"Leon!" she yelled over the crowd, running over to him. She hugged him before he saw her, a warm, albeit brief, pressing of her body against his back. Flustered, he ran his free hand through his hair to keep his cool. She laughed heartily. "I'm so glad you're here," she said, her happiness obvious with her playful grin. She went to grab one of his bags, but he already had them all on his shoulders.
"Good to see you too, Claire," he said. The buckle from his bag was digging painfully into his back now, but he'd be damned if he let a woman carry his baggage. No matter how tough she was. The international airport was loud, the din of travelers, with all their tearful greetings and farewells, bordering on deafening. Leon had seen riots with less noise. She again reached for one of his bags, but he deftly pulled it away.
"Dammit, at least let me give you a hand," she said, put off by his stubbornness.
"Don't be upset that you're still slower than me," he replied with a wink.
"Oh, it must be that secret agent training of yours," she shot back, fluttering her eyes dreamily as she clasped her hands by her left cheek. "You're so mysterious, Mister Supah Agent Kennedy," she joked in a schoolgirl voice. Leon felt his cheeks burning.
"I was a gentleman before a super secret agent, and that's why you can't help carry my bags," he reluctantly admitted.
"In that case, good sir…very well," she said, bowing deeply with a flourish. Riding the escalator, he couldn't help but examine every little thing he saw, absorbing every inch of the unfamiliar place. And yet, he constantly caught her looking at him, her warm gray eyes shining brightly.
It had been a long time since they had seen each other, well over a year. They had gotten back in touch via email, Claire on the run and looking for her brother, while Leon was suffering through his O.R.E. training. Claire had eventually realized why Leon had acted the way he did on that last day together, and she had forgiven him long ago. He had never apologized, and was glad he didn't have to. Claire was sharp enough to figure out the whole story. Pushing her away had saved her and given her the freedom she needed to find her brother.
And now they were back together for the first time. His hair, once reddish brown, had turned a dark blonde after months under the unforgiving sun. He had lost the last bits of baby fat, and his body was now hard sculpted muscle with an almost pantherish confidence to his stride. Claire, too, walked with a stronger sense of self, and of her own womanhood. She had gained a few pounds, but most men would agree in all the right places. Her build was still tight and athletic, not as slim and wiry as before. Her hair was curlier, unkempt, almost wild as it fell about her face and shoulders. Not the no-nonsense, tomboy ponytail he had remembered. Leon liked it. He caught himself more than once looking at her appreciatively.
"What is it," she asked coyly, her darkly lush features flustering him.
"Ah, I, uh, just had a hankering for fish and chips," he said. "That's all," he added lamely.
She sighed. "I guess they don't give the James Bond 'femme fatale handling' training in the first six months, huh?"
--
"Actually, there is something I've been meaning to ask you," he said, looking intently as his ketchup covered chip before biting into it.
"They call potato chips 'crisps' here," she said, watching him from the corner of her eye. "And elevators are 'lifts'. Flashlights are—"
"No, no, I'm being serious, Claire," he interrupted, an urgency creeping into his voice. "I know it's probably been bothering you too…"
"Alright, then," she said, putting down her food. "What is it?"
"Sherry," he said, saying the name on both their minds. "Have you heard from her at all?"
"You know I haven't," she replied sadly. "It's not even an option with the way I've been moving around, to get a letter. And so I just send her as much as I can, but I can't help asking her the same questions, over and over. It's sort of frustrating, having a one-sided conversation, you know? It's like talking to a brick wall, or a dead phone, or—"
"I know, I know," he said, cutting her off. "No need to illustrate the point for me. I've gotten replies, but here, look at them," he began, reaching into his bag and drawing out a neat stack of papers held tightly by a rubber band. "They're so…generic, so lifeless. I know living with distant relatives isn't an amusement park, but these just don't sound right."
Claire wiped the grease from her fingers with a napkin before taking the letters eagerly. She flipped through them, and after just a cursory glance, agreed with Leon's sentiments.
"I gotta agree with you," she said, holding one up for him to see. "Just from looking at the sentence structure, the vocabulary…it's not right. Kids that age learn, they grow…they don't use the same words over and over. This reminds me of someone writing like they think a child should think, not as they really do think."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying these letters weren't written by Sherry."
--
He thought over her words for a long moment. "You're not serious?"
"Very much so," she replied, thumbing through the bunch. "They might not all be lies, but I suspect someone is filtering out what they want us to hear and rewriting them. Trying to stay 'in character', though by doing so, they inadvertently told us these aren't from Sherry. Or at least, not completely from Sherry. There's someone in the middle here mucking things up."
"Why go through all that trouble?"
"I don't know. Judging from her family's past, I wouldn't put it past them to have more than one nutjob in the Birkin family tree," she said.
"Claire!" he said sternly, struggling to keep a serious face. She looked at him warily, her brow arching, expecting a lecture. He wasn't in the mood to give one, however. "If someone wanted to hold her, why put up the pretense of correspondence? Why not just go into hiding?"
"So we wouldn't worry, we wouldn't ask questions," she replied. "Is there a return address on the letters," she asked, turning the pile over in her hands.
"On the envelopes…back home," he said, burying his forehead in his hands. He couldn't believe he left them across the Atlantic.
"Shit," she cursed. "Wait, I got an idea," she added a moment later, grabbing her jacket. He stuffed the last bit of fried fish into his mouth before tossing a few bills on the table and following her.
--
The computer was state of the art, even if the building wasn't. A large flatscreen monitor showed an extensive array of numbers, data, and streaming video. Leon watched in quiet awe as the young woman's deft fingers danced across the keyboard.
"You must be an awesome pianist," Leon said, amazed.
"I had my day," said the woman, smiling wryly at him. She was a couple years older than him, and unbelievably beautiful. Piercing blue eyes stared out from behind dark, thin-rimmed glasses, contrasting nicely with her creamy white skin. Long brown hair ran down her back and spilled about her high cheekbones, her features angular but still smoothly subtle. She wore a loose dress shirt, the top two buttons undone with the sleeves rolled up over her elbows, and a short gray skirt over lithe, shapely legs. Leon couldn't help but gawk at her.
"It's too bad I never got to see you play," he said sheepishly, leaning deliberately against a wobbly stack of books. Claire watched him in curious amusement as she nonchalantly pushed the bottom part of the stack with her foot, putting Leon off balance and sending him crashing unceremoniously to the floor. He quickly leapt up, dusting himself off and running a hand coolly through his hair in a feeble attempt to salvage his dignity. The two women burst out laughing.
"Everything alright in there, kids," called Claire's brother, Chris. They were in his makeshift London apartment, trying to trace what part of the address they had, mainly a city and state name. The comely woman's name was Jill, and Leon wondered if she and Chris had something going on. He couldn't help but envy Chris when he found out the two of them and another person was living there together. Leon wondered if this third person was as attractive as Jill. And if so, he decided he'd ask if they had room for a fourth. Apparently Claire had only stayed with them a couple days and had her own place.
"Alright, let's get back to work," said Jill, bringing back up the satellite uplink. She continued to comb through aerial photos of the region, looking for something similar to what Sherry's letters described. Claire helped Leon pick up the atlases and maps he had spilled, suppressing her giggles. Of course Leon didn't notice this, his gaze longingly on Jill's supple neck, the curve and nape of her—
"Leon," Chris yelled from the other room. "Come here, I want you to meet someone," he said.
Stacking the last of the reference books on the table, he broke his leering routine long enough to head through the door to the front. Chris was standing beside one of the biggest men Leon had ever seen, a grizzly bear of a man with a comically bad toupee. Leon's hand disappeared in the large man's grasp as he shook it.
"This is Barry Burton," he said. "Barry, this is Leon Kennedy, of Raccoon City."
"The guy your sister saved? Nice to meet you, man," greeted Barry. Leon had expected his voice to be a booming amp, but it was a soft voice, almost gentle. It was only after a few beats that Leon caught on to what he had said.
"Saved? What are you talking about?" He could hear Claire laughing again, standing in the doorway at his back.
"Sorry, babe…creative license. You know how it is," she smirked. Chris joined in the laughter, until he saw Claire take Leon's hand and guide him quietly into one of the bedrooms. Then he scowled.
"He seems like a nice kid," Barry said, seeing the distress on his friend's face. "He reminds me of you when you were that age."
"He's completely clueless!" whispered Chris loudly.
"Like I said, he reminds me of you when you were that age," Barry said, winking. "Maybe that's what she sees in him." Hanging up his jacket and the itchy hairpiece he hated so dearly, he removed the three guns from his person; his trusty Python from his back hip holster, the .38 revolver from his ankle, and the .22 Webley wrist-strapped pistol he had picked up a month earlier. He loved all his guns, but he knew the spring release of that small gun would probably save his life someday. He went to the kitchen and began to clean his guns yet again. Chris had once joked that Barry cleaned those guns more than his body, and Jill had to agree after the time they spent living together that Chris was probably right.
--
The narrow alleyways and cobblestone streets made travel slower than the team had anticipated. The tail had kept on the pair's trail easily enough, but coordinating a squad of 15 men in an unfamiliar area was proving far more difficult than their leader had anticipated.
"Breach team is in place, sir," said his lieutenant briskly. The man had a promising career ahead of him, but he needed more of an aggressive mean streak to succeed in this line of work.
"Good. Have Wachowski and Stephens up on the opposite rooftops to set up a crossfire."
"Wojo? Sir, are you sure you want him as one of the snipers?"
"He's the one closest to the position point and the one most familiar with those rifles." Memories of their former ace sniper still lingered, who they had found with a bullet through the back of his head six months earlier when pursuing a UCBS soldier gone rogue.
"If you say so, sir."
"I know you miss Nicholai," he said, a hint of regret in his words. "But we have more than enough firepower and experience to take out a small group of holed up and washed out police officers."
"Of course, sir."
The months of tailing and chasing had worn thin on him. He had been brought in only two months earlier, two months after their targets had escaped the squad's previous leader and left him in the dust. It was a ragtag bunch, battle worn but unfamiliar with squad tactics and movements. A concentrated, focused assault could end things quickly. Luckily, his latest employer's bank account and clout had bought them certain liberties in the area, and civilian casualties were of little concern. Still, funding was tight enough that the men were forced to use guns most would consider antiques and few soldiers would ever use on the field.
"ETA for the breach team?"
"Three minutes, sir. Sniper squad is reaching their position now as we speak."
"Have them hold fire and keep their scopes off the ledge. I don't want the sun reflecting off them," he ordered, looking around them. "We're exposed enough as it is with these narrow streets."
"Yes, sir." Once again he marveled at his leader's foresight. There was no way they were missing them this time.
--
Writer's note: I've actually been wondering if I should change the title of this story, as Ada will take a backseat for the next couple chapters which revolve around the STARS team. Got a lot of cameos planned, and they'll impact the story down the road. I have this whole piece plotted out, so expect bunches of updates in the near future. The writing has felt a bit awkward of late, especially my sentence structures. Been reading the works of Robert E. Howard lately, and I think his work is simply amazing. He basically created the swords and sorcery genre with Conan, and his prose is simply fantastic and beyond any thing else I've read in recent memory. I highly recommend all of you to check his work out.
