III

The Call

'When something important is going on, silence is a lie.' A.M. Rosenthal

July 21st, 2009

Pennsylvania

"Tell me, Jill: who is it that you hate? Is it you, because of what you're about to do, or is it me? Your answer is quite predictable but I'd like to hear it from you; I want to hear you scream it with all the despair and rage you can muster. Because that is what'll keep me going."

There was no way she could fight. She was trapped inside a shell over which she had no command, she was in a cage of which she had no key to open the lock. She had tried everything to get rid of that horrible device in her chest, but she couldn't reach for it and tear it off; she had tried everything to escape his clutches, but he would defeat her and beat her again and again, making all her chances of escape plummet somewhere near zero. She knew she couldn't escape, yet she could still try.

And now, she had realized everything had been in vain. Every idea led to a plan, every plan led to its performance, and every performance led to inevitable torture. She was in a maze without an exit.

There was no way she could fight.

"Or how about this: is it hate what you really feel? Oh, I know you can hear me; I know you're still conscious. Keep hating me and I'll only grow stronger and stronger; hate me and you'll soon realize how wrong you are."

She remained looking at him, more like staring, and he did the same. She saw him tilt his head in light amusement and a very faint smirk spread across his tanned features. She knew she was delighting in her pain; it was all that kept him going.

"Oh, he's not coming," he told her. Of course, she knew who that 'he' was but for some reason couldn't think about his name.

He wasn't coming alright. She didn't have any more hopes: now, she could only rely on her own strength, and she doubted she still had it. Two years of fighting without results, two years of enduring pain and agony both physical and psychological, two years of madness. They were wounds that would never close.

"Because you're mine."

There was no way she could fight.

XX

Jill woke with a strangled gasp, blinking repeatedly in an attempt to arrange her thoughts and clear her mind of the images that had flashed through it.

It's all been a dream, Jilly, calm down…

With her heart hammering in her ears, she shot a side-ways glance at Chris, who sat beside her in silence. She thanked he hadn't heard her gasp, afraid that he would've inquired about it and she would've had to treat the matter without importance. On the contrary, it had its importance, and too much.

Yet again the feeling of uneasiness took hold of her and made her chest shrink. She shivered involuntarily, blinking again and averting her gaze to the window. In her state of nervousness, the small gust of air that brushed her neck was like a cold and bare hand against her skin, and Jill did her best not to jump, startled; instead, she shut her eyes tight and exhaled, shaking her head. Had she just imagined it?

No, she couldn't have. In fact, in that dream she'd just had, she had remembered one of the moments of her captivity. That voice, Wesker's voice, she'd heard it so naturally... like he had been right there and now, whispering those words into her ear once again. How she'd wanted to scream at him in those moments, but that mind-controlling device hadn't allowed her to and had forced to swallow back her rage and her despair. Jill even remembered being overcome by a cold-blooded killer sense which, hadn't the device been there, would've led her to beat Wesker to a pulp.

Of course, that hadn't happened, and she hadn't done so.

"Hey, Jill, what's wrong?" came Chris' low-pitched voice. Jill briefly met his gaze and then she looked down with a sigh.

"It's just been a bad dream, Chris. Nothing to worry about," she replied, forcing a smile. She could feel herself shaking and her cheeks growing warmer by the second.

Okay, am I blushing?! Valentines never blush!

"You seem sure of it, so I won't insist. You could kick my ass at any moment, whether it be with your foot or with your words," Chris said with a smirk, nudging her upper arm. Then, he turned serious, "But really, if there's something bothering you, don't hesitate to tell me, 'kay?"

"Sure will, thanks." With nothing else to say, Jill looked outside the window again, catching glimpse of the city that stretched out under them. And just like the plane's captain told them now,

They had arrived at Philadelphia.

After a swift and tranquil landing, they headed to the terminal and, after waiting there for exactly ten minutes, they collected their bags and made their way outside the building. The hot weather almost seemed to greet them, the sun burning even more when they stepped foot outside.

"Miss Valentine, Mr. Redfield!"

The people in question turned their heads to their left, catching sight of a young man approaching them. Jill could see Chris narrowing his eyes as the man neared them, and he frowned very slightly. Having bad feelings already, without having started the mission? Oh, boy, that was bad. And when Chris was suspicious of something, Jill knew better than not trusting him; his instincts had saved them many times already.

Judging by his appearance, the man would be no more than thirty years old, as indicated by the tanned tone of his skin and his thin complexion. He was blonde, his hair cut short and lustrous, and his clothes and his gait were ones of a nonchalant and cheerful person, but Chris wasn't focusing on those details, that much she could tell. When she focused on what he was focusing, it seemed to trigger an involuntary clench of his stomach: his eyes were gray, intense, deep and mysterious in spite of the good-natured glint in them.

"Yes?" Jill had replied without Chris noticing at the moment. The newcomer widened his smile.

"I'm Eric Olsen. I believe Mr. Graves has told you about me?" he asked, holding out a hand.

"He has, yes." Jill nodded, shaking Eric's hand and flashing him a faint, polite smile.

Paranoia for the win, huh?

"He told us you'd be our partner for this mission," said Chris, starting a conversation so that it hid his feelings toward the matter. Eric shrugged his shoulders with a snicker.

"Oh well, not exactly a partner, but more like a companion. Let's say I'm just here for the ride; I'm not going to do anything important. I was sent to work with you because the higher-ups wanted me to experience this kind of operations first-hand," he explained with eerie nonchalance, and he shrugged again. "Please, hop in. I'll take you to our rendezvous point with the team."

As Eric commanded, Chris and Jill got inside the shiny Toyota Verso which Eric had parked nearby and, with no conversation to start, he switched on the ignition, the engine rumbled to life and he drove the vehicle away from the terminal.

None of them opened their mouths to talk in all the time it took them to get to their destination since, if you asked Chris -who was trying to calm himself-, the silence was more than enough to express each other's thoughts. Clearly, he and Jill trusted Eric as much as he trusted them, and Chris clung to Graves' words: if Olsen was the mole...

Then we'd better keep our mouths shut. One slip of our tongues and it's all over.

Had he had the chance to complain, he would've accused Eric of treason in less than a heartbeat, but he still couldn't jump to conclusions. The guy was a mysterious and secretive character, yeah, but his expression didn't exactly point to a backstab when they least expected it. He had to hold back a smirk as he realized the rhetoric of the situation.

Where have we seen this before? Get ready, Chris, party's about to start and the end won't be nice.

When they wanted to realize, Eric had taken them near a broad, long hall with wide, rectangular open areas surrounded by tall buildings with many windows. Who first recognized the place from an memory that flashed through his head was Chris, having remembered the first and only time he and his family had visited Philadelphia in the winter of so many years ago: it was Independence Hall.

Eric parked the car a few meters away and they descended from the vehicle in silence. Chris exchanged a short look with Jill, who told him with her gaze what he'd been telling himself all along.

To be careful.

"Welcome to Independence Hall , or 'Pennsylvania State House' for friends of the nineteenth century," said Eric in a chipper tone and a proud look across his features.

"Built by Edmund Woolley, if I'm not wrong?" Jill commented in a casual manner. Chris lifted an eyebrow and smirked.

That's irrelevant, all right. Nice going, Jill.

"Have you been here before, Miss Valentine?" asked Eric with almost forced politeness. She shrugged in response.

"I recognized the place," she replied, "from a postcard I was sent once." Eric blinked twice, showing himself to be interested, and Chris saw how Jill eyed him carefully, as suspicious of his actions as he was.

"So," Olsen intervened, "let me introduce you to our team. Come."

Eric guided Chris and Jill to a pair of wooden benches that were shielded from the heat thanks to the tall buildings behind. There, they saw a trio of men smiling and laughing whilst they exchanged jokes and experiences. They caused a good first impression.

"Hey, gente, los susodichos están aquí," Eric said in Spanish, no English accent whatsoever.

"¿Son ellos? La reputación les precede, ¿verdad? ¡Fíjate!" remarked another one with a curious glance at them. This man was blonde too, his hair caught up in a haphazard tail and a wavy fringe tucked behind his ear, and his eyes were of a greenish-brown tone. At first sight, one could guess he was commended and nonchalant -quite antagonistic concepts- but also honest to the border of naivety.

"It does seem so," Eric agreed, switching back to English again. "Mr. Redfield, Miss Valentine, meet Miles Jenkins, Arturo Gil and Richard Hughes, our trusty group of snipers. They'll be the ones providing cover if things get bad."

"We certainly hope not, though. Even so," started Richard, "you don't seem like you'd mess up the mission."

"Why step into the hole whilst you can avoid it?" said Chris with a light shrug.

"True," smiled Jenkins. Then, he stepped off the bench and spoke, hands shoved in his pockets, "Since Olsen here is not really willing to start explaining, I'll do it for him."

"Be my guest; I can see you're anxious to do it." Eric's words triggered a set of laughs and a blush from Jenkins, who glared at Eric with narrowed eyes.

In those moments of arguing, Chris and Jill related descriptions to people. Arturo was the blonde one, a Spaniard; Richard was half-British and half-Scottish, both accents getting in his words' way; and Miles was fully British, his words tinged with a polished cockney accent.

Both Richard and Jenkins were pale-skinned, but Jenkins took the prize: he looked as if he was made of the most fragile of porcelains, and his bright green eyes only made him seem even more ghost-like. Richard's paleness wasn't as exaggerated as Jenkins', and his coffee-brown gaze eased the contrast between the colour of his eyes and the colour of his skin.

Chris and Jill exchanged another short look, seemingly thinking the same thing.

They weren't your ordinary team, weren't they?

"Trust me, you'll pay for this," Jenkins snapped, and then addressed the newcomers, who brought themselves out of their thoughts and concentrated on the matter at hand, "Alright, so what we had planned was this..."

xx

If Oliver Graves wasn't alone right now, the person or people who would be with him would've suffered the consequences of his outburst. If he had a trait better than anyone else's, that would be self-control, but now he had lost it... and with a very, very good reason.

Hours ago he had warned Chris and Jill of the possible mole within the BSAA and hours ago he'd sworn he'd find him. What Graves didn't expect was he would find him this soon, almost one month later after the whole ship had capsized and everything concerning the dealings had gone to hell. What he didn't expect was his suspicions were proven correct.

Oh, yes... Eric Olsen wasn't who he claimed to be, he was who he didn't claim to be.

When Graves had found out, he would've seen himself go ghostly pale had he had a mirror in front of him. His eyes went wide open and his heart sped up, unwilling to admit his failure. He had failed the BSAA; why hadn't he noticed sooner?! He knew Chris and Jill would handle themselves well enough, but if Olsen was a spy, then...

Much to his dread, he had achieved nothing when he tried to contact Chris. The automatic operator always said the same thing: his phone was off. And the result had been the same when he had relied the information to the European branch and they'd tried to contact him from there.

Oliver grimaced, upset, and slammed his fist on the table.

For fuck's sake, why now?! This will not go unnoticed, I swear it won't! Betrayed by our own people... And now I thank God I don't have nor the will or the ability to bust inside Europe HQ and just kill them all for what they have done. You can't trust anyone, not even your companions. Goddamnit, not wrong information! Looks like money is what's guaranteed, not partnership. I should've known better.

Graves raked his hands through his hay-coloured hair and exhaled in an attempt to calm down his nerves. Then, he turned on his heels and left the room, slamming the door closed behind him.

Don't act rashly, Oliver, think about it twice or count to ten before you do something stupid. Don't let your temper get the best of you... but it's frustrating, goddamn it! Oscar's going to pay for his mistakes, I guarantee that.

Now, what was important was keeping a cool head. Whatever the outcome of the situation was, he'd do his best to avoid the worst...

Since he had just discovered the mission was all a rouse.

xx

In the middle of the conversation Eric and co. were having, his cell phone rang and silenced Arturo, who had been speaking before the interruption. After checking who the caller was, Eric looked up, apologetic.

"I'll be back in just a second," he said. He saw Jill gaze up at Jenkins, whose eyes had narrowed and was staring side sideways at him. With one impassive look at Jenkins, Eric withdrew from the group. Such scrutinizing gazes, Jill's and Jenkins'. Eric knew he was in Chris' and Jill's black list; he'd sensed that from the very beginning.

But why did he have the feeling Jenkins had automatically added himself now?

When he was at a good distance, Eric picked up the phone and spoke quietly. The conversation didn't last long, and he only exchanged a few words with the caller. What would've been suspicious was the fact that he spoke in another language and, once he was finished, he allowed himself a crooked grin.

Everything was going according to plan.

After hanging up, he returned with the group, a more faint smile playing on his lips. He clapped his hands together, gazing at Richard with the countenance of an overly proud person.

"Who's called?" asked Arturo.

"It's been Mr. Graves and," replied Eric, "I have to agree with what he just said: we should hurry and get to PHL at once. Besides, the dealers have changed the time of the meeting."

"What time is it scheduled for now?" intervened Chris, unsettled. Had he had the chance, Eric would've just screamed everything at him but, for now, it was in his best interest to keep all to himself. Instead of doing what he was tempted to do, he checked his watch.

"Right now, it'd be 3:15pm in Naples and... they've changed it to 4pm local time there tomorrow. We still have time to get there; that is, if we don't waste it."

"They've made quite the change, haven't they?" interjected Arturo. "Guess they're in a hurry."

"Well, the sooner we catch them, the better. We didn't come here to waste time anyway," said Jill, crossing her arms. Arturo made as if he'd tipped his hat.

"Straight to the point, eh?" he commented with a simper. Jill shrugged her shoulders.

"You can't really joke when it comes down to this kind of situations. I can't see the reason behind the sudden change, but we'll find out," she told him, her brow creasing.

"We should get going then, right?" Richard piped up as he stood from his seat.

"Fair enough. You got the equipment, Jenkins?" Eric asked the British man, who nodded without a word. "Very well, take us to the place. Let's get this over with already. "

And so, they fell in line behind Jenkins, left the square and approached a line of cars where Eric had parked his. It was a small two-car convoy, and in one of those two cars Chris and Jill would go. Making sure he wasn't seen, Eric smirked again. He heard Richard speaking with the others about catching Ivanov and bringing down another of the main virus suppliers.

Catching Ivanov? Ha! Ivanov didn't exist, after all.

And everyone knew that.