The Umbrella Conspiracy - By S. D. Perry Page 0,3

more, but decided against it. For all of his bravado, Forest was a professional; he didn't need to be told to be careful.

You sure about that, Chris? You think Billy was careful enough?

Sighing inwardly, Chris slapped Forest's shoulder lightly and headed for ops through the doorway of the small upstairs waiting room and down the hall. He was surprised that Wesker was sending the teams in separately. Although it was standard for the less experienced S.T.A.R.S. to do the initial recon, this wasn't exactly a standard operation. The number of deaths they were dealing with alone was enough to call for a more aggressive offense. The fact that there were signs of organization to the murders should have brought it to A1 status, and Wesker was still treating it like some kind of a training run.

Nobody else sees it; they didn't know Billy...

Chris thought again about the late-night call he'd gotten last week from his childhood friend. He hadn't heard from Billy in awhile, but knew that he'd taken a research position with Umbrella, the pharmaceutical company that was the single biggest contributor to the economic prosperity of Raccoon City. Billy had never been the type to jump at shadows, and the terrified desperation in his voice had jolted Chris awake, filling him with deep concern. Billy had babbled that his life was in danger, that they were all in danger, begged Chris to meet him at a diner at the edge of town and then never showed up. No one had heard from him since.

Chris had run it over and over again in his mind during the sleepless nights since Billy's disappearance, trying to convince himself that there was no connection to the attacks on Raccoon and yet was unable to shake his growing certainty that there was more going on than met the eye, and that Billy had known what it was. The cops had checked out Billy's apartment and found nothing to indicate foul play... but Chris's instincts told him that his friend was dead, and that he'd been killed by somebody who wanted to keep him from talking.

And I seem to be the only one. Irons doesn't give a shit, and the team thinks I'm just torn up over the loss of an old friend.

He pushed the thoughts aside as he turned the corner, his boot heels sending muted echoes through the arched second floor corridor. He had to focus, to keep his mind on what he could do to find out why Billy had disappeared, but he was exhausted, running on a minimum of sleep and an almost constant anxiety that had plagued him since Billy's call. Maybe he was losing his perspective, his objectivity dulled by recent events...

He forced himself not to think about anything at all as he neared the S.T.A.R.S. office, determined to be clear-headed for the meeting. The buzzing fluorescents above seemed like overkill in the blazing evening light that filled the tight hallway; the Raccoon police building was a classic, if unconventional, piece of architecture, lots of inlaid tile and heavy wood, but it had too many windows designed to catch the sun.

When he'd been a kid, the building had been the Raccoon City Hall. With the population increase a decade back, it had been renovated as a library, and four years ago, turned into a police station. It seemed like there was always some kind of construction going on.

The door to the S.T.A.R.S. office stood open, the muted sounds of gruff male voices spilling out into the hall. Chris hesitated a moment, hearing Chief Irons's among them. Just call me Brian Irons was a self-centered and self-serving politician masquerading as a cop. It was no secret that he had his sweaty fingers in more than a few local pies. He'd even been implicated in the Cider district land-scam back in '94, and although nothing had been proved in court, anyone who knew him personally didn't harbor any doubt.

Chris shook his head, listening to Irons's greasy voice. Hard to believe he'd once led the Raccoon S.T.A.R.S., even as a paper-pusher. Maybe even harder to believe that he'd probably end up as mayor someday.

Of course, it doesn't help much that he hates your guts, does it, Redfield?

Yeah, well. Chris didn't like to kiss ass, and Irons didn't know how to have any other kind of relationship. At least Irons wasn't a total incompetent, he'd had some military training. Chris pasted on a straight face and stepped into the small, cluttered office