Resident Evil_ Extinction - Keith R. A. DeCandido [37]
Suddenly, Isaacs was very much aware of Slater standing behind him. Slater was just stupid enough to tell the Committee what they wanted to hear rather than what they needed to hear.
“Continue with your research, Doctor.” Wesker’s image hadn’t yet caught up to his voice. “And be quick about it while it still is your research. This meeting is adjourned.”
The images of the Committee members, as well as the footage on the wall screens and the holograph of the globe, all winked out as one.
Were Slater not still in the room, Isaacs would have pointed out, if only to the empty air, that it would be his research no matter who administered it. But he saw no reason to give Slater more ammunition. He had been fairly certain that Slater was making his own reports to the Committee, even though technically the only person Slater was supposed to send any reports to was Isaacs himself.
Still, that was a problem for another day.
Isaacs turned around to see Slater grinning stupidly. “That went well.”
“I have work to do,” Isaacs said as he strode past Slater.
“Yeah, you do. And you’d be wise to do it quickly and not piss Wesker off.”
Continuing to ignore Slater, Isaacs proceeded to his lab. Only when he’d shut the door behind him did he allow himself to speak. Doing an exaggerated impersonation of Wainwright’s London accent, he said, “‘I don’t see much science at all!’ Imbeciles.”
With a glance, he saw that DiGennaro and Humberg had secured Hockey Jersey to the wall, a collar around his neck and shackles binding his wrists. The undead—or “biohazard,” to use the Committee’s preferred euphemism—struggled mightily against those restraints as soon as Isaacs walked into the room, but he ignored the creature as easily as he’d ignored Slater.
Isaacs reached into his lab-coat pocket and took out the device he’d been running since before walking into the room: a digital recorder.
He placed the recorder on the docking station attached to his computer. Using the mouse and keyboard, he instructed the program that ran as soon as he docked the recorder to isolate Wesker’s voice print.
“Continue with your threats, Wesker,” Isaacs muttered, “while it’s still your corporation to run.”
Hockey Jersey pulled harder against his restraints. Isaacs finally looked at him. “In due time.”
Then he turned to look at the lab’s far window.
And he smiled.
Officially, the only two projects that were currently active in this facility were Project Alice and the research into the domestication of the “biohazard.” Clone 86 was being prepped even now for the former, and Hockey Jersey was the latest subject to facilitate the latter.
But there was a third project that was just as active and even more important than those two, as far as Sam Isaacs was concerned.
It was only because that project was so much closer to fruition that Isaacs had taken the risk of bringing a digital recorder into the Committee meeting. But he would need Wesker’s voice to accomplish his goals.
And nobody would stand in his way.
NINE
BEFORE
In all her years as a cop, the thing that amazed Jill Valentine more than anything else was that every single person they ever brought in for questioning didn’t ask for a lawyer.
It was remarkable, really. Ever since the Miranda v. Arizona case in 1966, cops were legally obligated to tell you up-front that you could have legal representation present when you were questioned by the police or if you were under arrest. Without the lawyer present, you were on your own, a civilian who probably didn’t know nearly enough about the law sitting in a room full of people who worked with the law every day. Only a complete fool would go in there without an advocate, especially one they knew they were entitled to.
It wasn’t as if Miranda was a big secret. The most popular television shows on the air were cop shows, and had been