Chapter Text
The bullet whistled past Leon's ear, so close that he felt the heat of it. And the only clear thought in his head was: don't take another job Hunnigan recommends.
He pivoted out from cover, fired twice, and heard a grunt. There were two more, flanking from the side. His bullets weren't enough.
Then he heard movement above.
A black silhouette swung over the second-floor railing, landing without a sound. She raised her gun and fired twice, clean and economical, and both flankers dropped. The third turned to run, but her third shot caught him in the back of the knee. He went down hard, papers scattering across the pavement.
Leon stepped out from cover, crunching over broken glass, and knelt to gather the scattered documents. All the intel copies were there.
"You're slow," Ada said. She stood two paces away, holstering her weapon, her tone carrying that familiar hint of mockery.
"I was pinned at the stairwell by three guys," Leon said, straightening the stack and looking up at her. "How long were you watching from up there?"
"A while." She walked over, reached into the inner pocket of her trench coat, and tossed something at him. He caught it—a set of car keys. "Corner of the street. Dark blue sedan. Clean shirt and extra mags in the trunk."
"How did you know I—" He glanced at his torn sleeve. "Never mind. I'm not asking."
"Smart."
She turned and started walking the other way. Leon called after her: "Where are you going?"
"The intel's with you. They're after me, not you. Take the car. Ten minutes. Same place as always."
He wanted to say we go together, but the words died in his throat. She was already gone, her black coat flickering at the mouth of the alley, and then nothing. She was always like this. He got used to it.
After that mess in Washington two years ago, he hadn't been able to find her for six months. Then in Prague, he finally caught up with her and let out everything he'd been bottling up. She'd looked at him for a long time, and then said: "Leon, you're really annoying sometimes."
But after that, she never disappeared for that long again.
Occasionally, intel of unknown origin would land in his inbox. Missions would overlap, and she'd show up just when he was about to hit his limit. Even this time, when Hunnigan slid the file across the desk, there, in the second page's collaborator field, was an initial: "A.W."
He didn't ask. Hunnigan glanced at him and offered no explanation.
Leon closed his fist around the car keys, crossed the alley to the corner, and found the blue sedan. In the trunk were a clean shirt, extra magazines, and a half-full bottle of water.
He leaned against the door, changed his shirt, and drained the water. Then he reloaded, got in, and started the engine.
Ten minutes later, he pushed open the glass door of the twenty-four-hour dockside café. In the corner, Ada was already seated, a black coffee in her hand.
She set the cup down and slid an envelope across the table. "New job."
Leon sat and opened it. Inside was a mission brief: track down the buyer of a piece of intel—someone was peddling technical specifications for biochemical agents from an underground lab in Eastern Europe. The buyer's identity was unknown, accessible only through a chain of intermediaries. At the bottom of the brief, a name was listed as the local contact: Alexei Petrov.
"He has a good reputation in the circles," Ada said. "Well-connected, discreet. Often bridges buyers and sellers. This line we're chasing—he's the only one who can get us on it."
Leon's gaze lingered on the name a second longer than necessary. "You know him?"
"Worked with him before." Her voice was flat.
Leon folded the brief and tucked it back into the envelope. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow, eight a.m. Dock warehouse district. He's picking us up." She took a sip of her coffee and set it down, the rim meeting the tabletop with barely a sound. "Don't be late."
"Am I ever?"
She looked at him and the corner of her mouth twitched, but she said nothing.
Leon pulled the empty water bottle from his pocket and set it by her hand. "That bottle from the trunk. I drank it. Next time, leave two."
Ada glanced down at the empty bottle, then up at him. "Next time, buy your own."
At eight the next morning, Leon stood at the iron gate of the warehouse district. Ada had arrived two minutes early, leaning against the railing with her sunglasses pushed up on her head.
The gate swung open from inside.
Alexei Petrov stood in the doorway. Taller than Leon had pictured, early thirties, brown hair cropped short, a hint of stubble along his jaw. He wore a thin gray sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing solid forearms.
When he saw Ada, his eyes lit up.
Leon thought that light was a little too bright.
"Ada," Alexei said, grinning. His smile tilted to one side—rakish, the kind of handsome that didn't take itself too seriously. "Long time."
He opened his arms and stepped forward.
Ada didn't pull away. She let the embrace happen, and gave his back a casual pat. "You look decent," she said.
"You look—" Alexei drew back, gave her an appraising once-over. "Still the same."
"Likewise."
Alexei finally turned his attention to Leon. He extended a hand with easy posture, but his eyes did a quick sweep before the handshake landed—head to toe, a professional assessment that took less than a second.
"And this is?" he asked Ada.
"Partner," Ada said. "Temporary."
Leon took the offered hand and gave a polite nod. "Leon Kennedy."
"Welcome, welcome." Alexei gestured them inside. "I've been tracking this buyer lead for two weeks. Got an update yesterday. Come in, I've got a table."
Over the next two days, Alexei was thoroughly competent. He laid out the current leads, walked them through several possible contact routes, even offered to pose as an intermediary to draw the buyer out.
But something about it gnawed at Leon.
The way Alexei leaned in when he spoke to Ada—tilting his head, closing the distance, like he was about to share a secret. Leon knew it was just conversational style. But he noticed.
The way, at dinner the second night, Alexei didn't even glance at the menu before telling the waiter: "Negroni for her."
The waiter nodded and walked off. Ada said nothing. Leon looked down at his own menu and didn't register a single word.
The way, when they came back from a meet with an informant that evening, Ada had a smudge of plaster dust on her cuff. Leon opened his mouth to point it out, but Alexei had already reached over. He gave two light taps on her outer forearm, brushing the dust off.
But Leon saw the way Alexei's thumb paused against the fabric of her coat for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
He said nothing. Just picked up his glass for a sip of water, but found it empty, and set it back down.
That night at the hotel, they parted ways at the corridor. Leon stopped in front of his door, hand hovering over the handle, and ran through the empty glass and the leaning-in and the thumb that lingered a beat too long in his mind twice.
Then his phone buzzed. It was Hunnigan.
"Kennedy? How's it going?"
"Progress is fine. No backup needed."
"Actually, I was calling to say I can send someone—"
"No." His voice came out harder than he'd intended. He paused, and evened it out. "Don't send anyone. I've got this."
A beat of silence on the other end. Hunnigan's tone carried a faint edge of probing: "You sure?"
"Yeah."
"…Alright. Stay safe."
"Will do."
He hung up, quickly unlocked his door, tossed the phone onto the bed, and paced twice across the room. Then he stopped, pressed his palms to his face, and let out a long breath.
That went well.
What he didn't know was that across the hall, Ada was leaning against her own door.
Her phone screen glowed with a surveillance feed—not aimed at him specifically, but the hotel corridor had public cameras, and she'd tapped in out of habit. Old spy habits. Then his phone call came through, and before he'd even spoken, she'd recognized his footsteps.
"Don't send anyone."
"…I've got this."
Ada lowered the phone, her back against the door, and found herself smiling.
Cute.