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Speaking of danger…
Ada shook herself and got moving, heading back to the door that led into the lower east wing. The lobby was safe enough from the virus carriers, they didn't seem to understand the concept of doorknobs, but there were threats besides the infected. God only knew what Umbrella might send in to clean up… or what had been freed from the laboratory when the leak occurred. Less frightening but just as bothersome were the live cops that might still be trooping around, looking for someone to save. She'd heard gunfire, some distant, some not, every hour or three since she'd gone to ground; there were still at least a few uninfected left in the expansive old building. Trying to convince a panicky he-man with a gun that she was alive and didn't want an escort made facing the undead seem almost appealing. Walking on the balls of her feet to avoid additional noise, Ada slipped through the door and then leaned against it at the end of a long hall, safe to decide on her next move; although she hadn't checked out the basement yet and there were still several carriers wandering around in the detectives' room, the hall's doors were all closed; if someone or something wanted to get at her, she'd be able to see it coming and get out in time.
Ah, the exciting life of the freelance agent. Travel the world! Earn money by stealing important things! Fight off the living dead when you haven't showered or eaten a decent meal in three days – impress your friends!
She reminded herself again to insist on that bonus. When she'd arrived in Raccoon less than a week before, she thought she'd been prepared; the maps had been studied, the reporter's files memorized, her cover story set – a young woman looking for her boyfriend, an Umbrella scientist. That part was al– most true; in fact, it had been her brief relationship with John Howe ten months before that had landed her the job. More of a one-night stand, actually, and not a very good one at that, but John had thought otherwise, and his co
Mission objectives: question the hack, find out how much he knows and kill him or ignore him, depending; retrieve a sample of the new virus, Dr. Birkin's latest wonder. No problem, right?
Three days before, with the knowledge of how the Umbrella lab co
Terrific. So now you're out and what do you do?
Stand around and reflect. Get on with it; the sooner you
finish, the sooner you can collect your wages and retire
to some nice island somewhere.
Still, for a moment Ada didn't move, tapping the muzzle of her Beretta absently against one long, stockinged leg. There were three bodies sprawled in the hallway; she couldn't stop staring at one of them, crumpled beneath a window counter halfway down the corridor. A woman in cutoff shorts and a halter, her legs crudely splayed, one arm cocked above her blood-soaked head. The other two were cops, no one she recognized, but the woman had been one of the people she'd talked to when she'd first made it to the station. Her name had been Stacy something-or– other, a nervous but strong-willed girl just out of her teens. Stacy Kelso, that was it. She'd run into town to pick up some ice cream and had ended up caught in the takeover – yet in spite of her own predicament, she was more concerned about her parents and little brother, still at home. A conscientious girl. A good girl. Why was she thinking about it? Stacy was dead, a ragged hole at her left temple, and Ada hadn't capped her; it wasn't like she had anything to feel personally responsible about. She'd come in on a job, and it wasn't her fault that Raccoon had gone nova… Maybe it's not guilt, some part of her whispered. Maybe you're just sorry she didn't make it. She was a person, after all, and now she's as dead as her parents and kid brother probably are… "Snap out of it," she said, softly but with an edge of irritation. She tore her gaze from the woman's pathet– ic form, fixing it instead on a broken ashtray at the end of the hall. Feeling bad about things she couldn't control wasn't her style, it wasn't how she'd gotten to the top of her trade – and considering how much Mr. Trent was putting up to retain her services, now wasn't the best time to be analyzing her empathy skills. People died, it was the way of the world, and if she'd learned anything in the course of her life it was that agonizing over that particular truth was point-less. Mission objectives: talk to Bertolucci and get the G-Virus sample. That was all she needed to worry about. There was a mechanism that Ada still had to check a few twisted passages away from where she stood, in the press conference room. Trent's notes on the archi– tect's latest additions to the station had been sketchy, but she knew it had to do with the ornate, sculpted gas lamps and an oil painting. Whoever had commis– sioned all of the work had one serious secret life going on; there were actual hidden passages upstairs, behind the wall of what had once been a storage room. She hadn't gone through them yet, although a quick glance had told her that the room itself had been remodeled as an office. Judging from the overstuffed and neuroti– cally macho decor, it was probably Irons's. Even from the short time she'd been in his company, she'd ascertained that he wasn't the most stable man who had ever walked; there was no question that he was on Umbrella's payroll, but there was also something about him that just screamed dysfunctional. Ada started down the hall, her dress flats clicking loudly on the scuffed blue tiles; she was already dreading yet another time-consuming mechanical puzzle. Not that there was any help for it; she had assumed from the begi