There was a moment of silence at the other end, and Reston just dared this screwup to mouth off, to give him any more reason to make his life a living hell. Instead, Hawkinson sounded properly contrite. "Of course, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I'm going to fly the helicop– ter back to SLC and bring back some of our new recruits to extend our search parameters. I'm leaving my last three men to stand watch, two at the com-pound's east and west, the third at the escape vehicle. I'll be back within – ninety minutes, sir, and we will find them. Sir." Reston's lips curled. "See that you do, Sergeant. If you don't, it's your worthless ass."

He flipped the talk switch and tossed the phone back on the console, at least feeling as though he'd done something to facilitate the process. A good ball– squeeze worked wonders; Hawkinson would crawl over broken glass to get results, which was exactly how it should be. Reston sat down again, looking at the test subjects as they slogged their way over the sand dune. Cole had a gun now, and was leading them toward the connecting door. Reston wondered if John or Red had any idea how useless Cole was. Probably not, if they'd given him a weapon… When they hit the top of the dune and started down the other side, the two Scorps finally moved in. In spite of his earlier resolve, Reston watched closely, holding on to a shred of hope – that it would end there, that the men would be stopped. It wasn't that he had any doubt about the Ca6s in Three, they certainly wouldn't survive those…… but what if they do, hmm? What if they do, and they make it to Four, and they find a way out? What will you tell Jackson, what will you tell your guided tour when there aren't any specimens left to observe? Then it will be your ass, won't it?

Reston ignored the whispery little voice, concen– trating on the screen instead. Both Scorps were going in fast, claws and stingers up, their lithe, insectile bodies set to attack -

– and all three men were firing, a silent battle, the 12s dodging and feinting, then falling beneath the stream of bullets. Reston's hands were in fists, though he didn't notice; his attention was entirely on the two downed Scorps, waiting to see if they'd be ready to attack again before the men reached the door -

– except John and Red were moving toward the animals, pointing their weapons -

– and shooting out the eyes. They did it quickly and efficiently, and although both Scorps were mov– ing again as they headed for the door, the blind creatures could only flail about in the sand. One of them managed to find a target; with a limber curl, it drove its extraordinarily toxic sting into the others back. The poisoned 12 whipped around and stabbed the first through the abdomen with one jagged claw, impaling it; it writhed weakly, alive but unable to move or see – bound, dying, to its dead brother. Reston shook his head slowly, disgusted at the wasted time and money, at the millions of dollars and the man-hours that had gone into developing the inhabitants of phases One and Two.

And Jackson will want that information. Once the test subjects are dead and their friends caught, I'll be able to put the right spin on things; with some of our backers coming in, such a poor performance from our "prize" specimens could be costly. Better to know now…

Yes, he'd be able to pull it off. Now Red was unlocking the connecting door that would lead them into Three; unless they had a case of grenades, they would be dead in minutes. Reston took a deep breath, remembering who was in control, who was calling the shots here. Hawkinson would handle the surface situation, Jackson would be pleased, the three musketeers were about to be blinded, trampled, and eaten. There was nothing to worry about. Reston exhaled heavily, managing a somewhat un– easy grin and forcing himself to relax into his chair, dialing up the screens that would show him the Ca6 habitat. "Say good-bye," he said, and poured himself an– other brandy.

FIFTEEN

FROM THE TERRIBLE, BAKING HEAT OF THE blinding scorpion desert, they stepped into the cold shade of a mountain peak. They stayed by the door, surveying their newest crucible, Leon wondering if they'd be facing Hunters or Spitters in this very gray room. Gray the rock-studded, sharply angled mountain of stone that loomed in front of them. Gray also the walls and ceiling, and the winding path that snaked west, bordering the "mountaintop." Even the scrubby grasses in and around the misshapen boulders were gray. The mountain looked real enough, rough-hewn chunks of granite mixed into cement, dyed to match and sculpted into crags. The overall effect was of a lonely, windswept ridge high on a barren mountain.

Except there's no wind and no smell. Just like the other two, no smell at all. "Might want to put your shirt back on," John said, but Leon was already untying it from his waist. The temperature had dropped at least sixty degrees, al– ready freezing the sweat he'd worked up from Phase Two. "So where do we go?" Cole asked, his eyes wide and nervous. John pointed diagonally across the room, south– west. "How 'bout the door?" "I think he meant which way," Leon said. He kept his voice pitched low, just as the others did. No point in alerting the inhabitants to their position; they'd probably be interacting soon enough. The three of them examined their options, all two of them: take the gray path or climb the gray moun– tain. Hunters or Spitters… Leon sighed inwardly, his stomach knotted, already dreading whatever came next. If they made it out, if they found Reston, he was going to give old Mr. Blue a solid ass-kicking. It went against the belief system that had led him to be a cop, but then, so did White Umbrella's very existence. "From a defensive standpoint, I'd say trail," John said, looking up at the rough surface of the slope. "We could get trapped if we head up." "There's a bridge, I think," Cole said. "I only did one of the cameras in here, that one…"

He pointed up and right, into the corner. Leon couldn't even see it – the walls were fifty feet high, and their monotone color blended into the ceiling. It created a kind of optical illusion, making the room seem endlessly vast. "… and I was on a ladder, I could see over, kind of," Cole continued. "There's a gorge on the other side, and one of those rope bridges going across."

Leon opened his pack while Cole was talking, assessing his ammo situation. "How's the M-16?" "Maybe fifteen left in this one," John answered, patting the curved mag. "Two more full, thirty each… two clips for the H amp;K, and one more gre– nade. You?"

"Seven rounds left, three clips, one grenade. Henry, have you been counting?" The Umbrella worker nodded. "I think five shots, I fired five times."

He looked as though he wanted to say something else, glancing back and forth between Leon and John, finally staring down at his dirty workboots. John looked at Leon, who shrugged; they didn't really know anything about Henry Cole, except that he didn't belong there any more than they did.

"Listen… I know this isn't really the time or place, but I just want to tell you guys that I'm sorry. I mean, I knew something was weird about all this. About Umbrella. And I knew Reston was a serious asshole, and if I hadn't been so greedy or so stupid, I never would have got you into this." "Henry," Leon said. "You didn't know, okay? And believe me, you're not the first to be duped…" "No doubt," John interrupted. "Seriously. The suits are the problem here, not guys like you."

Cole didn't look up, but he nodded, his thin shoul– ders slumping as if in relief. John handed him another clip, nodding toward the path as Cole tucked it into his back pocket. "Let's hit it," John said, talking to both of them but addressing Cole. Leon could hear it in his deep voice, a note of encouragement that suggested he was start– ing to like the Umbrella worker. "Worse comes to worst, we can retreat to Two. Stick close, keep quiet, and try to shoot for the head or eyes – assuming they have eyes."