The man's eyes flicked to the side. Telegraphed his next movement. He glanced down to the gravel and the dust, where Sullivan's body lay, limp and twisted like a dead bird, her blonde hair fluttering in the wind. His coat caught the bluster, opened to reveal its bright cobalt silk lining, and then lay still and straight once more. He darted to the side, sudden and desperate. His injured leg weighed at him, the movement a graceless jerk that almost sent him to the ground.

Jill slid across the ground, matching his movements. He stooped to grope for his partner's lapels, to jam his hand inside her jacket. Jill kicked him as hard as she could, the flat span between the top of her foot and her shin connecting with the side of his face with a dull, wooden smacking noise. A clear shower of spit flung from his mouth, his head snapped to the side.

Reynolds dove against her, against her midsection, sent them both toppling to the ground. Jill fell onto her back, his weight against her, her knee cocked up between them, against his stomach. The world spun and then was upside-down; she tossed him. He landed on his side. As quick as she was, she was still on the ground, without her knife, and he was back on his feet; he rushed her, kicked her in the shoulder. Unleashed a flurry of blows, partly from rage and partly from the exultant cruelty of revenge. She didn't guard her head. She curled into a ball, as if guarding her solar plexus, allowed the blows to rain down on any other part of her body he aimed at. Reynolds was happy to oblige, and in his satisfaction, didn't question the reasoning.

She twisted, opened her legs, and last his kick landed against the inside of one of her thighs. Her other leg closed around his feet from the other side, tripped him forward. She wrapped herself around him like a snake, their legs a figure-eight tangle with one of his trapped between her thighs, thick with muscle. She cried out, a cry of exertion, bucked her hips and rolled them both on the ground. A deep, wet tearing sensation wrenched his knee; the tendons burst, twisted apart under the lock, a meaty series of popping noises. His leg twisted inwards, the bones of his lower legs no longer connected up past his knees. He screamed, screamed and clutched his knee, the world an explosion of agony and heat, unable to move.

Jill stood, slow and ominous. Her entire body heaved for breath; she leaned down, and collected the knife from where it spun away from her. Reynolds clutched his leg, pale freckled fingers dug into expensive dark gray material, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. Put his temple to the ground. Whimpered in pain.

"I am so fucking sick of Umbrella's shit," Jill said, and kicked him dead in his kidney. The air swooped out of his body. "You think your fancy black coats" another kick, "and your money" another one, "and your parade of useless hitmen scare me, and none of you have learned yet that you," she kicked him again, this time with a hopping wind-up, and he nearly fainted. "Should be scared of ME."

"I'm sorry," he pleaded, not sure where to clutch himself. His side and his lower back felt blistering hot, swollen and stiff. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Jill paused for breath. Wiped her mouth. Over the wind, Auld Lang Syne started to play, bright and electronic from his pocket. His eyes opened. He looked at her, as if expecting a reaction.

"Answer it," she said.

"No," he replied, through a shaking pant. "He'll kill me."

Jill said nothing. She adjusted her grip on the knife in her hand, and walked to him, her body language coiled, full of intent.

"Okay, okay," he said, and held up a hand to her. "Just don't. Okay. Hang…" he swallowed, "hang on."

She stopped.

"Put it on speaker," she said. "So I can hear."

He looked at her, mouth parted and eyes wide. Then he squeezed them shut, breaths still heavy. "If I do," he said, "are you going to let me go?"

"The conversation should be about what I'm going to do if you don't," Jill responded, "one thing at a time."

He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small phone. Navy blue, with a green electronic screen. He punched the "answer call" button with his thumb, then pressed the speaker button, placed the phone on the ground. Tried to catch his breath.

"Reynolds," said a male voice, deep and authoritative. Unhappy, from the sounds of it. "It's been three hours. Is it done?"

Reynolds looked up at her again. Then, Reynolds said, "Yeah. She's 86. Wouldn't take the money. She got Sullivan, though. Plucky little thing."

"Not plucky enough. I told them not to try to buy her. Guess they know now, though." As the voice continued, Jill cocked her head, eyes narrowed. Mental calculus. Trying to place the voice to a face — familiar but not, all at the same time. "Stupid goody two-shoes cunt. She was pregnant, you know. Guess one of the guys on the team knocked her up. Did him a favor, I think." Reynolds' eyes turned, slowly, towards her. Towards her stomach, then back at her face. Something in Jill's expression went blank, eyes wide and distant and unblinking. A clap of thunder in the form of realization, and she looked back at the phone. "And she still got Sullivan?"

"On the team…" she repeated, her voice so quiet the May wind snatched it away, the movement of her lips the only signal she'd said anything at all.

"Yeah," Reynolds said, "still got her."

"All's the more for you," the voice said, "turn in the evidence and—"

"Captain Harris," Jill said. Reynolds winced, squeezed his eyes shut. "Isn't that right?"

Silence. "Who is this?"

"Guess."

The phone call disconnected with a click and then static, a long beep. Jill turned to Reynolds.

"I didn't—" he pleaded, held one hand up as if to encourage her to use caution, mercy, patience. Any virtue he could grope for. It made a twisted sort of sense. Her viciousness in her own defense, the looks of desperation, the way she hadn't even tried to guard her own head. They weren't on her behalf — they were on behalf of someone else.

"I didn't know you were — they didn't tell us." Reynolds breathed. "I promise they didn't."

"Would it have made a difference?" She asked, and there was a violence in her voice; not a violence of emotion, but a violence of resolution. Calm and smooth. No anger. Reynolds didn't respond, puffed a sigh of pain. Then, she moved. Moved to him with an aggression in her demeanor matched only by her coldness. Grabbed him by his wrists and drug him across the ground, leaving a trail of patchy blood scraped against the gravel. Tiny stones and dirt scraped under him, and his injured leg twisted inwards. He screamed. Jill leaned over and tugged at the knot of his tie with nimble fingers, freed it from around his neck in a sharp yank and whizz of fabric against his collar. He tried to fight her, tried to grab her wrists and pull her — maybe he could headbutt her or choke her or do something to knock her out. Maybe he could still get away.

She kicked him. Stomped on his face with the sole of her boot, broke his nose under it. Kicked him again. Then, she tied him by his wrists to the metal support rod of a nearby Caterpillar excavator, tied his wrists so tight his hands wouldn't move of their own accord even when willed.

"So you're going to kill me?" He asked, with a laugh. "Jill fucking Valentine, hero of Raccoon City," the blood from his nose coursed salty and warm into his mouth, and he spit it out all over his shirt, "going to come down from her lofty perch to kill a hit man. How the mighty've fallen."

Jill didn't say anything in response. That same cold stare; that stare that told him he was beneath her. Not worth responding to. She grabbed one of his leather gloves by the tip of his middle finger, pulled it off. Pulled it on to her own hand, then picked up his phone.

She prised the case open with her knife. Inside, a blinking red light, stuck against the side of the phones case. That made her smile. Just a touch. She dropped the light into his shirt pocket without touching it. Then she hit the "return call" button.

No answer. Voicemail. She held the phone near her face as she waited — their eyes met.

"Captain Harris," she said, "you can't run from me. I know. And he's the reason I know."

She hung up the phone. Began to search for something, and settled on the blue plastic of a tarp; cut a square from it with his knife, and wrapped his phone in it for safe keeping. Collected her sweater, and scrubbed her prints in systematic order, trying to recall everything she'd touched.

"I'm going to fucking kill you," Reynolds heaved. He jerked against the pole, his wrists tied so tight they barely moved. "You're not safe. You're never going to be safe. You or your stupid bastard kid. We don't just stop, Jill. You're going to fucking die."

Jill stopped. Looked at him.

"You already tried," she said, "I'm not impressed."

And then she was gone.

May 23, 1999
Washington D.C.

Jill sat alone on the couch. Tried to drink her coffee. Swallowing hurt; anything that used her throat hurt. Talking, swallowing, even breathing. She touched her fingers to the bruises, the tips brushing against solidity where normally there was only skin. The pretty bobble-headed lady on the news was talking about some sort of ribbon-cutting ceremony. Something she didn't care about.

"And in other local news, authorities are investigating the murder of two people — a man and a woman — whose bodies were dumped at the site of the new Hilton in downtown Washington."

Jill looked up to the television.

"Both individuals, in their early twenties, were sales managers of beleaguered biotech company Umbrella Incorporated. The woman was shot in the head and the man tied to a piece of construction equipment and his throat cut. The bodies were found by a construction manager who asked to not be named. Chief of Police Molly Severs has stated the murders are most likely related to an uptick of organized crime in the area, considering the date of the murders and their close proximity to the upcoming Congressional trial."

Jill took a sip of her coffee, squinted as it went down rough. She didn't kill anyone. They weren't hunting for her. She wasn't a psychopath; she would never cheer for someone's death, no matter how much of a psychopath they were. But she felt hard-pressed to not feel pleasure at the announcements of their obituaries.

"You hear that?" She asked nobody in particular. She rested a hand on her stomach, a habit that was becoming more natural, and felt a sort of peace. She smiled. "You're welcome."