Chapter 8

Wesker

Wesker did a jig, a jolly hop step toe tap peppier than Gene Kelly singing in his damn rain. Smoother than a Fred Astaire waltz across slippery floors wearing socks.

Everything poppin' up roses in winter. A cup of Joe coffee day gone double mocha latte with a dash of mint in the space of twenty-four very productive hours.

All things considered; if it weren't for the sting in his bicep, the stitch of pain in his thigh, and the half moon scar on his forehead, he'd tap dance on the ceiling and Samba straight to the moon.

Nameless drones in white lab coats turned their heads as he soft-shoed down the windowed hallway. Nothing like the look of hazmat suits, and the gleam of fluorescent lights, in the morning.

A flash of auburn red caught his attention. Wesker stopped mid-jaunt. He did a double take and peered through bulletproof glass. Doe brown eyes looked up from a clipboard.

His heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm. The initial rush of excitement at the prospect, no matter how ludicrous the possibility, of staring into Claire Redfield's liquid aqua ocean eyes, was fettered away in a bust of disappointment and flood of anger. He would damn Claire Redfield to hell, if he were the final judge, jury, and executioner of her soul, for the sporadic thoughts of her his brain injected into his daily routine.

He likened the random mental intrusions to a ping-pong ball batted off the walls of his mind. Each time he swung the girl away she bounced off the surface and sprang back to hit him again.

His cheek muscles relaxed his grin into the customary, stoic straight line of his lips. Today belonged to him. His triumph. And although Valentine's capture was nothing in comparison when he considered his master plan as a whole, she was his wine to savor all the same. He would not have his grapes soured by thoughts, and physical reminders, of a woman who, for the time being, was beyond his control.

A tiny glimmer of his former grin returned. Besting the walking protein shake billboard advertisement Claire called brother had been easy. Chris was all talk and fist. He lived in a damn goody gumdrop world of right and wrong. He was always right, and everyone else was always wrong. They'd thrown their punches. Traded their insults. The results of their altercation were as predictable to Wesker as the sun rising in East and setting in the West.

Besting a virtuous paragon presented more challenge. Greater finesse. Wesker relished the challenge. He thrived on the fulfillment of the moral destruction that awaited Claire Redfield in the mundane existence she called a life. He'd find out what exactly she was made of beyond sugar, spice, and everything nice.

Wesker pressed an intercom button located next to the window. "Technician Hobbs, a word, if you please."

The head researcher in charge of this particular clean room crew rose from his workstation. He quickly retreated into the adjacent scrub area and stripped away his protective gear.

Wesker strolled ten paces. He folded his arms across his chest and waited for Hobbs to exit out the scrub room double sliding door.

Hobbs glanced around the empty hall. He pushed his glasses from the tip of his nose onto the bridge. "Is there a problem, Sir?"

There was just the right amount of nervousness in Hobbs' voice to please Wesker. People should fear him. Fear the power he wielded over them.

The doughnut shaped imbecile knew there was a problem. His knowing made his question moot. Wesker didn't stop to comment on the weather, join fantasy football pools, or stand around a water cooler and gossip about how hard some low level Timmy was banging an even lower level Susie.

Wesker came straight to the point. "The woman with the red hair. I want her removed from this facility."

Hobbs craned his head. His gaze darted over each figure in the window as though there might possibly be more than one woman with red hair and he wasn't sure to which one Wesker referred.

"Lauren?"

"I did not ask for her name. I asked for her removal."

"B-b-ut she just got here. She was transferred from the Paris facility. Her husband is terminal. He's being cared for in a local clinic. She needed to be closer to him. She waited two years for the transfer."

Wesker narrowed his eyes. "Her convenience issues are not my concern. I am not the overseer of a bleeding heart sanctuary."

"Bu-"

Wesker took a step forward. "Say another syllable and you go with her." He tapped a finger against his chin. "There has been some talk about renewed efforts underway in the South Pole region. A good researcher to lend a hand might be beneficial to the needs of our organization. Would you be interested, technician Hobbs?"

Hobbs' lips parted, and then instantly clamped shut. He lowered his head.

Wesker patted him on the shoulder. "What a shame. I will keep you in mind if another such opportunity arises. Quality people such as yourself are so difficult to find."

He turned swiftly and left the middle aged researcher to distress over his current, and future prospects. Submission without the use of force was a gift that kept on giving. He wondered how many sleepless nights the chubby stump of a man who called himself Hobbs would lose over a handful of words. Enough to monitor?

Wesker punched in the door code to the lab located at the end of the hall.

The low-pitched breathing machine whir and the heart monitor blips told him Jill had survived their cannonball plunge.

He whisked a chair from under a desk and wheeled it over to a gurney surrounded by a maze of plastic tubes and an IV stand on either side of her bandage wrapped body. He snapped his fingers and the no name medical technician who kept watch over his newly acquired prize passed him a clipboard.

Wesker flipped on the overhead lights and lowered himself onto the chair. He scanned the first and second page. As expected she suffered massive internal injuries, despite his best effort to shield her from the impact of the fall. They'd resuscitated her twice. The next forty-eight hours were critical. A full surgical team would have to be placed on alert.

The third data sheet held quite a surprise. A revelation that turned his frown completely upside down. Christopher, it seemed, had been doing more in his spare time than plotting his downfall.

Wesker lowered the clipboard. "Where are the fetal remains?"

"They were disposed of in the bio medical waste bin."

"Who gave you permission to dispose of the tissue?"

"It wasn't viable for testing. A glob of immature cells. They-"

"You were not asked to make a determination on the condition of said cells. Remove the tissue. I want it photographed."

"May I ask why?"

Wesker's smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. Why not? "This years Christmas card to a very dear acquaintance."