, is mine.
My apologies to all my readers for the sheer length of time it took me to crank out this next chapter, and I gotta say that writer's block totally sucks the root. I want to thank you for hanging with me for this long, and I'm looking forward to reading my reviews...assuming of course, that my author ID hasn't expired in the time it took me to finish this damn thing. In this chapter, we'll see what RE's wily Texan and ex-convict have been up to. R&R by order of your EvilOverlord.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------Chapter 6- Meeting Of The Minds
The footsteps echoed on the polished tile floor of the massive records room, only adding to the tension that had been building throughout Barry's massive frame. He shifted the weight of his travel bag from his right shoulder to his left, and adjusted the butt of the Colt Python tucked into the back of his belt, hidden under his battered leather jacket. He needed to find Bruce and tell the Texan that his life was in more danger than usual as a member of STRATCOM. The list that Ark had given Barry contained Bruce's name, and he needed the man as a travel companion to Colorado for a meeting with Thompson and the two kids that he was guarding. Barry had already searched the offices and conference rooms of the sprawling complex and had left the double-floor record room for last, figuring that it was the least likely place for Bruce to be. Of course, Bruce is the kind of guy that would be exactly where no one would expect him to be...Sure enough, Barry found him at the computer terminal on the upper level, passed out with files open in front of him and one hand still on the computer mouse. The man was snoring lightly, and even the tapping of Barry's shoe against the oak panel baseboard of a nearby bookcase didn't stir him. Barry thought for a few seconds, finally deciding that he didn't have time for games.
"We've got trouble!" the big man bellowed, his deep voice echoing in the room. Bruce McGivern jumped, pulled his Beretta out of his shoulder holster, and had the bore pressed against Barry's forehead before he even had any idea who startled him. Realizing who he was menacing with his sidearm, Bruce sighed with relief and holstered the Beretta before sinking back down into the chair.
"Jesus, Barry, ya gave me a fright. What the hell are you doing back up here? I thought ya got off already." he muttered, running a hand through his unruly blonde hair. Bruce had been in the records room for over four hours now, painstakingly entering all the details of the Duvall case for his superiors. He looked at Barry and was disturbed at how frail and nervous the big man looked. Bruce had known the ex-S.T.A.R.S. officer for quite a while now, and Barry looked worse than Bruce had ever seen him. The two of them, along with Leon, had been working for STRATCOM for almost two years, and their main focus was the downfall of Umbrella. Barry had gone home hours ago, and Bruce was curious as to what he was even doing awake, let alone wandering around San Diego with his travel bag slung over his shoulder. "You going somewhere, partner?" Bruce asked.
"I need your help, Bruce. Leon and Lucia...they've been captured." Barry explained, worry lining his face. "I was contacted by another biohazard survivor by the name of Ark Thompson, one of Leon's old buds. He was hacking Umbrella files and found a list of names. They're people that are to be terminated to withhold knowledge of Umbrella's genetic testing. Lucia, Leon, and I are on that list as biohazard survivors, and unfortunately, you are too." All the color drained out of Bruce's face instantly. "There's more. Umbrella knows we're here in San Diego, and they intend to do something about it. Now I've got Ark and the two kids in his care going to a little cottage that I've had set up in Colorado. It's remote and should be safe. You and I need to get moving before any more of Umbrella's goon squads come hunting." Bruce nodded with a grim smile on his face.
"It was getting boring 'round here, anyway." He rubbed the stubble on his chin as he pulled his jacket on. "So how will we be traveling? You still got that old 'copter?" Barry nodded, a sad smile appearing on his own face.
"Yeah, it's in the motor pool." STRATCOM employed a wide range of different activities, and the small building and courtyard that housed its facilities had its own little vehicle terminal across the compound. After saving Jill and Carlos from Raccoon, Barry had returned to California with them so that STRATCOM could discuss the last days of the infected city. Soon after, Jill and Carlos had headed off to Europe to find Chris, and Barry had stayed with STRATCOM with Leon and Bruce. Not even two months later, Barry and Leon had quite an adventure on the U.S.S. Starlight, culminating with Leon's infection by a strange organism and the rescue of a little redheaded girl named Lucia. Barry had adopted her upon return to San Diego, and Leon underwent the same operation to remove the parasite that Lucia had gone through back on the ship. Life had calmed down a bit since then, until Bruce's adventure on yet another zombie-infested boat called the Spencer Rain. Barry thought about how ironic it was that all three biohazard survivors working for STRATCOM had gone through ships with B.O.W.s on them, and he started to tell his companion about the funny coincidence.
"You know Bruce, I—" Barry open the front door leading from the lobby to the courtyard and was interrupted as an oriental girl with short black hair fell through the doorway, bleeding heavily from a wound on her shoulder and gasping for air. She focused on Bruce and muttered something in Chinese before pitching into Barry's startled arms, passing out from exhaustion. The big man looked up at Bruce, preparing to ask what was going on, but Bruce answered him before the sentence could even get out.
"Fong Ling!" Barry and Bruce stared at each other for a moment, questions filling the empty silence. Then they hauled the unconscious girl back inside the building.
"Hey, watch it!" The tall, brown-haired man screamed as a massive 18-wheeler swerved over into his lane without using his signal. The rig driver leaned out of his window and hurled an obscenity at the motorcyclist, punctuating his statement by flipping him the bird. The biker just shook his head as he continued on down the interstate. After driving nonstop for the last eighteen hours, it'll be nice to lay down somewhere in a nice warm bed. He shut down that chain of thought as he pulled over into a little motel just off of the main highway. Killing the motor on the Softail and dropping the kickstand, Billy Coen swung off the motorcycle and straightened his tousled brown hair. He really needed a haircut and a shave, but being on the run from the law, particularly if you were suspected of mass-murder, had the unfortunate side effect of not being able to settle down for too long in one spot. Granted, thanks to Rebecca, he was widely assumed to be dead, but there's always a cop or two out there that doesn't believe what they're told until they've seen proof. He checked his reflection in the side window of the black pickup next to him, noting absently that the truck had Vermont plates as he walked into the motel's tiny and cluttered office.
"Hi, how can I help you?" the perky little front desk clerk said with a smile. She looked Billy up and down, her grin growing wider at his choice of attire. He had on blue jeans that had a hole in one knee and frayed edges from constant use, along with a white tank top and a black unbuttoned short sleeve shirt on over it. The back of the shirt had a skull with a cigarette loosely clamped in its teeth, and across the top, the words "Die-Hard Badass" in electric blue letters. Along with the five-day old stubble on his face, Billy figured that he looked like a local mechanic that had just gotten off a long shift, but the girl behind the counter didn't seem to mind. "So, will you be needin' a room for tonight?" she grinned what Billy guessed was her seductive smile, and winked at him. Aggravated by her sophomoric flirting, Billy didn't smile back.
"Yeah, just a room and a bed for the night. I've had a long day." He pulled a few crumpled twenties out of his pocket and tossed them on the counter, staring at the small TV in the corner of the office. It was some reality series that he vaguely remembered, and he rolled his eyes at the idea of any half-educated human being sitting down to watch a group of girls fighting over the right to go out with some guy.
"Do you think you'll need anything else?" She asked sweetly, oblivious to Billy's frustration. "Ice? Blankets? Company?" She smiled a wistful smile and traced a pink-polished fingernail up Billy's forearm, following the twisting tattoo that covered most of his lower arm and bicep. He growled and pulled away, glaring at the girl with distaste and annoyance.
"Just gimme a key to a room." He barked, ignoring the surprise and hurt that crossed the girl's face. She frowned and stalked back to the pegboard by the safe and snatched a green tag off the wall.
"Room 5C." she sniffed, and dropped the key on the counter before stalking back to the office. Billy sighed again and grabbed the key and turned away from the reception desk. As he turned around, a commercial flashed across the screen on the TV that caught his eye: REAL TRUTH BEHIND RACCOON TRAGEDY!! NEWS AT 11!! His eyes widened and he quickened his pace out the door and around the side of the building, heading down the row of doors and counting off room numbers as he went. He came up on the open window to 4C and glanced at the gold number on the door as he walked by when a deep voice drifted past the curtains, making Billy pause.
"Goddamn Umbrella! We need to take 'em out, fast and hard!" a lower pitched voice, tinged with a British accent, answered the first speaker.
"I know John, I know. Once we figure out a plan of action, we'll call in the S.T.A.R.S. we can trust and bring them down. But we can't go off all half-cocked or we'll make mistakes." Billy sunk down to one knee under the window, and listened closer, fascinated by the conversation. S.T.A.R.S.? Umbrella? Sounds like someone is mixed up in the same fiasco that I am. Didn't Rebecca work for the S.T.A.R.S.? With that thought, Billy shifted his weight to his other knee, causing the floorboard underneath him to creak. The men inside stopped themselves in mid-sentence, listening for whatever made the noise. Billy scurried away from the window, backing himself up against the door to the men's room. A shadow paused in front of the window, one of the speakers searching for spies perhaps. The figure shrugged and walked away, and Billy exhaled in relief, preparing to continue on to his room until the first guy said something that made all the color drain out of his face.
"What about 'Becca? How do we save her when we don't even know where she is? Did Trent say anyth-" The loud man stopped abruptly and Billy didn't even have time to react before the door he was leaning on was thrown open and he tumbled backwards, right into a chokehold by a pair of heavily muscled arms. Billy gasped and struggled to hit the man in the face, but the big man turned sharply, cutting off all of Billy's air and sending him into the far wall of the hotel room. Billy hit the plaster and sank to the floor, chest heaving. The next sound he heard was a round being chambered into a semiautomatic handgun. It was a sound he was familiar with, but one he'd never really enjoyed. He cracked one eye open and saw that two men were standing over him, each holding Berettas and wearing matching grim faces. The one on the left was a tall slender guy with short black hair and a piercing gaze, while the other one was an immense black guy with dark hair and even darker eyes. Judging by the size of him, he was the one responsible for Billy's current condition. The ex-Marine coughed and sat up, eyeing the weapons with a calm but cautious expression. The tall guy spoke up then, his accent giving him an air of authority.
"Who are you and what are you doing skulking around our room? Did Umbrella send you?" The bodybuilder grinned wider, showing off a row of bright white teeth.
"If he is, he ain't gonna live long enough to regret it." Billy stared at him for a moment, and then slowly stood up, palms out. Both men kept their weapons trained on him and moved towards the door, cutting off his escape route.
"Look guys, I know this seems suspicious, but my name is Billy Coen, and we have a lot more in common than you'd think." The Brit regarded him with a quizzical stare, obviously weighting his options.
"Where have I heard your name before?" he asked, lowering his weapon a little.
"Well, you could've heard my name on the news a few years back, but I'm willing to bet that you've seen it on a pair of dog tags far more recently." A look of complete shock came over both men, and they lowered their weapons at the same time. Billy looked at the Brit and sat down on the end of one of the beds, rubbing his temple. "I'm looking for Rebecca Chambers, and if I'm not mistaken, you are too." The white guy holstered his sidearm and walked over to the ex-convict, never taking his eyes off the man. The big one, John, kept the distrustful look on his face, and sat down on the chair next to the door, not pointing the gun towards him anymore, but not putting it away, either. The one with the accent poured a glass of water from the tap and handed it to Billy, before resuming his position in front of the hotel room door.
"Okay Mr. Coen," He said, crossing his arms, "Start talking."