Chapter 11: The Calm Before…

(JASON)

He sat alone in his office at the Denver PD Academy. He had finished reading the blast letter a second time, having already made his decision. Raccoon City needs recruits, does it?

Jason Kingston had been on the job long enough to remember when the City part of Raccoon City had seemed like a bad joke. Now, America's biggest small town was well on its way toward becoming the Chicago of the Rockies. If they needed new cops all of a sudden…Maybe Irons, or somebody underneath him, has finally decided to clean up their act.

He remembered Brian Irons from the Academy; remembered what an obnoxious, lecherous ass the barrel-shaped man had been. How he'd ended up as Chief of Police was something Jason would never guess (not that he didn't have his suspicions). Still…

Denver PD was full. Worse, budget cuts were threatening the careers of several veteran officers, such as Jason himself. If he could get some of his new graduates out into the police force somewhere else, they'd at least have work.

He didn't like the idea of feeding young, idealistic rookies to a corrupting dragon like Irons, but he didn't really have a choice.

He decided he'd send one in first, as a trail case. He remembered this particular rookie well: a friendly, good natured young man with above average intelligence and who was also an expert shot with a handgun

Jason nodded to himself. Kennedy. We'll send in Kennedy first. If he works out, then I'll send in Thompson and Wade. If not…Well, there was no point in worrying about that.

Jason felt a little better now. He'd secured a job for at least one of his prized recruits.

"Now let's see if I can keep mine" he muttered to himself, before wading back into the quagmire that was Denver police procedure.

(CHRIS)

Chris's first impression of London was simple. That's it? He wondered to himself, looking around. The terminal here didn't look much different from the one he'd left in Missouri; true, the fashions were a little different. But not the accents. He'd heard once that people from the Midwest and people from England had spoke in a similar way, but he hadn't believed it until he heard it for himself.

And there were people from all over here, too. Chris saw Indians, full, Indian-Indians. He saw French and Germans. He saw a small group of business men of Asian decent, a rather large and boisterous family of either Italian or Greek extraction, and a few Spaniards.

By far, though, he saw lots of Brits. It wasn't as big an issue as he'd expected. European…quirkiness was something he'd always taken for granted. In reality…

"It's not so different" he said aloud, looking around.

A passing traveler paused to gape at him, then wondered away, muttering to himself irritably in a language Chris didn't speak. He shrugged, then decided to move out of the way.

There were all sorts of people in the lobby, some carrying large, white poster boards, on which they'd written the names of whoever they'd come to claim. Others, lacking sign-making skills or just not being innovative enough, simply shouted out the names of their loved ones at the top of their lungs. The cacophony was relentless.

Chris was used to dealing with loud noises, though. His time with the Air Force had either strengthened or deadened his hearing to the point the extra sound didn't bother him. He focused on the signs, his eyes narrowed as he tried to make them out. Most of them were in English, but Chris wouldn't have known had he not looked very closely; some of these people had the handwritten of a slow Third Grader.

At last, he found what he was looking for: a plain, brown piece of cardboard, once the side of a box, on which someone had written in black Magic Marker his online handle. Chris took a moment to study the sign's holder: a tall, thin man with light brown hair and the casual sort of good looks that immediately made him jealous. He headed toward the man anyway. This was either Trapper, or someone in contact with him. Either way, this was who he needed to speak to.

The man lowered his sign and gave Chris the same once over. If he was impressed with the STARS marksman, he didn't let on. Chris didn't like the feeling that he'd been weighed, measured, and found wanting; all the same, there wasn't anything he could do about it.

"Reddy?" the sign-holder asked.

Chris nodded. "That's right. Trapper?"

The other man bobbed his head once in agreement. Chris was already beginning to see he was a man subtle of word and gesture. "Good. Let's head out. I've got transport waiting for us outside." Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away. Shouldering his bag (he'd always been one to pack lightly), Chris followed.

There was a circle driveway outside, just like there had been at both airports Chris had flown from back in the States. Trapper angled toward a nondescript white van idling by the curb. Chris thought it looked like something a pedophile would drive, but kept his opinion to himself.

Trapper walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger's side door (Right, they drive on the wrong side here Chris realized). The rear door slid open seemingly of its own accord. It was dark inside.

"Go on, get in" said a woman from the driver's seat. She was brunette, and while she didn't sound especially old, she had a face that bore the marks of a sad life.

Chris did as instructed, noting with some small apprehension that the door slid closed on its own as well. Then he realized it was on a motor, and relaxed…right up until he saw the other occupant of the van.

"You're Reddy, right?" asked the giant sitting in the back.

Chris didn't answer at first, struck by the sheer physical presence of the man. Chris was a little past six feet tall; this guy had a good four inches on him, easily. Further, his biceps were as big around as Chris's thighs, while his neck resembled a tree trunk.

"You deaf, brother? I asked you a question."

"Uh…" Chris wracked his brain. They'd worked this all out on the internet. "No, I'm Redbird" Chris managed at last. Reddy had been a childhood nickname, REDBIRD his call sign back in the Air Force. They were two unrelated pieces of data; something he didn't expect Umbrella to piece together on its own. Still… "Who are you?"

The big man pointed to his chest. "Me? I'm John. John Andrews. I'm Canadian, in case you were wondering."

"I'm David Trapp" said the man in the passenger's seat. "I put together this little network of ours. And if you couldn't tell by my cultured tone and ability to pronunce words correctly, I'm a citizen of this lovely Kingdom." He looked back at Chris, smiling faintly to show he was kidding.

"I'm Karen" said the woman. "Karen Driver, from Pennsylvania. And I do the…well; I've got the right name for my job, at least."

Chris smiled, then turned back to the big man, John. "And you're in charge of…?"

John grinned tightly, the muscles in his ridiculous neck flexing. "Me? I'm in charge of…public relations."

Chris chuckled at that. Karen Driver snorted. David Trapp…smiled faintly. John looked rather pleased with his joke.

Chris nodded to himself. These were good people. We can do this he realized. We will do this.

(MAT)

Mat was getting tired of being at home. He wasn't doing anything; he needed to be out, actually contributing to the fight. He needed to go find Jill. It was just them against Umbrella now.

He'd seen Barry right before the STARS weapons expert had left for the second, final time about a week earlier. He'd set Mat up with a special back holster for the M1911. It placed the weapon at the small of his back; wearing a jacket, the small .45 was almost totally invisible. Even better, there had been enough space between his belt and the holster to slide in Rain's knife. He'd checked himself in the mirror, and seen that neither weapon was visible.

That accomplished, he grabbed his wallet…and Rebecca's STARS badge, then slid them both into his pocket. He'd been carrying that with him everywhere he went, since she'd given it to him two weeks earlier. He wasn't sure why; the familiar weight just served to remind him that he'd lost a friend.

He opened the door, started to step outside…and almost stepped on the small, brown paper box at his door. Curious, he picked it up and stepped back inside.

He gave the box a cautious shake, unsure what it might contain. Had it been a bomb, as he feared, it didn't go off after that, so he decided it was safe to open.

Inside was a single, small, leather bound book. Mat looked at the front cover.

Operational Records

James Marcus

He stopped, looking at it in confusion. How-? He saw a small sheet of paper inside the front cover. He pulled it out, and read the typed note.

If you intend to keep going after Umbrella, this will likely be all you need to bring them down. I have already contacted a reporter at the Raccoon Press, and have sent him a portion of this book electronically, to convince him it is genuine. He will meet you at J's Bar tonight at seven o'clock. Bring him this book, and keep an eye on him. Umbrella isn't likely to let their dirty little secrets out without a fight.

He couldn't recognize the handwriting on a typed note, but he had a pretty strong hunch who had sent it to him. He slid the small journal into his front pocket, then stepped out into the early morning September air.

That's the end of "Before the Storm." This one was a bit more difficult to write, due to the lack of action, but I'm glad I got the extra experience of writing something more drama-oriented than I'm used to.

Well, thanks for reading. If you'd be so kind, drop me a review for this story; if you're really feeling generous, go back and review Evil…Redefined. That poor thing only has eight reviews…

Anyway, I'm going to try to start uploading every Saturday. I intend to have the beginning of the next story up by then; subscribe to me if you want to get instant notifications of when I publish something.

Anyway, thanks once again for reading. I do this all for you guys.

-Godzillafan93