Jill nursed her coffee in a busy Puntas Arenas cafe, watching the door, wondering how long it actually took for two people to negotiate an under-the-table plane rental. And, it seemed, the answer would soon reveal itself: Carlos came strolling into the cafe, beaming like someone who'd hit the lottery. He slid into the chair opposite her, laid a manila folder on the table.

"Chris is coming," answered Carlos, before she could ask where Chris was. He flagged down a waitress, and ordered two coffees and a plate of alfajores, which Carlos described as crumbly little parties in your mouth. Then he continued, "He got sucked in by some lady at one of those tourist kiosks. She's tryna get him to buy a knock-off Coogi."

Chris entered the cafe, wearing the knock-off Coogi sweater, and he looked just as ridiculous as Jill had imagined Chris would look in a knock-off Coogi sweater. Before either she or Carlos could make fun of him, he said, "Fuck off. I felt bad, okay? She needed the money for her kids."

"Buddy," said Carlos, clapping a hand on Chris's shoulder and leaning toward him, conspiratorially, "she ain't got kids." He grinned at the look on Chris's face, his dark brown eyes glinting impishly. "She was calling you a stupid gringo, at one point," he dug in. "You got played for a sucker. How much she get you for?"

"We got the plane," said Chris, shifting the subject.

"Aw, didn't mean to hurt your feelings, man," said Carlos.

"That's fucking fantastic," said Jill.

"Me and Esteban, the dude we got the plane off of, go way back," said Carlos. "He usually does those Antarctic flights for rich tourists who don't wanna boat out that way, or share a plane with the plebs. He's one of those bush pilots. Owed me a favor."

"And is Esteban actually trustworthy?" asked Jill, and sipped her coffee.

The waitress returned with Carlos's order; Carlos shoved the second coffee to Chris, then took an alfajor, which was some kind of crumbly cookie sandwich dredged in powdered sugar and coconut, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, gave a little mmph of approval, and swallowed, licking the sugar off his lips. "Goddamn, those are good," said Carlos, and slurped his coffee. Then, "Esteban's cool, supercop. Promise. Anyway, wanted to turn your attention to this ."

Jill watched as Carlos opened the folder, spreading the papers out on the table. Most of it was hard-copy, the rest was typewritten and photocopied. She started sifting through the papers. Information pertaining to Umbrella, though a lot of it was old. "How'd you get this?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Umbrella forgot to flush all my U.B.C.S credentials after Raccoon City—don't blame 'em, those assholes had a lot goin' on, so somethin' was bound to slip through the cracks—and I managed to pull some files off Umbrella's database using a few tricks Tyrell taught me." Carlos helped himself to another alfajor, chewing thoughtfully. Then, "Those coordinates you sent me indicate an Umbrella base."

Chris ran a hand back through his shag of dark hair, and said, "I wish I could say I was surprised."

"Nothing about Umbrella surprises me anymore," said Jill, finishing her coffee and popping one of the cookies into her mouth. It dissolved on her tongue in a puff of sweetness, and it was delicious. "Damn, these are good," she remarked, plucking another off the plate.

"Told you," said Carlos, with a wry smile. "Anyway," and he laid a paper in front of her. "Take a look at this."

Jill did. Paperclipped to the typewritten conspectus was the Polaroid of a young, scrawny blonde girl who glared hatefully at the world, dressed in the sober threads of a Young Republican and swimming in a lab coat that was too big for her. She looked, Jill decided, like an angry trick-or-treater in a thrown-together costume who hadn't wanted to have her picture taken. "Who's this kid?" she asked.

"Dr. Alexia Ashford," said Carlos, cracking his knuckles. "She was the head honcho of the Antarctica facility from 1980 to 1983. Kid prodigy. Died in some freak lab accident." He shrugged, scratched his fingers through his mop of dark, curly hair, then leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. "Now I dunno the specifics, but what I do know is that every fuckin' Umbrella scientist is the same," he said, matter-of-factly. "Was probably conducting illegal bioweapons research, 'cause at this point, that's just the M.O of these whackjobs. Could be just the evidence you need to sink Umbrella."

"I wanna focus on getting Claire first," said Chris.

"I agree, amigo. Your sister's important," said Carlos, patting Chris's arm. "It's just somethin' to keep in mind while you guys are playin' in the snow." He drained his coffee, glanced at the photo of Alexia. "Psycho or not, poor kid," he said. Then Carlos gave a slow grin, snorting a laugh. "Gettin' suckered into Umbrella like Chris got suckered into that fuckin' sweater."

They met Carlos's friend, Esteban, on the airstrip at Presidente Carlos Ibañez del Campo. Esteban was a tall, lanky man with a beer-gut, with a thick mustache and slicked black hair, and he was sucking on a cheap cigarette cupped in his fist. Carlos and him bantered a bit in Spanish (Jill assumed it was banter, because both men were laughing) like old war buddies, shook hands—Carlos's contained a roll of crisp American dollars, which he pressed into Esteban's palm with a knowing grin—and Esteban departed without another word, hunching his shoulders and pushing his hand into the pocket of his dark nylon windbreaker to pocket the money as he crossed the tarmac and disappeared into the passenger terminal.

Esteban's plane was a red six-passenger bush plane, and looked surprisingly well-maintained. Jill had initially envisioned a hoopty with wings, because that was what she'd always envisioned bush planes to look like, but it comforted her to know that it probably wouldn't drop out of the sky and kill her and Chris. "Glad it looks air-worthy," said Jill, watching Chris run his checks.

"You kiddin'? This thing's Esteban's baby," said Carlos. "He named it Florencia, after his wife."

Chris said, "It looks solid. It'll be fine."

"You sure you can fly it?" asked Jill, shifting the weight of her bag so the strap wasn't digging into her shoulder. "Thought you flew F-15s."

Chris laughed. "I can fly anything," he said. "Promise. But if we had an F-15, bet your ass I'd be flying that to Antarctica instead."

"Well, my work here is done," said Carlos, throwing his arms across hers and Chris's shoulders. "You both treat Florencia good, yeah? Else Esteban might kill you. He knows some guys."

"You could come with us, Carlos."

"Nah, supercop. I was just your friendly connection down here," said Carlos, shaking his head. He dropped his hands to his side, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans, and took a step back to regard them both, grinning brightly. "I'm afraid I gotta leave you in a cold, cruel, Carlos-less world this time around. You're the S.T.A.R.S of this show, not me."

"God," chuckled Jill, "how long have you been keeping that one in your pocket?"

"Since Raccoon City, but never found the right opportunity to say it 'til now." Carlos spread his huge arms as if embracing the world, his hair whipped by a chilly gust of wind. "Have fun in the world's biggest beer-cooler!"

"If only there was actually any beer there," said Jill, mounting the airstair. She waved one final good-bye to Carlos, then ducked inside the plane.

Chris sat down at the controls, and Jill sat in one of the front-row passenger seats. The interior of the plane smelled of old upholstery, patchouli, and something that reminded Jill of Windex. She fished a bottle of water out of her bag, twisting off the cap, watching Chris's fingers flickering over levers and knobs as if he'd flown this specific plane a thousand times before. "What's our ETA?" she asked.

"Two hours, if the weather isn't bad," replied Chris without looking at her, his focus on the controls. "There were heavy winds—whiteout conditions—earlier, but the weather should be settling down a bit." Then he glanced back at her and smiled, and his eyes disappeared behind a pair of sunglasses. "But we are going to Antarctica, and weather's pretty fucking unpredictable there. I won't crash the plane, though. Promise."

"Famous last words," said Jill, returning the smile. "I recall a certain captain saying he wouldn't sink his ship, and then it sank."

"Last I checked, icebergs can't fly, partner," said Chris.

Aside from a bit of turbulence, the flight was pretty uneventful, and they arrived in Antarctica just shy of three hours. Jill peered out the window, at the vast sheets of ice and mountains glittering diamonds in the sun, and, here and there, at the clusters of buildings and sat-dishes, and bristling steel antennae that dotted the snowy landscape. She wondered which countries each base belonged to, and found it strange to see microcosms of civilization in a place that was supposed to be uninhabitable.

"Always pictured Antarctica as just being completely barren," Jill said to Chris. "It's weird, knowing there's people down there."

"To be fair," replied Chris, "it pretty much is barren. But technology's gotten better. People can actually live comfortably enough out here."

The Umbrella facility, however, did not look comfortable. In fact, Jill thought, it looked like a prison. A sprawl of concrete buildings that wouldn't look out of place in the brutalist heyday of the Soviet Union.

She noticed a plane, painted matte black and unmarked, parked on the runway. "You see that?" she said. "That's not Umbrella. They put their fucking logo on everything."

"I see it," said Chris, looking down through the windscreen. "No idea who it could belong to."

"There are other planes too," said Jill, picking out a few wrecks drifted in by snow. "Look like cargo planes. Green. Military?"

"Don't think so," said Chris. Then, "There's another plane, too. Check it out."

Jill made her way to the front of the plane and gazed through the windscreen. "Shit," she said. "That one crashed into the building."