Chapter 594: Fake Ada, Carla's Promise
Only the weapons they'd used and the clothes and shoes they'd worn were left on the scene; the people themselves were nowhere to be found.
Eddie's eyes flickered as he took it in—wasn't this the hallmark of the C-Virus? Unless the host pupated into a full monster, any bioweapon turned J'avo would rapidly re-knit its muscles after a fatal wound, generating searing heat and sprouting arthropod and insect traits in the process.
The Virus lets the host keep most of its reason and intellect; that's why the terrorists can keep the peacekeepers tied up for so long.
The victims vanish because the viral repair process dumps heat; when the body can't take the temperature, it incinerates itself, leaving not even ash—like they'd never existed.
Rebecca woke up groggy. Hunting for the plant had drained her. With her sweet doll-face she looked barely out of her teens; no one would guess she was a married mother, only that she was the life of the party.
"Honey, what's so funny on the news?" Rebecca flashed a sugary smile; she always came off like the girl next door—adorable and approachable.
"Nothing much—just that the world's about to change." Eddie chuckled.
"Soft-hearted now? Planning to save the world?" Rebecca teased; she knew her husband inside out.
No profit, no action. Without a payoff, her man wouldn't lift a finger—except maybe if one of his wives begged, and even then it was best not to make a habit of it. Playing hero wasn't Eddie's style.
Smack! Rebecca was ambushed!
Eddie smirked. "I'm not out to save the world. We've already built the ark; if things go south, we blast off and leave."
Rebecca gave him a sweet smile. As a wife she asked for little, and she certainly wasn't high-maintenance—whatever her husband decided, she'd back him. "Whatever you say, I'm with you."
Jessica was still the Helicopter pilot; ever since Hilda and Manuela got pregnant, the bodyguard slot had belonged to Jessica once she returned from maternity leave.
Back on Goddess Island, Carla took the samples and patted Eddie's shoulder like a big-sister boss. "Nice work, little Hubby!"
Eddie raised an eyebrow. "Why 'little Hubby'?"
Carla batted her lashes. "Because it's fun. Don't you like your big sister—or do you prefer a little sister instead?"
The remark hit Eddie where it counted: his ideal type was always an older woman—mature, caring, and worldly.
"When you're done, I'll show you something good." Eddie's wicked grin carried a meaning only a spouse would catch.
Carla rolled her eyes; her husband was dead-set on getting her pregnant. "Fine—once I finish the experiment, I'll give you one. Really, are you that afraid I'll run off?"
"Of course. I can't wait for our daughter to arrive; she'll be as beautiful as you. You're gorgeous now, and you had your own charm before—our girl will take after you." Eddie beamed.
Seeing his earnest face, Carla no longer cared about her looks. Though she now wore Ada's visage, their daughter would inherit her original beauty.
Tears shimmered in Carla's eyes; his words summoned her past—how she'd shaped herself into Ada for revenge against Eddie, driven by hatred.
In the end she'd succeeded: Carla became Ada, identical in beauty, and the man obeyed her every whim—only something felt off… she seemed to have fallen for him!
"What if our daughter doesn't look like me?" Carla asked, tears trembling on her lashes.
"Then she'll look like me—though that'll be unfortunate; she'll be prettier taking after you." Eddie explained gently, his smile warm.
Carla burst out laughing, her heart glowing. Whatever happened, her husband would never reject her—and that was enough. She was Carla, and that was all she needed to be.
In a border town between the Middle East and Eastern Europe, the local bar was one of the few places to unwind.
It served decent steak and cheap, hearty ale—the perfect spot for mercenaries to drink and decompress.
Piers sat his men in front of a man, cut into a steak, and washed it down with a swig of beer. "The steak here isn't half-bad—hard to imagine finding grub this good in a war zone. What do you think, friend?"
The war-torn stretches of the Middle East and Eastern Europe span two oceans. It's chaotic, barren; a tavern like this is a miracle, and it could be robbed any day now.
A man sat hunched over his drink, spirit low. "You've got the wrong guy, pal. You looking for a bodyguard? My price isn't cheap."
Piers grinned. "Money's no problem; we're just short the right man. Am I right, Captain?"
Chris pressed his temples, anguished. "I'm not a captain. You've got the wrong man."
Piers sighed—same old story. Chris seemed to be running from something. "What are you fleeing from? We were ambushed in South America, but it wasn't your fault. The Western Federation handed the culprits over; Kaplan's dead. It's over."
Chris snarled, grabbing Piers by the collar. "It's not over! Ten-odd brothers died—I won't forget that debt."
Piers was helpless; his own family was in the Western Federation—he couldn't wipe it off the map. "The mastermind's dead, so it's finished. We've had our revenge."
Chris lifted his glass, desolate. "Back then only five of us in Raccoon City's S.T.A.R.S. made it out alive; the rest died. I thought we'd escaped fate—yet they still died."
Five? There were Wesker, Barry, Chris, Jill, Eddie, Rebecca, and the silent Brad—seven, wasn't there?
"Wasn't it seven?" Piers asked.
Chris sneered. "Seven? Hah—Wesker and Brad weren't even human!"
Chapter 595: I Have a Wife, You Don't
Chris's loathing for those two spoke for itself. Wesker was almost tolerable—after all, everyone has dreams; every man for himself.
The mercenaries in the tavern fell silent—many were BSAA squad members in disguise, and they knew how it felt to be betrayed by comrades and left isolated.
Clap! Clap! Applause rang out from the side.
A man in a metal mask, sipping a drink, applauded. "Well said—this world is filthy. All your hard work can't match a single word from the elite: if they want you dead, you die."
"Friend, sounds like you've got a past." Chris couldn't place him.
"Just some ugly history. Better to live free than slave away." The masked man laughed, downed his vodka, set the glass down, and left.
Piers frowned; the masked man felt familiar, yet he couldn't recall who. "Tail him—he could be trouble."
A subordinate followed, but the moment he stepped outside he was silently knocked out cold.
The masked man was Kevin, half-blown apart and resurrected by the Virus.
"Captain, we need you. bioweapons are popping up worldwide; BSAA is stretched thin. Come back and lead us." Piers turned to him.
Chris waved him off. "I'm not going back. I like my life here. Saving the world is your gig. I've got a wife and kids—I won't risk it."
Chris indeed had a wife and children here; he worked hard to support them.
In these chaotic lands, finding a woman to marry is the easiest thing in the world.
Save the world? That's for heroes. Chris isn't one; he just wants a quiet life.
"Do you realize bioweapons will hit here too? The Virus will spread; terrorists will tear your family apart." Piers seized Chris's collar and shouted.
Chris remained unruffled. "My wife and kids will be perfectly safe—no need to worry. Terrorists? The world's never short of them; you can't kill them all. I won't wipe out one terror group for another."
His words carried a barb: Kaplan's unauthorized drone strikes on foreign soil were public knowledge, and the Western Federation itself was now plagued by terror attacks.