The Scottish Highlands | September 27, 2011 | Morning
The calm of his grandmother's estate was a stark contrast to the storm brewing in Alen's mind. He had found peace here, a connection to a past he never knew. But the world outside hadn't stopped turning. The threat of bioterrorism grew, and the man who had tried to have him killed, Derek Simmons, still held immense power.
Alen's goal was clear: infiltrate the restructured Blue Umbrella Corporation. By 2007, the U.S. government, desperate for a shield against the very monsters it had once helped create, had allowed a cleaned-up version of Umbrella to relaunch. Their new mission was anti-B.O.W. research and neutralization. It was the perfect place for a man with Alen's skills and immunity to operate from the inside.
But to get in, he needed a recommendation from someone already within that world. Someone who owed him a debt that could never be repaid. His hand went to a small, worn piece of paper tucked inside a journal. It was a note, years old, its edges softened by time. As he held it, the Highlands faded away, replaced by the dry heat and dust of Mexico.
FLASHBACK: Operation PHANTOM STRIKE
Date: December 24, 2004
Location: Black Market Compound, Chihuahua, Mexico
"Remember, this is a reconnaissance and intelligence-gathering mission only," the team leader, a grim-faced CIA veteran named Miller, had said in the pre-mission brief. "We meet with Ortega, negotiate for the data drives, and exfil. Clean and quiet. Understood?"
Alen had nodded, his instincts humming with unease he couldn't place. Now, dressed in the stiff, expensive suit of a black-market broker, that unease was a blaring alarm. The compound of Mateo Cárdenas Ortega, known as "El Fantasma," was less a meeting place and more a fortress. Armed men watched their every move with cold, watchful eyes.
They were led into a lavish office where Ortega sat, a man whose reputation for brutality was masked by his calm, almost scholarly demeanor.
"The representatives from EuroTech, I presume?" Ortega said smoothly. "Your interest in our… archival services… is well-timed."
Miller took the lead, spinning a convincing lie about needing off-the-books research for a corporate rival. Alen's job was to watch the guards, memorize the exits, and locate the server room. The meeting dragged on for eighteen tense minutes.
Then the world exploded.
A massive blast shook the compound's north wing—their diversion, but far larger than planned. Ortega's men scrambled, shouting in Spanish. In the chaos, Miller's demeanor shifted instantly. He kicked over the briefcase they'd brought, not to reveal money, but to distribute compact rifles.
"PHANTOM STRIKE is a go! Terminate Ortega! Move!" Miller barked.
Alen froze for a split second. Termination. Assassination. They'd lied to him.
"Miller, the brief was recon!" Alen snapped, grabbing his weapon.
"New orders from Langley and Vauxhall Cross," Miller grunted, firing suppressive bursts out the door. "He's too connected to let live. Now move!"
There was no time to argue. The mission had instantly collapsed into a desperate fight for survival. They pushed through hallways, a machine of violence against Ortega's surprised but numerous guards. Miller took a sniper's round to the leg, going down with a curse.
"Richard!" Miller yelled over the gunfire, clutching his bloody thigh. "Ortega and his head of security are retreating to the upper floor! Finish this! We have eighteen minutes to extraction!"
Alen moved, a shadow of lethal precision. He cleared rooms, eliminated the sniper, and finally reached the rooftop where Ortega's right-hand man, a brutal ex-special forces operative, was waiting. They fought a savage, hand-to-hand battle that left both men bloodied. Alen finally gained the upper hand, using the man's momentum to send him crashing over the parapet.
Breathing hard, Alen advanced to the final door: Ortega's panic room. He kicked it open, rifle raised.
The scene inside stopped him cold.
Ortega was there, hands raised. But he wasn't alone. Behind a desk, his wife clutched a newborn to her chest, while his young daughter, no older than six, stared with wide, terrified eyes.
"Please," Ortega begged, his voice breaking. The powerful cartel boss was gone, replaced by a desperate father. "I know what I am. Kill me. Take your revenge. But let them go. They are innocent!"
His wife sobbed quietly, shielding her children. The little girl peeked out from behind her mother's dress, her face streaked with tears. She reminded him of the innocence his adoptive mother had fought so hard to protect.
Alen's finger tightened on the trigger. His training screamed one thing. His humanity screamed another. He saw the future: this child, orphaned by his hand, another soul trapped in the same cycle of violence he was meant to stop.
I won't make another orphan.
He lowered his rifle.
"We have six minutes before this place is crawling with my team," Alen said, his voice low and urgent. "Is there a way out?"
Ortega blinked. "The kitchen… a tunnel behind cold storage. It leads to the river."
"Give me your jacket," Alen ordered one of the dead guards in the hall. He pulled the man's bloodstained uniform over his suit and slipped on a balaclava. "When I start shooting, you run. Don't look back."
He pushed Ortega and his family into the hall and opened fire down the staircase—not at his team, but near them, rounds sparking off the concrete.
"¡Vamos! ¡Vamos!" Alen shouted in a crude accent, playing the part of a loyalist helping his boss flee.
The act worked. He provided covering fire, herding the family toward the kitchen while his team was pinned down. At the tunnel entrance, Ortega turned, his eyes filled with shock and gratitude.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
"A man who believes children should have fathers," Alen replied through the mask.
Ortega pressed a folded note into his hand. "I am in your debt. If you ever need anything, anything at all, find me. You are my brother now."
His daughter, with sudden courage, ran forward and hugged Alen's leg before her mother pulled her into the dark tunnel. The gratitude in the wife's eyes was worth more than any mission success.
As the tunnel door closed, Alen turned. He shot a propane tank near the kitchen, creating a massive fireball, then tossed the guard's jacket into the flames. He raised his rifle and shot himself in the arm, gritting his teeth against the pain before collapsing near the blast site.
Minutes later, a teammate found him. "Richard! Status!"
"An elite guard… he got the jump on me," Alen groaned, his face twisted in pain. "He helped Ortega escape through the kitchen and blew the tank! I couldn't stop him!"
The agent cursed. "We lost him! Extraction is here! Move!"
PRESENT DAY – September 27, 2011
Alen blinked, the memory of pain and smoke fading, replaced by the sharp Highland air. He looked down at the note in his hand. It was simple: a phone number and a name, El Fantasma.
The agencies had written off Operation PHANTOM STRIKE as a disaster, the result of bad intel and overwhelming force. They never suspected the truth. Alen had betrayed the mission, but saved a family. And in doing so, he had planted a seed.
Now, that seed was ready to grow. Mateo Cárdenas Ortega, the infamous "Ghost," had friends in very low and very high places. He was exactly the kind of man who could get Alen into Blue Umbrella.
Alen picked up a secure burner phone. It was time to call in a debt. It was time to become John Michael Kane for real.
Chapter: Reunion with old friends
The Scottish Highlands - September 29, 2011
For two weeks, Alen had embraced the steady rhythm of life with his grandmother. He helped Amelia at her hospital, enjoyed her cooking, and found a brief peace in the misty Highlands. But the quiet couldn't last. The memory of Simmons's betrayal and the looming threat of the C-Virus were a constant itch beneath his skin. It was time to move.
His plan was clear: infiltrate Blue Umbrella. To do that, he needed a backdoor, a recommendation from someone who operated in the world's shadows. He retrieved a small, worn piece of paper—the note from Mateo Cárdenas Ortega.
Setting up his laptop in his room, Alen connected a cheap, untraceable burner phone. He took a steadying breath and dialed the number.
A gruff voice answered in rapid Spanish. "¿Quién es? ¿Cuál es el código?" (Who is this? What is the code?)
Alen replied, his Spanish fluent from countless missions. "Código Uni dos-cinco-cuatro-siete."
There was a pause, then the sound of the phone being handed over. A new, colder voice came on the line, this time in English. "How did you get this number? State your business."
"I need to speak with Mateo Cárdenas Ortega. Tell him an old friend from Mexico is calling. A friend from Christmas Eve."
Another pause, longer this time. "Wait." The line went silent for several minutes before the voice returned. "You have an appointment. Be at these coordinates in Bogotá in 24 hours. Memorize this code: Uni cuatro-cinco-cinco-siete. The clock is ticking. Destroy this phone." The line went dead.
Alen quickly wrote down the coordinates on a separate piece of paper, then systematically destroyed the burner phone. The choice was made.
He found his grandmother in her study, tending to her plants. "Amelia, I have to leave."
She turned, her kind eyes filled with immediate concern. "So soon, my boy? Is everything alright?"
"I have unfinished business," he said, his voice soft but firm. "It's something I must do."
She didn't press him. Instead, she went to a small lockbox and pressed a thick envelope into his hands. "Take this. It isn't much, but it will help. And remember, this will always be your home. My door is always open to you."
He hugged her tightly, a silent thank you for the sanctuary she had given, then shouldered his backpack. Using his John Michael Kane passport, he began his journey to Colombia.