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Sherry Birkin considered herself to be an exceedingly patient person. She’d have to be, given the trajectory of her life and the men within it. Leon was self explanatory, of course—hard to handle, difficult to direct, both wildly independent and excessively clingy, all wrapped up in a thin veneer of ‘having his shit together’ (which he absolutely did not, a good 80% of the time). Jake, too, required enormous amounts of patience. He was a good man, a fantastic husband, and her best friend—but his temper was legendary, and for the first half dozen years they’d been married he boasted the emotional acumen of a feral raccoon. Chris was better, thanks in no small part to Claire riding his ass any time he stepped a toe out of line, but Sherry still preferred him in moderation. She loved Chris Redfield, but there’s only so many conversations she could have about the merits of whey protein before she felt like giving her healing mutation a run for its money. That is to say, Sherry was not an antsy sort. Which is why her nervous anticipation was all kinds of unusual. She’d been pacing her living room for the better part of an hour when the call finally came.
“Sher—”
“I thought you were sending me files?”
“About that…”
“Is this about Grace? It’s gotta be, did something happen on your date? How was the date? Are you going to see her again?”
“Okay, alright, slow down. Christ.”
“You don’t get to call me late at night—”
“It was only ten thirty—”
“Late at night, being cagey about some non-descript plan you have, not explain anything, then say you’re gonna send me details later. The last time you pulled some harebrained shit off the record Jake and I had to break you out of an Edonian prison.”
“Sherry!”
“What?”
“Let me talk. For fucks sakes, who raised you?”
“Simmons and lab rats, now spit it out, Kennedy.” The line was silent for a moment, and Sherry could picture Leon sucking air through clenched teeth and begging the universe for patience.
“Alright, look. We—I—need to be delicate about this. Grace didn’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to set a precedent here of digging into her past without her knowing.” That was… surprisingly mature of him. Leon had ruined more than one relationship with his boundless curiosity and need to insert himself as a problem solver into the lives of the people he loved.
“So… you’re dropping it?” She hedged.
“Fuck no, I’m not dropping it. But I need the plausible deniability, so you’re going to do the digging for me.” Okay, let's walk that praise back, he wasn’t being surprisingly mature, he was being a duplicitous idiot. But, like always, she couldn’t say no to Leon Kennedy.
“Alright, what do you need?”
“Grace had a restraining order against a man named Chase that expired around two years ago. He was our waiter last night—”
“He was your waiter? Oh my God, Leon, what happened? What did you do? Wait, what did he do?”
“Sherry!”
“Sorry, sorry, continue.”
“I don’t know what he did, that’s kind of the whole point of this. But there was a mild altercation,” it took every drop of Sherry Birkin’s willpower not to interrupt, but she kept her own counsel, “and we left to go to a different restaurant. Grace didn’t seem afraid of him, but courts don’t issue no-contact orders for no reason, and he said something about looking for her after the court order expired. I want to nip this in the bud, she’s got enough to deal with as it is without some asshole from her past stirring up shit.” Oh, he had it bad.
“And you want me to see what he did and make a threat assessment so you know how to handle it?” She said the quiet part aloud for him.
“That’s my girl, got it in one.” Leon’s voice was warm and fond, and Sherry grinned wildly at the praise. Her biological parents instilled in her a deep seeded need to please that she never quite recovered from.
“And you invited me to dinner—and presumably a show—because you knew I’d insist on being there to observe this dumpster fire from a front row seat,” she continued, her pleased grin turning just shy of wicked.
“... well, that, too, yeah.”
“You know me so well.”
“Love you, too, Sher.”
“Alright, I’ll see what I can find. I’ll call you when I’m done. And Leon?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m happy for you.” She hung up before he had the chance to splutter some embarrassed platitude. She didn’t need to hear it.
It was child’s play to find the guy—Chase Standford, trust fund baby, age twenty seven, degree in business from Dartmouth (and, the old adage C’s get degrees really came into play here), only one criminal charge resulting in six months probation and time served, and one civil judgement for—good God, a million dollars? What the fuck. The criminal charge was for domestic violence, and the court records were sealed under a protective order. Light work, for the likes of Sherry Birkin, of course. She had the trial transcripts, register of actions, and evidentiary files all downloaded in under half an hour. And it was bad.
The register of actions was long—over eighty entries spanning nine months, from arrest to sentencing (light as it was), but that didn’t tell her much. The transcripts she skimmed; a lot of it was standard fare, procedural stuff interspersed with some courtroom grandstanding on the parts of both parties. The evidentiary files, though, were over five hundred gigs of data, and when she unzipped the file it was clear why; there were hundreds of hours of video depositions, and thousands of photos. There were multiple charges levied, but only one Stanford had been convicted of—misdemeanor assault of a domestic partner. Sherry tabbed over to the civil judgement; a million dollars was a huge jury verdict for a civil case. Sure enough, the civil discovery files told much the same story as the criminal evidentiary files—she was starting to understand what happened, and was utterly enraged by it all.
This was a classic case of Affluenza; a rich kid that was never taught how to be a decent fuckin human being went and hurt someone—badly, in this case—and because he was young, wealthy, and attractive, the good old boy’s judge that sat on the bench gave the sonofabitch a slap on the wrist. It was cold comfort that he got some comeuppance in the civil system, but from what Sherry had seen and read, it wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot.
I’m coming over. Be there in an hour.
Seen, 1:43 p.m.
I’ll put coffee on.
Seen, 1:45 p.m.
When Leon opened the door his face was hard and his shoulders were stiff. Sherry didn’t bother with greetings and neither did he—merely stepping out of the way before she could bowl him over. She made a beeline for the kitchen and set about robbing Leon of his coffee. Splash of cream, spurt of honey, her favorite mug, and one very considering glance towards the whiskey on Leon’s top shelf later, she was seated at the kitchen bar.
“It’s worse than I thought, isn’t it?” He leaned against the fridge, his own cooling cup of coffee clenched tight in one fist.
“We should kill him,” she replied mildly.
“What?”
“We should kill him. I didn’t say we were going to,” she sighed.
“Threat assessment?” He kicked off the wall to come sit next to her.
“Realistically? Low. He’s not exactly made of stern stuff, and what he did, while fucking vile—” Leon held a hand up, waylaying her rant.
“Don’t tell me. I don’t need or want to know. At least not right now. If I’m gonna hear about it, it needs to be from Grace.” Sherry paused to study him. His mouth was set in a hard line and his muscles were coiled tight; his veneer of calm, summoned, somehow, from the bitchslapped depths of his psyche, was nearing the ends of its rope.
“Heard. The… inciting incident was situational and opportunistic. If they hadn’t been intimate partners already, it never would have happened. It, more likely than not, won’t ever happen again—at least not to Grace. For all intents and purposes, the asshole has been on the straight and narrow ever since. Given what we know of Grace, I don’t even think he poses a real risk of physical harm to her now,” Sherry shrugged. As much as she’d like to see the guy six feet under, Leon asked her for a threat assessment, and the truth of the matter was there wasn’t much of a threat to be had.
“So you’re saying I should drop it,” Leon replied tersely.
“Absolutely the fuck not. I’m saying we scare the shit out of him, no bodily harm, no maiming, just some good old fashioned menacing.” She took a sip of her coffee and deeply regretted forgoing the whiskey.
“And you think that will be enough?”
“Not enough to satisfy my thirst for revenge, but certainly enough to keep Grace safe and unbothered.” It would be easy, so easy to hide his body. Between the two of them, their kill count surpassed triple digits years ago, and she knew Leon had enough boltholes and safehouses that they could throw a dart at a map and find one within spitting distance that would be perfectly suited for disposal. But, revenge isn’t what he was asking of her, protection was, and as much as it galled her to admit, not only did Grace not really need protecting from the likes of Chase Stanford, she’d probably also take some measure of umbrage with wholesale, cold blooded murder. You exist in the world that Sherry and Leon did for long enough, and things like retaliatory assassination become a simple matter of tit-for-tat, but it wasn’t like that for Grace, not yet. Hopefully it never would be.
“So, what’s our play?” Leon asked, chin propped up on his closed fist. Sherry smiled, channeling as much of her husband as she could. A plan was forming; while Leon would likely want a higher degree of participation than what she had in mind, he did ask for plausible deniability, and that was precisely what he’d get.
“Why don’t you make us some reservations and let me do the heavy lifting?” This was going to be fun.
“Reservation for Birkin.” Sherry was dressed to kill, even though actual murder wasn’t on the table. She’d unearthed a sleek black number that hadn’t seen the light of day since her and Jake’s third honeymoon (“Sher, that’s just a vacation, you’ve been married for over a decade.” “Not with the amount of sex we have, it’s not.”) The hostess smiled politely at her.
“Right this way Mrs. Birkin. You’re the first of your party to arrive,” the girl moved to grab their menus and Sherry reached across the stand, deftly slipping a hundred dollar bill under her fingers.
“Could you seat us in Chase’s section, please? He’s a family friend, I like to support him whenever we come.” The hostess blinked at her, mildly taken aback.
“Ah… yes, of course Mrs. Birkin,” her eyes fell on the tennis necklace, then tracked down to the obscenely large diamond on her left hand. Clearly deciding that it was none of her business, the hostess led Sherry into the dining area without another word. She was seated at a corner table, far away from the entrance and nestled into an alcove close to the kitchen. It was as private as could be had with the restaurant’s open layout, and Sherry was quietly pleased—she couldn’t have planned it better herself. She rifled in her purse, withdrawing the manila folder and flicking absently through it while she waited.
“Good evening, my name is Chase and I’ll be your server for tonight,” the interruption came not a moment too soon, and Sherry glanced up to study the young man. He was attractive, in a pedestrian sort of way. Very Teen Vogue, with high cheekbones, honey brown eyes, and auburn hair. He studied her right back, obviously searching for the connection she’d claimed to have to him.
“Good evening, Mr. Stanford,” Sherry smiled with too many teeth.
“Do I, uh, know you?” His responding smile was uncertain, but not guarded.
“No, I’m afraid you don’t. But I know all about you. Why don’t you have a seat?” She motioned to the chair next to her.
“I’m not really supposed to—”
“I insist,” she flicked the clasp of her handbag open, just enough that the barrel of her service arm caught the gleam of the low lighting of the dining room. He gulped, all but collapsing into the seat.
“Listen, I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not—”
“Shh, shh, shh. You’ll get your turn, don’t worry.” Sherry slid a stack of photos from the manila folder, shoving them towards Chase. “Do you recognize the man in these photos?” The first was a snap shot of Leon with President Graham, taken at a press conference shortly after he got back from Spain. There were several that followed that showed him looking serious in suits at various assorted political events. Next were the photos of Leon with President Benford—rest his soul—standing at attention, clearly armed.
“That’s—”
“Leon Kennedy. Right hand man of several sitting presidents, I’m sure you’ve seen him before; he makes it into the news fairly often, given his high profile job.” Sherry smiled sweetly.
“That’s, that’s Grace’s—” Sherry dropped a hand to his knee, her fingernails digging painfully into his thigh. His mouth snapped shut.
“I said you’d get your turn, didn’t I?” Chase nodded wordlessly. “Good. Now, I’m sure you recognize these,” she set aside the photos of Leon, revealing the fruits of her hacking labor; photos of Grace used in his criminal trial. “It’s your handiwork, after all, isn’t it?” The blood fled from Chase’s face and his eyes were wide as he stared at the glossy prints.
“I… I don’t… I didn’t mean to,” he insisted, the barest hint of panic entering his voice.
“See, now that just isn’t true, is it Chase?” Sherry purred. She laid a hand atop her purse, inches away from her gun. “Now, I’ve heard about your little run in with Leon—he let you off real easy, didn’t he? Don’t answer that, it was rhetorical.” Her index finger traced the exposed muzzle of her pistol. “I’ll make this simple for you: Grace Ashcroft is off limits. You make any attempt to contact her, and I’ll know. The only thing standing between you and one of the most dangerous and capable active federal agents the U.S. government can boast is me. And let me tell you, Mr. Stanford, I argued for taking a pound of flesh. Leon, on the other hand, thinks you deserve a chance.” That wasn’t even a little bit true, but every bad cop needed a good one, and Sherry was fantastic at this game. “This is your chance. Step one toe out of line, I’m begging you. Because I would love to have an excuse to set right what the county of Hanover got wrong four years ago. New Hampshire doesn’t have the death penalty, but we’re very used to working outside the law.” Chase was frozen in his seat, eyes wide and mouth agape. “Do we have an understanding?” He nodded, frantically. “Good. Now, do you have anything to add? I did say you’d get a turn.”
“N-no ma’am,” he stammered, eyes darting to the side, looking for a way out.
“You’re in my seat.”
“Leon! Right on time!” Sherry closed the manila folder, hiding the photographs from view. Chase shot up from the chair, the only thing stopping it from upending completely being Leon’s hard grip on the top rail.
“Sorry to make you wait, Sher,” he grinned at her. “Oh, Chase, didn’t see you there. How are you this evening?” Chase stumbled back, tripping over his own feet to get away. Sherry was mildly surprised, and somewhat disappointed, that he hadn’t wet himself yet—she was losing her touch.
“F-fine. I’m, uh. I understand. I won’t—I’m not going to—”
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Sherry snorted.
“I’ll go get your server,” he bolted.
“I thought he was supposed to be our server?” Leon sat in the recently vacated chair, gaze falling curiously to the closed folder.
“I’d be shocked if he stayed in the state after our little tête-à-tête,” Sherry remarked, thoroughly pleased with herself. She slid the folder back into her purse, sealing it away and hiding it from view. “So, what’s good here?”
“The Spanakorizo is to die for. I’m still craving dolmas, though, want to split an app?” Leon’s eyes were full of mischief.
“Absolutely. And don’t think for a second you're getting out of telling me about your date. I want to hear every detail!” She’d give him the play by play of their little gambit later, for now they had some catching up to do.