Location: Route D500, En route to the French Border
Date: July 30, 2020
Time: 16:00 Local Time
The road was a blur of gray asphalt and green pines, smeared into streaks by pure velocity.
Alen Wesker was not riding; he was cutting through the atmosphere. The Ducati Panigale V4 roared beneath him, a mechanical beast pushed to its absolute thermal limit.
He was still wearing the armor of his father—the iconic tactical suit from the Umbrella Chronicles era. The long, glossy black leather trench coat whipped violently in the slipstream, its high mandarin collar shielding his neck. The flaring vented tails snapped behind him like the wings of a dark angel. Beneath it, a tailored wool suit and ribbed turtleneck provided a seamless, intimidating silhouette.
He was a wraith on two wheels, leaving Eastern Europe behind for a brief, surgical strike into France. His objective: Retrieval.
He reached the private maritime extraction point at dusk. A nameless cargo ship, registered to a shell company in Panama, waited in the mist. It was part of the "Ghost Fleet"—assets that officially did not exist.
Alen drove the bike up the ramp and into the dark belly of the hold. As the ship pulled away from the dock, his satellite phone buzzed against his chest.
Caller ID: MATEO CÁRDENAS ORTEGA.
Alen tapped his earpiece. "Ortega."
"Amigo," the voice was warm, crackling with static but undeniably cheerful. "How is the air in the mountains? I hear it is cold this time of year."
"The climate is manageable," Alen replied, walking to the railing of the ship to watch the sun dip below the horizon. His voice was flat, transactional. "My concern is the hardware. Is the asset secure?"
"My crew treats that VTOL better than their own children," Ortega chuckled. "But I have made... modifications. You will see. We will talk face to face."
"I look forward to it."
The line cut. Alen stood alone on the deck, a figure of absolute solitude against the darkening sea.
The Hangar
Location: Private Airfield (Sector 7), Rural France
Date: July 31, 2020
Time: 07:30 Local Time
The hangar was a fortress of corrugated steel hidden in a valley of lavender fields—a jarring contrast of industrial warfare and natural beauty.
Alen rolled his bike to a stop at the gate. The guards, recognizing the encrypted clearance code flashing on his HUD, saluted sharply and waved him through without a word.
Inside, the hangar smelled of high-octane aviation fuel, ozone, and expensive espresso.
Mateo Cárdenas Ortega sat at a prep table, reviewing schematics on a transparent tablet. He looked up as the Ducati's engine died.
When Alen dismounted, Ortega's eyes went wide. He took in the trench coat, the sunglasses, the sheer overwhelming aura of the man standing before him. It was like seeing a ghost from a nightmare, yet the eyes behind the lenses were familiar.
"Well, well," Ortega stood up, a grin spreading across his face. "You look like the devil himself, hermano."
Alen approached, his stoic mask cracking just enough to allow a faint, genuine smile—a rare luxury he afforded only to Ortega. They embraced—a strong, solid hug between men who had walked through fire together.
"Sit," Ortega offered a chair.
Alen sat, crossing his legs with deliberate grace. "Straight to business. The logistics."
"Always business," Ortega sighed, pouring two cups of dark espresso. "Yes. Everything is under control. As for your bird..."
He gestured to the massive tarp at the back of the hangar. He hit a button, and the tarp retracted.
Revealing the Night-Wing.
It was a VTOL (Vertical Take-Off and Landing) jet, sleek and angular, painted in radar-absorbent matte black. It was a Wesker-grade prototype from 2009, but it looked different. Leaner. Meaner.
"I didn't just fix it, Alen. I evolved it," Ortega said, walking around the jet. "I swapped the old turbines for next-gen hybrid scramjets. The heat signature is virtually non-existent. Silent running mode is now 40% quieter. It ghosts radar systems like it isn't even there."
Alen raised an eyebrow behind his sunglasses. "You upgraded a bio-weapon delivery system?"
"I had some spare time," Ortega shrugged modestly. "And the supplies you requested? They are already loaded. I arranged a restricted hangar for you in Eastern Europe—Sector 9. It's a Cold War relic, totally off the grid. You can park the jet there. A black Cadillac Escalade is waiting for you inside with the rest of the gear."
"You exceed expectations, Mateo," Alen said, his voice low with gratitude. "First the lab in the manor, now this. You are remarkably efficient."
"You saved my life, Alen. You saved my daughter. There is no such thing as 'too much'."
Ortega reached under the table and pulled out five heavy, reinforced briefcases. He clicked them open.
Inside lay a treasure trove of military-grade espionage tech.
Micro-Drones: The size of beetles, capable of high-fidelity audio/video surveillance.
Signal Jammers: Portable EMP devices capable of knocking out a city block's communications.
Biometric Scanners: Advanced DNA sequencing tools for rapid field analysis.
"Where did you get this?" Alen asked, picking up a drone and examining its optics.
"Old stock," Ortega winked. "From my days in logistics. Consider it a parting gift. I know you can make them better."
"I will," Alen promised, closing the case. "I will recalibrate the sensors for fungal detection."
The Predator's Bond
Suddenly, a sharp movement behind Ortega caught Alen's eye.
In a large, wire-mesh cage at the back of the hangar, a bird sat perched on a heavy branch. It was massive—a raptor with midnight-black feathers and piercing, intelligent golden eyes.
"You are transporting livestock?" Alen asked, his tone skeptical.
"Ah," Ortega turned, grimacing. "My wife. She runs a sanctuary in Spain. I move exotic rescues for her sometimes. But this one... he is trouble."
Alen stood up and walked toward the cage. The bird watched him, its head cocking to the side. It was a Black Hawk-Eagle (Spizaetus tyrannus), a rare and powerful predator native to the Neotropics. But its right wing hung at an odd angle.
"It is injured," Alen observed, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses. He scanned the creature. "Infection is setting in near the primary joint. The tissue is inflamed."
"We found him caught in a poaching net," Ortega explained. "We were going to take him to the vet in Madrid tomorrow."
"Too slow," Alen said coldly. He unlatched the cage door. "Bring me a medical kit. Now. If we wait, sepsis will take the wing. Incompetence has delayed his treatment long enough."
Ortega clapped his hands. "You heard him! Med-kit! Pronto!"
For the next hour, the hangar went silent.
Alen worked with the focus of a master surgeon. He didn't use gloves; he needed to feel the bone structure. He cleaned the wound with saline, reset the feather alignment with delicate precision, and applied a localized antibiotic gel synthesized from his own medical supplies.
The eagle didn't struggle. It didn't screech. It seemed to sense the power radiating from the man—the alpha predator recognizing another. The bird sat perfectly still as Alen wrapped the wing.
Alen stepped back, wiping his hands on a rag.
"He will recover," Alen stated clinically. "Flight capability should return to 100% within three days. I have accelerated the healing process."
"Increíble," Ortega whispered, watching from a distance. "He usually tries to take a finger off anyone who gets close. Look at him."
The eagle hopped onto Alen's arm, its massive talons gripping the leather of his trench coat. It stared directly into Alen's sunglasses, unblinking. It let out a low, piercing cry.
"It seems he has chosen a new master," Ortega laughed softly. "He prefers the Devil to the mechanic."
Alen looked at the bird. He felt a strange kinship with the creature—solitary, lethal, and misunderstood.
"A Black Hawk-Eagle," Alen murmured. "Rare. Lethal. Efficient."
"He suits you," Ortega said. "Keep him. He is safer with you than in a zoo. Besides, I think he just resigned from my wife's sanctuary."
Alen nodded slowly. He looked into the bird's golden eyes.
"Kaiser," Alen said. "His name is Kaiser."
He turned to his friend. "Thank you, Mateo. For everything."
"Vaya con Dios, hermano. Give Mother Miranda hell."
The Return
Alen walked up the rear ramp of the Night-Wing, Kaiser perched stoically on his shoulder. The bird's weight was negligible to Alen's enhanced strength.
"Trinity," Alen commanded as he settled into the cockpit. "Initialize systems. We are returning to the theater of operations."
<< Systems online. Engines optimized. Mr. Ortega's modifications are… highly efficient. Scramjets engaging. >>
The jet lifted off vertically, the engines purring with a terrifyingly quiet hum. It banked over the French countryside, the stealth coating rendering it invisible against the night sky. It vanished into the clouds, a ghost returning to the haunt.
Location: Sector 9 Hangar, Eastern Europe (Restricted Zone)
Time: 13:00 Local Time
The jet touched down in the hidden hangar Ortega had secured. It was a concrete tomb buried in the side of a mountain, a relic of the Cold War perfect for a ghost.
Alen engaged the locking mechanism on the hangar doors with a biometric scan.
Waiting for him was the vehicle Ortega had promised: a matte black Cadillac Escalade, armored and reinforced. Its hitch-mount cargo carrier was already loaded with the military crates.
Alen transferred his gear with mechanical efficiency. Kaiser flew from the jet to the roof of the SUV, his eyes scanning the dark corners of the hangar.
"Freya will have a new companion," Alen murmured to the bird. "Try not to eat the wolf. She is... temperamental."
He opened the driver's door and slid inside. The interior smelled of new leather. He placed his sunglasses on the dashboard for a brief moment, rubbing his eyes, before sliding them back on.
He was re-armed. He was upgraded. And he was undetectable.
Alen Wesker drove the Escalade out of the hangar and into the blinding white snow of the mountain pass, heading back toward the Trevor Manor.
The logistics phase was complete. Now, the real war could begin.
Status:
Assets Acquired: Night-Wing VTOL, Spycraft Tech Suite.
New Companion: Kaiser (Black Hawk-Eagle).
Current Location: Eastern Europe, Sector 9.
Objective: Return to base. Prepare for total saturation.
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