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The air in Drake C. Simmons' private study was filled with the rich aroma of expensive cigars and the crisp sweetness of aged French Armagnac.
But he couldn't taste anything.
The crystal glass trembled slightly in his hand, the amber liquid swirling, reflecting the flickering firelight from the fireplace. The light and shadow cast upon his face, usually adorned with a knowing smile, now appeared erratic, outlining an undisguised anxiety.
He was somewhat uneasy, even regretful.
Ashley Graham had been kidnapped.
This news had ripped a massive, irreparable hole in the delicate world of power and secrets he inhabited.
It was too much.
The methods were too crude, the commotion too ostentatious, completely out of line with his usual style.
He preferred to use intricate strategies on the chessboard of rules, gradually cornering his opponents and savoring their elegant suffocation in a silent noose.
Not like this, overturning the chessboard directly and attracting everyone's attention with the most barbaric means.
That man was like a mad dog unleashed from all chains; his logic of action was purely about power and destruction.
At first, Drake thought he was the master holding the leash.
He thought Wesker only wanted the virus data from Manuela.
The girl secretly taken in by the government after Operation Javier, the special veronica virus in her body, was a tempting piece of cake.
So, he used his authority to provide Wesker with convenience, allowing him to transfer Manuela away without anyone knowing.
He regarded this as a transaction, trading an insignificant 'experiment subject' for the loyalty of Wesker, the strongest hound.
He thought he had firm control of the situation, and Wesker was merely a tool for him to clear obstacles and seize profits.
Now he realized how terribly wrong he was.
Wesker had played too big this time.
Kidnapping the President's daughter was no longer about seeking profit; it was a declaration of war against the entire power structure of the country.
This mad dog's target was not the bone at his feet, but his master, and even the throat of the entire Family.
Drake irritably drained the wine in his glass. The spicy liquid burned his esophagus but couldn't quell the fire in his heart.
The game had begun; there was no turning back once the arrow was shot.
He was now tied to the same out-of-control war chariot as Wesker; once Wesker was exposed, he himself would certainly not escape.
The traces of his involvement in transferring Manuela would not withstand the most rigorous scrutiny.
He could only grit his teeth and push forward.
Drake walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the brightly lit city below.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
The greater the risk, the higher the potential reward.
He could only hope that the benefits brought by Wesker's insane operation—the miraculous parasite known as plaga that could completely control people's minds, and the power reshuffle after this chaos—would far outweigh the cost of cleaning up his mess.
He had to win.
Otherwise, he would lose everything.
***
(Plot combines old and remake versions)
Northern Spain, Cantabrian Mountains.
A black, heavily modified military SUV, like a silent beast, drove along the winding mountain road.
The road was narrow, with a steep rock face on one side and a bottomless gorge on the other. Lingering mist, like a gray veil, enveloped everything in a damp and chilly atmosphere.
Outside the car window, an endless primeval forest stretched, ancient pine and oak trees blocking out the sky, keeping the sunlight at bay and giving the entire world a suppressive grey-green hue.
The atmosphere inside the car was even heavier than the air outside.
Leon leaned back in the rear seat, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the rapidly receding scenery outside the window, but his eyes were unfocused.
His handsome face, usually with a hint of cynicism, was now taut like a fully drawn bowstring.
In his mind, he replayed the photos from the scene investigation over and over again.
The armored special forces vehicles torn apart by immense force, the inhuman claw marks left on the mud, and the extreme terror frozen on the faces of the experienced agents in their dying moments.
This scene was all too familiar.
An isolated place, a strange religious group, a kidnapped young girl.
History seemed to repeat itself in a sickening way.
Only this time, the chessboard was larger, and the stakes were higher.
Noah, sitting next to Leon, meticulously wiped his desert eagle with a gun cloth.
Every part was disassembled, carefully inspected, oiled, and then reassembled.
As if this mechanical repetition could help his heart, which had become somewhat unstable due to being away from his wife and child, find a solid anchor again.
He dared not think of Claire.
He dared not think of her plea on the phone, 'You must come back.'
Even less did he dare to think of Antirui' soft little face and the faint scent of milk on him.
Those warm memories from another world were the only light supporting him in this darkness, yet also his most fatal weakness.
He could only suppress these thoughts deep in his heart, wrapping himself in layers of cold steel and gunpowder.
What kind of soldier is a soldier without war?
Krauser's words now seemed ironically true in his mind.
Amidst this oppressive silence, an urgent electronic buzzing sharply pierced the tranquility of the car.
It was Noah's encrypted satellite terminal.
A familiar communication request, marked as top security level, popped up on the screen.
It was Sherry.
Leon immediately sat up straight and leaned over.
Noah's heart also leaped into his throat. He quickly connected the communication, and a multi-encrypted text message appeared on the screen.
The two huddled together, quickly reading.
Sender: Sherry Birkin.
[Noah, Leon:
I know you don't want me to get involved, but I can't help it.
I've checked all relevant databases from the past six months: federal missing person reports, BSAA bio-asset transfer records, and some internal transfer files I obtained from... special channels.
Three months ago, an A-class bio-asset codenamed 'Nightingale' was transferred from a secret containment facility in Virginia. The true identity of this asset is Manuela Hidalgo.
The person responsible for signing the transfer order and personally executing the escort mission was Jack Krauser.
Since then, all information about both of them has completely disappeared from the network.
Most critically, the backend authorization for that transfer order came from an encrypted server directly linked to the office of National Security Advisor Drake C. Simmons.
I don't think this is a coincidence.
You might be facing more than just some cultists.
Please be careful.]
The message was short, but its content was significant.
The temperature inside the car seemed to drop several degrees in an instant.
'Nightingale...'
Leon whispered the codename. The name was like a rusty key, unlocking a dusty corner deep in his memory.
He recalled the South American rainforest, the singing girl, and even more, the man who fought alongside him but eventually went their separate ways.
'Krauser,' he uttered the name, his tone indescribably complex.
He knew Krauser's abilities, and he knew the man had an almost pathological obsession with 'power.'
If Krauser was involved, the complexity of the situation would increase exponentially.
Noah's expression also turned exceptionally grim.
Manuela, the girl infected with the t-veronica virus.
Krauser, a top-tier former special forces soldier with an extremely unstable mind.
Simmons, the politician hiding behind the scenes.
Wesker, the mad dog craving power.
And this mysterious 'Church of Light,' which controls the plaga parasite.
All the clues, like invisible threads, now intertwined into a vast and deadly net.
And they were heading straight into the center of this net.
'So,' Noah looked up at Leon,
'what we are about to step into is not just a terrorist's lair. It's a meticulously laid trap.'
Leon didn't answer.
He merely nodded silently, his usually somewhat weary blue eyes now filled only with calm killing intent.
The SUV took a sharp turn at this moment.
The fog ahead suddenly cleared.
In the deep valley below, a cluster of buildings constructed from rough stone and dark wood, like a decaying fungal colony, lay lifelessly in the shadows of the mountain hollow.
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