No "Don't you worry either, Henry," or, "Be care– ful." Not even a "Good luck, hope they don't shoot you by mistake." He shook his head, stepping into the small room. At least if he helped out the big Blue he'd probably be able to sleep in, maybe even quit the Planet and Umbrella for good. God knew he needed the rest; he'd been having a hell of a time sleeping…

Rebecca found the camera, at least. A lens no bigger than a quarter was hidden in the southwest corner, just an inch from the ceiling. She'd called David over and he'd covered it with his hand, wishing that he'd done a more thorough check before leading his team inside. He'd been stupid, and John and Leon were almost certainly gone because of it. Claire had found a roll of tape in her diggings, though little else. David taped the hole over, wonder-ing what they were going to do. It was cold, so cold that he didn't know how much longer their reflexes would still be good. The codes weren't working, the sealed entrance would take more than they had to open it up, and two of his team were somewhere in the facility below, perhaps wounded, perhaps dying…… or infected. Infected like Steve and Karen were infected, suffering, losing their humanity… "Stop it," Rebecca said to him, and he stepped down from the table they'd pushed to the corner, half knowing what she meant but not ready to admit it. Rebecca had a way of drawing him out at the worst possible times.

"Stop what?"

Rebecca stepped closer to him, staring up into his face, hooding her flashlight with one small hand.

"You know what. You've got that look, I can see it; you're telling yourself that this is your fault. That if you'd done something differently, they'd still be here." He sighed. "I appreciate your concern, but this isn't the appropriate…" "Yes it is," she interrupted. "If you're going to blame yourself, you won't think as clearly. We're not in the S.T.A.R.S. anymore, and you're not anyone's captain. It's not your fault."

Claire had walked over to join them, her gray gaze curious and searching in spite of the worry that still pinched her delicate features. "You think this is your fault? It's not. I don't think that." David threw up his hands. "My God, alright! It's not my fault, and we can all spend some time analyz-ing what I'm accountable for if and when we get out of this; for now, though, can we please concentrate on what's in front of us?"

Both young women nodded, and while he was glad to have stopped the therapy session before it got started, he realized that he didn't know what the next thing was – what tasks to give them beyond what they'd already done, how they were going to resolve their crisis, what to say or how to say it. It was a dreadful moment; he was used to having something to fight against, something to react to or shoot at or plan for, but their situation seemed to be static, unchang– ing. There wasn't a clear path for them to follow, and that was even worse than the guilt he felt about his lack of foresight. And just at that moment, he heard the distant buzz of an approaching helicopter, the faraway thrum that could be nothing else – and although it was a solution of sorts, it was the worst one possible.

Nothing for cover except this compound, and we'll never make it back to the van, we've got two, three minutes… "We have to get out of here," David said, already running through the things they would have to do if they were to stand a chance, even as they were all running for the door.

The workers were cake. There had been a few tense moments rousing them from their dark cots in the dark dorm rooms, but it had gone off without inci– dent. John had still been somewhat wary of a few of them when he'd first herded them into the cafeteria, where Leon was watching the card-players – in partic– ular, two fairly big men who looked like they might have machismo disorders and a thin, twitchy guy with deepset eyes who couldn't seem to stop licking his lips. It was like a compulsive thing; every few seconds, his tongue would dart out, flick between his lips and then disappear for another few seconds. Creepy. There'd been no trouble, though. Fourteen men and no one willing to play hero after John had presented them with a little logic. He'd kept it short and simple:

we're here to find something, we're not planning to hurt anyone, we just want you to stay out of the way while we get out of here. Don't be stupid and you won't get shot. Either the logic or the M-16 had been enough to convince them that it would be best not to argue. John stood by the door back into the big hall, watching the unhappy-looking group seated in the middle of the large room around a long table. A few looked pissed, a few looked scared, most just looked tired. Nobody spoke, which was fine by John; he didn't want to have to worry about anyone trying to work up a rebellion. In spite of his reasonable certainty that all was cool, he was glad to hear the light tap on the door. Leon had been gone maybe five minutes, but it seemed like a lot

longer. He walked in holding a length of chain and a couple of wire coathangers. "Any trouble?" Leon asked quietly, and John shook his head, keeping his attention on the silent group. "Been nice and quiet," he said. "Where'd you find the chain?" "Toolbox, in one of the rooms."

John nodded, then raised his voice, keeping it calm.

"Alright, folks, we're about to take our leave. Wethank you for your patience…" Leon nudged him. "Ask if Reston's here," he whis-pered. John sighed. "You think if he is, he's gonna tell us?"The younger man shrugged. "Worth a shot, isn't it?"Stranger things have happened…John cleared his throat and spoke again. "Is a man named Reston in here? We just have a question, we're not going to hurt you."

The men stared at him, at both of them, and John wondered, for just a second, if they knew what they were doing there; if they knew what Umbrella was doing. They didn't look like Nazis, they looked like a bunch of working stiffs. Like guys who put in a hard day and liked to throw back a few beers in the evening. Like – like guys.

And what did Nazis look like? These people are a part of the problem, they're working for the enemy. They're not going to help us… "Blue ain't here." A big bearded man in a T-shirt and boxers, one of the ones John had been keeping an eye on. His voice was gruff and irritable, his face still puffy from sleep. John glanced at Leon, surprised, and saw that the rookie looked the same. "Blue?" John asked. "Is that Reston?"

A man sitting at the end of the table with longish hair and grease-stained hands nodded. "Yeah. And that's Mister Blue to you."

The sarcasm was pointed. There were a couple of dark looks exchanged within the sitting group and a couple of chuckles.

Reston's one of the key guys, Trent said. And just about everybody hates their boss… but so much that they'd talk shit about him to a couple of terrorists?

Reston must be real unpopular.

"Is there anyone else working here who isn't in this room?" Leon asked. "We don't want to be sur– prised…"

The implications were obvious, but it was also obvious that they weren't going to get anything else from the assembled employees. They might hate

Reston, but John could see from the crossed arms and scowls that they wouldn't talk about one of their own. If there was anyone else in the facility, which he doubted. Trent had said it was a small staff… which means it was probably Reston who brought us down, which means we could kill two birds if we find him – get the book and get him to start up the elevator again. We lock Reston in a closet, hook up with David and the girls and get gone before anything else unexpected comes up.

John nodded at Leon, and they backed up to the door. John realized that he didn't want to just walk out, that he felt a kind of sympathy for the men that he'd dragged out of bed. Not a lot, but something. "We're gonna lock the door here," John said, "but you'll be okay until the company sends someone, you got food… and if you don't mind a little advice, listen up – Umbrella ain't the good guys. Whatever they're paying you, it isn't enough. They're killers."