A/N: This chapter ended up being shorter than I wanted it to be for two reasons. One: it was a good stopping point. Two: I've got hella amount of finals due THIS week and they're all lesson plans (for those of you who aren't educaiton majors, writing a lesson plan is a pain in the ass. I'd rather carve my eyes out with a dull, wooden spoon than write one). Anywho, Next week (which is "finals week") I have nothing due and I plan on writing a freaking long chapter for Under Fire (with nivanfield smuttiness)! Sort of my treat for getting through the semester and your treat for sticking with my spotty updating! So be looking forward to that!

As always, I want to thank those of you who took the time to review! It's such fun to read your comments and it's always an inspiration to me. Also, thanks to those who fave/follow rather me and/or Under Fire!

I'd like to remind all of my friend here that if you're suffering from Under Fire withdrawls later this week (and even if you aren't), check out Endorphins, Oxytocin and Pheromones by my friend Clockwork Echo. They're a fantastic author and their story is interesting and intense (and deliciously smutty). Trust me, if you like Under Fire, you'll like Endorphins, Oxytocin and Pheromones.

Anywho, enjoy!

Emil Lime

I've done what's necessary to interrogate Alfred Ashford, head of the Ashland gang. He's finally given up the identity of 3, the person who started this damned conspiracy. But I wasn't at all ready for the answer I'd be given. Albert Wesker, the Director of the CIA, is the man behind the number; the man that wants to tear Insane City apart.

Status Report 14: Check

I'm trembling as I stand over Alfred, the man sobbing below me. I can barely hear his cries, though, because my thoughts are elsewhere. Albert Wesker…that just can't be right. Alfred has to be lying. Of course, I know that's a stupid thought. He's got nothing to gain and everything to lose by lying to me. Also, he's got no clue I'm an undercover CIA agent so he's not trying to shock me or knock me off my game. Alfred has to be telling the truth, Alexia depends on it. That only makes me tremble more, body going absolutely numb.

It takes a long moment before I finally get my wits about myself, finally feeling the weight of Chris' hand on my shoulder. "Cole." It's authoritative, yet gentle. It's like he knows I'm fragile right now—not that my reaction didn't make that insanely obvious. He's looking at me with an intensity I've never seen from him before and it makes my stomach flip. I give a small nod to his silent question and step away from the sobbing mess on the floor. Slowly, I walk back to the doorway, going through before Red. The brunette closes the door behind himself and locks it this time before turning towards me. "We need to talk, Cole."

"Right." Everything is tied into knots, my pulse quick and cold as it throbs through my veins.

It doesn't take us long to make it back to Red's office, the man quietly closing the door behind us. He takes his position behind his desk, sitting in the large leather chair there with a woosh. He looks up at me passively, like he's considering every aspect of me before he speaks. "Tell me," he says, voice calm, "Do you think we can trust Alfred?" He pulls out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, igniting the small stick in a quick motion. Bringing it to his lips, he pulls in the cancerous fumes before releasing them into the air.

Chris is still unsure about 3. "I think so. He doesn't have a reason to lie to us. He wanted to save his sister from desecration."

"He'd tell us anything to make you stop at that point." Another puff of grey fog hangs in the air between us.

"When someone is under extreme duress and is being asked questions, their brain will come up with the simplest and easier answers it has access too: the truth. He didn't have the time to conjure up a lie." It's in the CIA torture handbook, actually. Only, it's written in a way that makes torture sound like a competitive sport.

Red takes the cancer stick between his fingers, "So, like truth serum."

Close enough. "Yes."

After sucking in another cancerous breath, he huffs it out before offering me a cig. I take it despite the fact I care enough about my health not to smoke and light it up. The smoky taste is bitter and ashy, like I'm licking the trays people put this shit out in. With a practiced motion, though—I've had to smoke for missions before—I let the thin fog out in a stream. Chris smiles warmly at me, the motion turning my stomach. "You look good when you smoke, especially when you've got blood on your face."

I'd forgotten about getting cut by Alfred. And like my awareness of it triggers my brain or something, I can feel the sharp sting of the slice across my cheek. "Thanks," is all I say.

"How'd you get that cut?" He stands, walking around his desk to lightly touch at my face, thumb gently tracing along the slit. I give a hiss and I can feel him smile. There's something about pain that turns him on—what a freak.

It takes everything I've got not to back away and tell him to stay the hell out of my bubble. "Alfred. He got the knife and tried to stab me. Nothing I couldn't handle." I take my cig between my fingers, letting it slowly burn there. Chris is still smoking his like a chimney, blowing the smoke to the side. His big, calloused hands trace along the rim of my face, gently crossing over dull greenish-yellow marks he'd created back in the Hummer. Those fingers follow my jaw before wrapping around my chin softly. With his other hand, he removes his cigarette from his lips and moves closer, shattering the space between us in a soft and tender kiss I never thought he was capable of.

Kissing back, I can feel the heat between my legs start to grow. Mentally, I will it away. I don't have time to feel this way. My hearts beating faster, my pulse is racing and all because of this fucking kiss. His arms pull me in closer then, our bodies touching and I wrap my arms around his neck, deepening our kiss. I can feel his need against mine. Fuck, we're both horny. His arms pull me even closer, suffocating the air between us. It doesn't take his hands long to work their way up the back of my shirt, his rough fingers feeling every muscle. I shiver, loving it and hating it, as he drags his nails down my back. I moan into the kiss, feeling the heat inside me intensify. I fist a hand into his hair as if it'll keep me grounded and away from the high I really want to go to. One of his hands move to the middle of my back, the other around the front, the rough tips of his fingers playing with my perky nipple. I can feel him smile as I give off another low moan.

As we pull apart for a moment of air, I can see the desire in his eyes, see the lust, and it scares me as much as it excites me. I'm not ready to go through the abuse again. He's definitely not a gentle lover. And yet I can't help but want it. No one has ever made me feel the way he's made me feel. As much as it hurt, I enjoyed every fucking second of it—I really hate to admit it. Maybe it's because I hadn't had sex in such a long time, maybe it's because of the danger involved in sleeping with the enemy, or maybe it's because of these goddamn feelings I'm starting to notice, but no one has ever gotten me as high as he has and right or wrong, I want it again.

But to my surprise, he doesn't move in to continue our heated kiss. He holds my gaze, brown to hazel. The only sound is of sizzling cigarettes on the floor of the office, laying abandoned where they'd been dropped. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, rapid, like mine. For the longest moment we stare before Chris' arms slide away from my skin, leaving it cold. "I can't." Is all he says.

He goes around his desk again, pulling open one of the drawers. From it, he throws a small box onto the desk. Band-aides. "For your cut." He sits back in his chair, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it. He heaves in a large lung-full of toxic air before breathing it out, letting it settle between us. I watch him for another minute, him repeating his routine of breathing in fumes. Finally, I reach over and grab the small box, removing a square shaped bandage. Applying it to the cut as best I can, I hand the box back to Chris.

"Thanks." He takes it without looking at me, his mind elsewhere. When he doesn't say anything, I speak up. "I'll start looking into 3's connections to this conspiracy." Turning, I head towards the door and push it open before I'm stopped by Chris' words behind me.

"You know, Cole," he says, voice sounding like it's coming from an entirely different room. I turn, seeing the man sitting and staring at his smoldering cig. "I'm really starting to like you. Don't do anything that'll get you killed."

"I won't." Before he can say anything else and before I can do anything stupid, I hurry out the door and close it. Leaning against the door, I breathe in one calming breath after another. I've got to stop this racing heart of mine. I can't let myself get swept away by these fucking feelings that are rushing over me. My mission still stands, regardless of Albert Wesker's intentions. After I sort through all of this, after I get everything said and done, I'm taking down Red. He has to be stopped. He's a tyrant. I cannot—cannot—let this happen.

Walking down the hall, my hollow footsteps echoing, I urge my brain to stop its thinking. I need to focus on this goddamn mission. I've got to figure out what the hell Albert is doing creating this conspiracy in the first place—he's obviously far more infiltrated than I am, so why the hell was I sent in? What the fuck is his plan?

I don't have the time to think about anything else, especially Chris—no, Red. I need to know what's going on and I need to know it now.

Alfred's a no-go. He's told me everything he knows. He was a pawn in all of this, nothing more than a tool used by Albert. The same goes for the other small-time gangs on the outskirts of the city. They fell for the cheap lines Albert was selling them because they wanted power. It's a lovely little line—everyone who helps in the overthrow gets a piece of paradise—and apparently some people were desperate enough and stupid enough to accept. So they're useless to me. I need someone with more inside information about the top gangs, someone who's got standing and authority. Connections.

Fuck. I think I know just who that would be.

And it doesn't take me long to make it to where I need to go, walking the familiar streets. This time, I don't run into any trouble from anyone. Those that do see me quickly look the other way—odd. Making my way to the high rise, I pass by his sentries without question and enter the elevator. The last time I took this ride, I was accompanied by four unpleasant, trigger happy teenagers. They died once they reached the top, too. I'm hoping against all hope that that doesn't happen to me. With how effective and efficient he took out the four teens last time, I know I wouldn't even have time to duck before I'd get killed.

The elevator bings as it reached the top floor, the doors opening. Two large men stand beside the door I need to go through. To my surprise, they don't say anything. One simply turns and knocks on the fine oak before turning the knob and pushing the door open. He nods his head, the green light, and I walk through the door. It's closed behind me and locks. My heart's pounding but I don't show my fear.

The man sitting before me gives me a broad, arrogant-as-hell smile. "Well, well, you've come to me." He leans back in his large chair, placing his feet upon his desk, fingers tented on the arm rests. "I never thought you'd have the balls to do that."

"I'm full of surprises, Vice."

He gives a chuckle, waving a hand as if shooing away the unpleasantness in the air. "Oh, you don't have to be so formal with me, Cole. After all, we're on a first name basis now."

"Is that so?" God damn it. He knows. He fucking knows.

"Playing coy. Really?" Vice swings his legs from the desk, standing himself up in the process. He leans a hip against his sturdy desk, crossing his arms as he looks at me, that smirk still strongly in place upon that smug face of his. "Come now, Piers Nivans. Surely a CIA agent like yourself knows when the game has moved into 'check'."

My blood runs cold when he says my name—my real goddamn name. I remind myself that I walked into this mess myself. I waltzed right up to his front fucking door and let myself in. And I knew this jackass knew, that Viper had given him the information inside those files. He fucking knew and I fucking walked in. He's the one man in this city that knows about me and he's the only one I can think of to help me uncover 3's connections to this conspiracy; to figure out how to stop the Director. Based on the look of him, though, he doesn't plan on doing that.

"First things first, Piers—" A chill runs down my spine when he says my name again. "—I owe you a couple of bullets." I'd managed to strike him when I was escaping with the files. I'd almost forgotten about that. Doesn't seem Leon did, though. From his belt, he pulls out a pistol, pointing it towards me with a disturbingly pleasent smile on his face. I've got nowhere to run, no weapons and no options. I can hear his finger pulling down on the trigger, hear the mechanics of the gun working. Click and bang.