The foyer of the Armstrong building was a study in functional aesthetics. It was modern and clinical elegance for an era where luxury was commonplace. Frontage of polished glass and steel. Desk of veneered mahogany. Black marble floor with the company logo laid out in mosaic at its centre.
Claire's fingers tightened around the strap of her messenger bag as she crossed the chamber, boots thumping out an echo.
The woman behind the desk glanced up and smiled at her. Affected, just like the grandeur of their building.
"I've got a package for Gregory Baker."
She tapped a pen on the book in front of her. More smiling. Pristine pearls between two perfect slivers of rouge. So much effort to convey such an imperfect emotion. "If you'd just like to sign the guest register, I'll have someone take you right up."
Claire nodded, scrawled a half-assed "J. Anderson" under "Name" and checked her watch for the time.
The guard hurried over a moment later. Umbrella's rent-a-cops came in two sizes: Delta Force wannabes who tucked their pants into their boots, and tired old men whose bodies were going to seed. The latter was more likely to have combat experience. This guy looked like the former.
"Right this way, ma'am," he said. He may as well have stood to attention and snapped off a salute.
They stood side-by-side in the elevator, tolerating the muzack because he didn't have anything to say and nothing she said would make her any friends. She wouldn't have come anywhere near a place like this on her downtime, but she had a job to do. She'd come to the realisation a long time ago that Umbrella was everywhere, and no one was going to make them go away for her. She just had to deal with it in her own way.
He took the lead, one hand on his gun, the other on his radio. He nodded a greeting to the woman at the second desk, like a superhero on patrol. She didn't look impressed.
Claire followed, past an open plan office filled with typists. This building handled a lot of the company's administration for the east coast and various properties off the mainland. Nothing sensitive, but a lot of data flowed through here daily. She had to wonder what she'd find if she just sat down and started browsing.
Baker worked in an office off the central office, with a small team of technicians at his disposal. He'd arranged the place like a schoolroom. Three rows of desks, all facing the wall, with teacher perched, predatory, behind, just waiting for a lapse in concentration or a website that went against company usage policy to show up on their screens.
She didn't need the guard to march up to his desk to spot the man himself.
She took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. All the dozens of things that could go wrong. She just had to hope she was luckier than that.
No going back now.
Her hand slipped into her jacket and found the Browning Hi-Power strapped under her arm. Her escort only had enough time to widen his eyes before two bullets to the chest sent him slamming into the wall. He let out a grunt and sagged, sliding to the ground and painting a crimson streak with his back.
She tried not to look at it.
She snapped the lock shut on the door and yanked the cord for the blinds. "Everyone in the corner. Now!"
There wasn't a lot of time. The security team were on hand to deal with troublemakers, not terrorists. Protocol was to call in the big guns for situations like this. That gave her a grace period of about twenty minutes before the U.S.F got here. Twenty minutes at best.
Her new roommates huddled down in the corner by Baker's desk. All except Baker, who was just standing, staring at her.
"Sit down," she said, marching across the room.
His legs gave out with a convulsive jerk. The others were crying or comforting one another. Some of them were looking up at her like they were about to start begging.
Please, God, don't let them start begging.
She stopped next to Baker's desk and slid a flash drive into the port on the front.
"I want it all. Names, addresses, phone numbers. A list of all offshore assets. Now."
"The system will send out a warning to Head Office if I do that."
He was objecting while complying. She liked that.
"I think that's the least of your worries right now."
The bar started it's slow crawl across the screen.
Come on. Come on. No time. Need to move.
"Why are you doing this?" Baker asked.
"Shut up," she snarled. She wasn't in the mood for arguing ethics with people who worked for Umbrella.
He wasn't paying attention. Too busy trying to get in her head like some kind of hostage negotiator. Star of his own personal action movie. "Listen. I know that what you've been through must have been terrible..."
She blanched.
He knows. He knows what they do.
"But this isn't going to help anything..."
She could feel her jaw locking behind her lips, her teeth grinding into one another. Her grip tightened on the Browning, her favourite since...
Since Raccoon.
"Shut up."
Her eyes were starting to burn. One more push and the tears would be loose, streaming down her face. He could see them. She knew he could. That's why he was standing up. That's why his hands were reaching out to take the gun.
Don't lose it now. Don't crack up now.
"Whatever you've lost, whoever you've lost..."
The others were staring at her, eyes wide, hoping he was getting through. Hoping he could break her.
They know. All of them. They know who they work for.
She focused on that locked jaw, on those grinding teeth, on her fingers numb and white around the handgun.
He didn't deserve to die.
"...this won't bring them back."
She smashed the Browning into his face. Anything to make him be quiet.
He cried out, clutching at his shattered nose, and then she hit him again, breaking his fingers. He slumped into the wall, just in time to take a blow to the temple. He started to slide to the floor, and caught her boot in his belly, hard enough to make him retch.
He screamed, spitting blood and curses, and grabbed for her, trying to make her stop.
She pulled the trigger. The bullet burst his right eye and turned his brain into a spray of red across the wall. He fell back and didn't move again.
He just ... wouldn't stop.
The other technicians started to scream. One woman lost it completely and started running for the door.
Claire's arm snapped up. Her finger pulled tight on the trigger. And then the runner hit the floor, a bloody hole between her shoulder blades.
A guy in a baseball jersey leapt onto her arm, clumsy desperation turning his heroism into a death sentence. He curled around her hand and then the gun went off in his guts. He fell back onto the others.
She kept firing. She wanted them to stop screaming. She wanted them to stop pretending like they were innocent. Stop pretending they were human beings.
They were zombies already. No mind. No soul. Nothing of value. They died and the world kept turning. No one mourned. No one cried.
No one cried like she'd cried.
The gun snapped empty. She didn't register it at first. Just kept clicking the trigger until the world swam back into focus. She was breathing heavy, practically hyperventilating. She felt like she was caught in a head rush. Pins and needles were prickling her fingertips and racing along the inside of her skull.
She clawed for her bag, slid a fresh magazine out and swapped it for the empty.
Something moved in the pile against the wall. A girl, no older than her, wriggled out from under the bodies of her colleagues.
But I'm not a girl anymore. I grew up. And he never got that chance.
Her hand was clamped across her midriff. From her fingers to her elbow, her hand was blood-slick, her blouse soaked. Gut shot.
Thoughts of a man - no, just a boy - lying naked on a cold, stone floor while he bled to death from a hole in his stomach crowded into her mind.
She aimed the Browning at the woman's head. Her hand was trembling. She swallowed down the lump in her throat and forced herself steady. Then, she pried back the hammer and fired.
The file transfer was done. She wiped the tears out of her eyes and tossed the flash drive into her bag, beside the security uniform she'd be wearing on her way out.
It would have taken Chris years to get a result like this. He was hamstrung, held back by an organisation that sat at Umbrella's heel, begging for scraps. She wasn't sure if he'd given up, or if he was still naïve enough to think warrants and best intentions would work.
Umbrella didn't play by the rules. She couldn't afford to either.
She'd learned so many things since Raccoon. About the company. About her "family". About herself.
She'd do what needed to be done - whatever needed to be done - no matter what.
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