"..."
"Is that so..."
Rebecca rubbed her chin, mulling over Havel's "Uncle at Umbrella" story. It sounded plausible enough. At least, it didn't have any obvious holes. Given the current situation, she decided to trust her partner.
However, before she could ask more—
Tap... Tap...
"So that's the truth of it?"
A deep, raspy voice drifted from the next car.
"No wonder the Arklay Mountains are crawling with these disgusting monsters. Hey... don't move. Both of you. I don't want to hurt you, but don't try anything stupid. I just followed the gunshots here. Didn't expect to stumble upon such a big secret."
"I just have a few questions. Are you RPD? Or some special unit? What are you doing here? What's the mission?"
The door to the next car slid open slowly.
A figure stepped into the light.
He wore blue jeans and a white muscle shirt that showed off his impressive physique. His arms were covered in tribal tattoos. Around his neck hung a set of dog tags, and on one wrist dangled a broken handcuff. His dark hair was slicked back in a messy undercut, and his eyes were as sharp as a hawk's.
It was him. The man from the file.
Billy Coen. Ex-Marine Second Lieutenant. The escaped convict.
He must have been listening to their conversation for a while.
Now, he stood there, leveling a handgun directly at Havel and Rebecca. His finger hovered over the trigger. One wrong move, and he would fire.
"It's Billy Coen!"
Rebecca gasped. "The prisoner from the transfer order! The mass murderer! Are you planning to slaughter us too, you psycho?"
Seeing the dark muzzle of the gun, both Havel and Rebecca raised their hands. They knew better than to test the reflexes of a Marine Force Recon officer. Even if they tried to draw, he'd blow their fingers off before they cleared leather.
Despite the danger, Rebecca's tongue remained as sharp as ever. She glared at him, her sense of justice overriding her fear.
In the entire Resident Evil franchise, only Rebecca (in this era) and Leon Kennedy had the guts to trash-talk armed opponents like this.
Billy, however, just sighed. He was used to it. On the way to his execution, he had been spat on and cursed more times than he could count. "Mass murderer" was practically his middle name now.
He ignored the girl's insults. She was annoying, like a buzzing fly, but harmless.
"Hey," Billy said wearily. "I don't want to explain myself. You wouldn't believe me anyway."
"Now, lady... no, Little Girl. And you, sir. Keep those hands high. Don't lower them. Don't touch your weapons. My bullets don't have eyes."
He gestured with the gun, his gaze hardening. He shot Rebecca a warning look, hoping to shut her up. Her constant yapping was giving him a headache.
Havel and Rebecca exchanged a glance, then shrugged helplessly, raising their hands higher.
Havel decided to try diplomacy.
"Whoa, easy there, brother," Havel said, putting on a friendly smile behind his gas mask.
"We don't care about your rap sheet. Raccoon City Police don't usually handle federal cases, and S.T.A.R.S. definitely doesn't do bounty hunting. Bringing you in doesn't get us a bonus, so relax. I'm worried that gun might go off by accident."
"We are indeed RPD—S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team. We're here on a rescue mission. We got a distress call from this train a few hours ago about 'unknown organisms.' That's why we're here."
"As for your transfer order... we found it by the wreck near the tracks. Trust me, we're not going to rat you out. And the girl... she's just got a sharp tongue and too much justice in her system. She doesn't mean any harm."
Havel kept talking, his voice smooth and soothing, trying to lower Billy's guard. He slowly lowered one hand, extending it in a gesture of peace.
Whatever, Rebecca thought, glaring at Havel for the "sharp tongue" comment.
Billy listened, frowning.
He wasn't buying it. As a trained soldier, he knew a distraction tactic when he heard one. Havel was trying to lull him into a false sense of security.
Instead of lowering the gun, Billy raised it slightly, aiming squarely at Havel's chest.
"..."
Havel froze. His hand hung awkwardly in mid-air.
Damn, Havel thought. Tough crowd. Diplomacy failed.
Time for Plan B.
Billy's guard was too high. He couldn't get close enough. He needed an assist.
With his raised hand, Havel made a subtle gesture—a quick flick of his index finger.
Signal received.
Rebecca caught the movement. They had discussed this scenario with a look just moments ago. Mutual covering fire. Distraction. Takedown.
Diplomacy was dead. It was time for acting.
CLANG!
Thud...
"AHHH!!!"
Rebecca's face suddenly went pale. Her eyes widened in absolute terror as she looked past Billy's shoulder.
"B-Behind you! ZOMBIE! RUN!!!"
Her legs gave out, and she collapsed to the floor again, scrambling backward in a panic. It was a perfect reenactment of her earlier fright.
Havel mentally applauded. Bravo! Give this girl an Oscar!
If he hadn't known for a fact that the car behind Billy was empty, he would have been fooled himself. Her trembling, her pitch, the sheer desperation—it was masterclass acting. Why are you in S.T.A.R.S.? Go to Hollywood!
"..."
"What?!"
Billy Coen, despite his cynicism, was human. And he had just spent the last hour fighting monsters in these woods. He knew the threat was real. He couldn't gamble with a zombie biting his neck from behind.
Instinctively, he turned his head to check his six.
"NOW!"
Havel screamed internally.
He exploded into motion. His leg muscles, coiled like springs, unleashed all their power. In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance.
He didn't go for a punch. He spun, delivering a vicious roundhouse kick.
WHAM!
His heavy tactical boot connected with Billy's wrist.
The sound of impact was sickeningly loud. Billy's hand knocked wide, stinging with pain. His grip faltered, and the handgun went flying.
Clatter!
The gun skidded across the floor.
Havel didn't stop. He dove forward, tackling Billy around the waist.
"Gah!"
The two men crashed to the floor. Havel used his superior weight and the momentum to pin Billy down. It was a messy, ungraceful grapple—strong man on strong man, limbs tangling, grunting and shoving.
"Don't move! Or I'll blow your head off, murderer!"
While the men wrestled, Rebecca scrambled to her feet. She snatched up Billy's dropped handgun.
She leveled it at Billy's forehead, her hands steady, her eyes cold.
The acting was over. The S.T.A.R.S. officer was back.
Billy froze, looking up at the barrel of his own gun.
Checkmate.