The Umbrella Conspiracy - By S. D. Perry Page 0,37

creamy marble flecked with gold; beautiful. And expensive, to say the least. She felt a vague wistfulness for the old days with Dick, all their grand plans and hopes for each score. This was what real money could buy.

She readied herself, grasping the cold, flowing metal of the latch and pushing the door open. A quick sweep with the Beretta and she felt herself relax; she was alone.

There was a molded fireplace to her right beneath an ornate, red and gold tapestry. A low, modern couch and oval coffee table sat atop a burnt orange carpet of oriental design, and against the back wall - - a pump-action shotgun was mounted on dual hooks, shining in the light from the antique light fixture overhead. Jill grinned and hurried across the room, unable to believe her luck.

Please be loaded, please be loaded.

As she stopped in front of it, she recognized the make. Guns weren't her strong suit, but it was the same as the S.T.A.R.S. used: a Remington M870, five shots.

She bolstered the Beretta and lifted the shotgun with both hands, still grinning - - and the smile dropped away as both mounting hooks clicked upward, released from the weight of the gun. At the same time, there was a heavier sound behind the wall, a sound like balanced metal changing position.

Jill didn't know what it was, but she didn't like it.

She turned around quickly, searching the room for movement. It was as still as when she'd entered, no screaming birds, no sudden alarms or flashing lights, none of the pictures fell off the wall. There was no trap.

Relieved, she quickly checked the weapon and found it fully loaded. Someone had taken care of it, the barrel clean and smelling faintly of cleaner and oil; right now, it was about the best smell she could imagine. The solid weight of it in her hands was reassuring, the weight of power.

She searched the rest of the room and was disappointed not to find any more shells. Still, the Remington was a find. S.T.A.R.S. vests had a back holster for a shotgun or rifle, and although she wasn't that hot with an over-the-shoulder draw, at least she could carry it without tying up her hands.

There was nothing else of interest in the room. Jill walked to the door, excited to get back to the main hall and share her discoveries with Barry. She'd checked out every room that she could open on this side of the first floor. If he'd managed the same, they could head upstairs to finish their search for the Bravos and their missing teammates.

And then, hopefully, get the hell out of this morgue.

She closed the door behind her and strode across the slate-colored tiles of the classy marble room, hoping, as she grasped the knob, that Barry had found Chris and Wesker. They sure didn't come this way.

The door was locked. Jill frowned, turning the small gold knob back and forth. It rattled a little, but wouldn't give at all. She peered at the crack where the door met the frame, suddenly a little anxious.

There it was, by the handle-the thick sliver of steel that indicated a dead-bolt, and a very solid one; the entire area surrounding it was reinforced. But only one keyhole, and that's for the knob...

Click! Click! Click!

Dust rained down from above as the sound of gears turning filled the room, a deep, rhythmic clatter of metal from somewhere behind the stone walls.

What?

Startled, Jill looked up-and felt her stomach shrivel in on itself, her breath catching in her throat.

The high ceiling that she'd admired earlier was moving, the marble at the corners powdering into dust with the heavy grind of stone against stone. It was coming down.

In a flash she was back at the door to the shotgun room. She snatched at the handle, pushing it down... ... and found it locked as solidly as the first.

Holy shit! Bad thing! Bad thing!

Panic rising through her system, Jill ran back to the other door, her frightened gaze drawn back to the lowering ceiling. At two to three inches each second, it'd hit the floor in less than a minute.

Jill raised the shotgun and aimed at the door to the hall, trying not to think about how many shots it would take to blow apart a reinforced steel dead-bolt; it was all she had, the picks wouldn't work on that kind of lock.

The first round exploded against the door and splinters flew, revealing exactly what she'd feared.

The metal