The clouds finally spent their last strength over the Castle. The downpour that had washed away a full night of sin quietly ceased, replaced by a thick, briny fog rolling in off the sea.
In the secret water channel beneath the Castle, the roar of an engine broke the dead silence.
Leon gunned the smuggler's speedboat toward the open ocean, carrying a group who looked exhausted but whose eyes were still sharp. Ashley clung to the railing. Sherry and Becky were already checking the power modules on their electromagnetic rifles against the bucking of the hull, the crisp click of the locks sounding oddly composed over the engine's snarl.
On the other side of the dock, in the shadows, Ada was about to look for a second route out to sea when her gaze caught on a flash of color beneath the rock face.
A custom jet ski, fire red from bow to stern, its lines as sleek as a predator's, sat quietly tethered to an iron ring. Stuck to the dashboard was a waterproof note, written in Ryan's lazy scrawl:
To Auntie Wong, for all the hard overtime. P.S., the tank's full. Don't drive too slow. Miss the final exam and there's no bonus.
Ada stared at the note, one corner of her mouth tilting up in an exasperated, dazzling curve. She tore the paper off, swung a leg over the machine, and the pure hum of the engine instantly drowned out the clatter of Leon's old boat in the distance.
The Island. Military defense zone.
Waves hammered against the sheer cliffs. The salt wind carried the smell of heavy oil and gunpowder.
Leon, Sherry, and Becky moved in tactical formation, carving their way out of the landing. Ashley stuck close behind Luis, who was running with sweat pouring down his face, still managing to gripe between breaths. "God, this island's welcome party is even warmer than the village. Those guys with the rocket launchers are serious?"
"Krauser's there!" Becky stopped short, the crosshair of her electromagnetic rifle locking onto a raised platform in the distance.
At the far end of her sight line, Krauser was pacing in circles like a furious bull, the Amber clutched in his fist. He'd clearly figured out that Saddler was missing, and the whole base of cultists had collapsed into a leaderless mess. To a soldier who lived for the fight, it felt like being played.
"Where the hell did Saddler go?" Krauser stood in the firelight on the platform and crushed a radio in his grip. His other hand was clenched hard around the fake Amber.
At the top of the Island's communications tower, the wind cut to the bone.
Ada lowered her binoculars. Something prickled at the back of her neck and she turned. Wesker stood in the shadows, a briefcase in one hand and a pistol in the other, the muzzle trained on her. His sunglasses hid his eyes. Only the faint blue glow of his wrist display lit the unmoving line of his profile.
"Status report, Ada." Wesker's voice was low and level, carrying that chilling weight of command.
"Krauser's already taken the Amber. Leon and the others are trying to reach the laboratory." Ada's tone was flat, as if she didn't notice the gun pointed at her.
"Good." Wesker tilted his head slightly, looking down at the base wreathed in fire and smoke. "The plan has changed. Once I have the Amber, I'm sinking this island with Saddler on it. I don't want a single record of Las Plagas left in this world. Of course, you're free to refuse..."
He gave the gun in his hand a small wave in her direction.
"With that piece of junk?" Ada tipped her head, unimpressed.
"Amusing." A cold smile crossed Wesker's face, measured, the look of a man used to standing above others. "Don't let unnecessary sentiment interfere with your professional standards. Remember who you work for. If you're thinking of trying to betray me... you of all people should know there's no one on this earth who can hide from my sight."
That threat, delivered from above, put a flicker of cold in Ada's eyes. But she only dipped forward slightly and took the briefcase he tossed her. "Fine. I'll take the job. But this is an add-on. It's going to cost extra."
The words were barely out before Ada vaulted off the tower and vanished into the night.
Wesker took one last sweep of the land he was about to destroy, then turned away without expression. The instant his foot moved...
On a rusted girder ten-odd meters above him, Ryan hung upside down like a ghost.
Ryan looked down at the man in the sunglasses strutting around like he owned the place, and gave a light squeeze to the red brick in his right hand, a chunk still crusted with dried cement from the construction site he'd lifted it off.
Honestly, compared to a gun, I'm starting to think this thing is the single greatest invention in human history. Solid feel, even weight distribution, and the kind of feedback you get when it kisses a villain's skull... that's a romance no firearm can give you.
He was starting to feel like a genuine connoisseur of the art of the sucker-strike.
Wesker's so-called "superhuman perception" was completely useless against a cheat-powered stalker like Ryan.
Ryan slipped off the girder without a sound. In the ten-thousandth of a second between Wesker sensing the abnormal shift in air and triggering his teleport dodge, that red brick, heavy with history, planted a clean kiss on the back of Wesker's skull.
THUNK...!!!
A dull, dense, skull-ringing crack.
The weathered brick landed dead center on Wesker's expensive, gel-slicked head.
Behind the sunglasses, his eyes rolled straight back. He went down like a telephone pole hit by lightning, rigid, face-first, and smacked onto the alloy deck with a wet slap.
The brick broke in half in Ryan's hand.
Ryan landed and looked down at the pieces with mild disgust. "Nice outfit. Skull's not much harder than anyone else's though."
He tossed the broken halves aside and wiped the dust off his coat.
He walked over and stared down at Wesker twitching on the deck. Remembering the line about "the price of betrayal" this guy had just used on Ada, Ryan felt a fresh bloom of irritation in his chest.
"Who you trying to scare? You wanna touch my people?"
Ryan crouched and drew the tactical recurve knife from his belt, its edge flashing in the cold light. He looked at the meticulously styled blond hair, and a cruel, ridiculous smile tugged at his mouth.
"Heard you're into evolution. Alright, let me help. I'll trim off all that extra protein for you. Full evolution."
His hand moved like an afterimage, the blade tracing a few elegant, mournful arcs through the air.
A moment later.
The arrogant dark prince of Umbrella, the future candidate for messiah, the man who wanted to drag the world into "purification," Albert Wesker...
Was now sporting a shaved head shinier than a lightbulb, round, gleaming, and in the moonlight almost touched by something like holy radiance.
"Yeah. That's way easier on the eyes. Cooler, saves on shampoo, and hey, you match your son now. Just hope getting bald comes with getting stronger, otherwise this is no fun at all."
Ryan sheathed the knife, pleased with himself, and lifted the intact sunglasses off Wesker's face on the way up.
He stood, pulled out a camera, and went off in a burst of rapid-fire shots. Only when he was completely satisfied did he turn to leave.
"Done. When he comes to, he's not going to care about any Amber. He's going to be too busy scouring the world for a wig."
On the silent tower, all that remained was Wesker, impeccably suited in his black vest, posture ramrod straight, scalp catching the moonlight, sleeping alone in the cold wind at the highest point of the Island.
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