July 17, 1998, 11:00 AM
The air in the room was stale, heavy with the smell of antiseptic and old age. Ozwell E. Spencer sat in his wheelchair like a fallen king on his throne. Transparent tubes snaked from his fragile body, connecting him to machines that hummed softly, feeding him, keeping him alive. His eyes, sunken into a parchment-like face, were still sharp, cutting. They were fixed on the young man standing before him.
"Marcus is alive, you say?" His voice was a dry whisper, like the rustling of dead leaves. "And you come to tell me. Interesting."
Eddie maintained an expression of controlled indignation. Not a muscle in his face moved. "I don't believe it's the real Marcus," he said, his voice firm. "I suspect one of the… creatures infected by the virus has assumed his appearance, his memory. An abomination wearing his face." He clenched his fists, a theatrical but effective gesture. "It's an insult to his memory. Uncle Spencer, I know you were friends. You can't let this happen."
An almost imperceptible smile, thin as a spiderweb, formed on Spencer's thin lips. This boy was so naive. He had no idea who had signed Marcus's execution order years ago. Alex was right: a high IQ, but the emotional intelligence of a child. Perfect. A sharp and easy-to-handle tool.
"Of course I will help you, my boy," Spencer hissed. "Tell me what you need."
"A team," Eddie replied without hesitation. "A small tactical unit, under my command. I can't hunt that… thing alone. And… funds. Let's say, five million dollars for equipment and recruitment."
Five million. An insignificant amount. Spencer would have laughed, if his lungs had allowed it. "You don't like S.T.A.R.S., Eddie?"
"They're cops, not soldiers," Eddie replied with contempt. "I need professionals."
"Very well," Spencer conceded, giving an almost imperceptible nod. "You shall have your team. Six men. And I'll give you thirty million, not five. Buy the best. And there's one more thing." His eyes gleamed with a predatory light. "Alex tells me you have a talent for virology. I am assigning you to the underground laboratory in Raccoon City. You will work with William Birkin."
Eddie pretended to be taken by surprise, a confused expression on his face. "Me? Uncle, but I… I don't know anything about serums. I can barely cure a cold."
"Don't lie to me, boy," Spencer said, a hint of steel in his voice. "Don't you want to avenge your… Uncle Marcus?"
"Of course, but… you were so close. Why don't you…"
Spencer interrupted him with a tired wave of his hand. "The adult world is complicated, Eddie. There are forces at play that even I cannot control directly. I need you. Do you accept?"
Eddie pretended to think for a moment. "If you say so, uncle… then I accept."
"Good." Spencer turned to the massive shadow stationed motionless behind him. A man with white hair and a scar that cut across his face, like a block of granite dressed in a military uniform. "Sergei. Escort my nephew to Birkin. Make sure he settles in."
"Yes, Lord Spencer," the man replied, his voice a deep rumble.
Sergei Vladimir. A name that alone inspired terror in the corridors of Umbrella.
July 20, 1998, 2:20 PM
Three days later, on the terrace of Eddie's villa, the sun was beating down. He had just left Alex's room, leaving her to rest. Sometimes, even an ice queen needed to be… placated.
"Sir," said Steward, the butler, with a discreet bow. "The first candidate has arrived."
"Show her in."
A few moments later, a woman walked onto the terrace. She had blonde hair pulled back in a military ponytail, a cold expression, and a slender body clearly hardened by years of training. She moved with the economy of motion of a predator.
"I'm Eddie Cai," he introduced himself, holding out his hand. "Captain of this unit. Code name: Triangle Team."
"Karen LesProux," she replied, her handshake firm and dry. "Former French special forces. Code name: Lupo."
Eddie picked up her file. "Thirty-eight years old. Well-preserved." A look of annoyance crossed the woman's face, but she said nothing. "I see there's a criminal charge here. Murder. Your husband."
"He was abusive," she replied, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "He threatened my daughter. I did what I had to do."
"I understand." Eddie closed the file. "The job I'm offering is dirty. We will face monsters, not men. Things that shouldn't exist."
"Monsters have many faces, Mr. Cai," she replied. "I'm ready. If you hire me, your safety is guaranteed."
"You're in, Lupo," Eddie said. "Welcome to the team."
Over the next two days, the team took shape. He recruited only the misfits, the outcasts, the broken soldiers the world had discarded but whose talents were undeniable.
Beltway, an explosives expert dishonorably discharged for blowing up an entire shooting range "as a joke."
Christine Yamata, a Japanese virologist struck off the registry for unauthorized experiments on animals. And, it was rumored, on humans.
Michaela Schneider, a German field medic dismissed from the army for her tendency to perform emergency amputations without anesthesia.
Vladimir Bodrovski, a Russian sniper, a former KGB spy whom Umbrella had placed on the team to keep an eye on him.
And finally, Vector. No one knew his real name. A master of hand-to-hand combat and infiltration, as lethal and silent as Hunk.
A pack of wolves, ready to be unleashed.
July 21, 1998, 4:00 PM
Ding Dong.
The villa's doorbell rang. Eddie went to open it himself.
On the doorstep stood Jill Valentine. She wore cargo pants and a blue tank top, practical combat attire. The modified Beretta he had given her was secured in a holster on her thigh. Her gaze was serious, determined.
"Hello, Jill," Eddie said, a disarming smile on his face. "I see you found time for your visit. Please, come in."